Всё самое интересное обо всём на свете. Дмитрий Кошевар
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get married yesterday.”
“Really?” His gaze was on the beer, not her.
She nodded.
Wow. She was really doing it. No tears. No temper tantrums. Just reporting the facts as if it had happened to someone else or like she was completely over it. Jasmine was proud of herself.
She drank deeply again before leaning close and placing her hand on Neil’s sweating forearm. “Yep. I’d have never known, except the night before the wedding, while I was supposed to be staying at a hotel with my friends, I came back to my apartment to pick up something I’d forgotten—something borrowed, or was it something blue?” She tapped her lips. “Hmm. Either way, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is that I caught my fiancé in bed with his best friend. They were booping. Betty Booping, if you will.”
“Holy shit,” Neil said, still eyeing the beer in her hand. “That must have been a shock.”
“Oh, yeah.” She pointed to the seat he was occupying. “My new husband was supposed to be sitting where you are sitting right now, but he’s not. Because he’s gay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He never loved me.” Jasmine fell back into her seat, staring at the headrest in front of her. “He was only using me. God. And I was so blind because he gave me whatever I wanted.”
“Hey.” The guy patted her hand where it lay on the shared armrest. “You okay?” He carefully retrieved his nearly empty beer from her slack fingers.
“A gorgeous penthouse apartment. Fifty-thousand-dollar limit on my credit card.”
“I can’t imagine...though a limit like that would be nice...”
“You know what the worst thing was, Neil?” She lolled her head toward him. “After I caught him? He was relieved. Relieved.”
“It’s hard to live a lie, I guess...”
“And he said nothing had to change.” She poked him in the sternum, above the orange crumbs. “Can you believe it? He still wanted to marry me!”
“Umm, you might want to keep it down a bit—”
“A housekeeper and cook if I wanted...whatever I wanted, really. Bribery.” She shook her head. Her neck was stiff. So was her jaw. Tight, like it was wired shut. “All fucking bribes and distractions,” she said through clenched teeth. “Distractions from what, you might ask?” She turned to face Neil and the rest of the story came out of the deep hole where her heart used to be. “So that my soon-to-be husband could take business trips with Robert. That’s the fucker’s name. Robert Miskey. I’m a fucking cover so Parker can be-boop Robert fucking Miskey.”
“You’re not allowed to shout on planes these days.” Neil blinked nervously.
“Am I making a scene, Neil? Am I?”
“Umm, yes.”
“Don’t you think finding out that you’re a beard on the eve of your wedding warrants a scene?”
The man was now frantically pushing the attendant call button.
Unbuckling her seat belt, Jasmine stood, addressing all the people in first class. “I’m supposed to be married. I’m supposed to be on my way to Europe for my honeymoon. And instead I’m here with Neil, who draws cartoon porn.” She glanced at Neil and said in a marginally more controlled voice, “Sorry, Neil.”
His smile wavered and his hands said, No problem, crazy lady.
“Doesn’t that give me the right to make a scene?” She tried to meet the other passengers’ eyes, but there were no takers. “Doesn’t it?”
Cool fingers circled her upper arm and an accented voice said calmly, “Please return to your seat or we will be forced to make a stop in New York City where you will be escorted off the plane and detained. Do you understand?”
Jasmine attempted to tug her arm out of the attendant’s grasp but the woman was freakishly strong. Fucking French.
“I—” When she turned her head she was met with the sincerest smile she’d received from the woman yet.
“Please,” the woman said soothingly. Her sincerity came as such a surprise that Jasmine’s knees buckled and the woman had to help her back into her seat.
Jazz caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume—Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel, if she wasn’t mistaken—as the flight attendant leaned over her to secure Jasmine’s seat belt. Tasteful, subtle, perfect.
“I’m very sorry you’re having a bad day. Please don’t make it any worse.” Before standing, the woman tucked a handful of tissues into Jasmine’s fist and, moving close to her ear, whispered, “Whoever this man is who hurt you? He did not deserve you.”
THE SECOND JASMINE opened the door to her hotel room, she smelled roses.
Ugh.
Towing her bag behind her like it was an old, arthritic dog who was too tired to go for a walk, Jasmine made her way through the suite she had so lovingly booked months ago. Months ago when she thought she’d be sharing this room with the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. But he’d been lying to her the whole time! Asshole.
The room was gorgeous—dammit! Twelve-foot ceilings and original crown molding from when the hotel was a mansion owned by a famous jeweler who had bought it for his mistress during the Renaissance. Now the beautiful, airy suite only mocked her. The Louis XIV furniture taunted her, reminding her that she’d chosen it for Parker. She preferred country chic. The filmy white drapes only served to remind her of the ten-thousand-dollar wedding gown that hid in her closet like a shameful secret, never to be worn.
But the worst was what she found on the polished cherrywood table in the sitting area: a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, with an envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Parker Wright propped between the berries and an ice bucket. Inside the bucket was a bottle of champagne sitting at a jaunty angle, chillin’.
Like a villain.
Stupid champagne.
Jasmine plucked the bottle from the bucket, unwrapped the foil on top and popped the cork. It ricocheted off what she hoped was an imitation painting, then off the crown molding, landing somewhere behind a potted plant. Not bothering with the crystal flutes, Jasmine drank directly from the bottle like it was water and she was dying of thirst.
“Hair of the dog,” she muttered, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She set the bottle on the table, unconcerned with the wet patch left on the highly polished tabletop, and rummaged in her bag for aspirin. Instead of the travel-sized bottle of pills, she located her cell phone.
According to her phone it was 3:23 and there were forty-seven—yes, forty-seven!—texts waiting for her. Reminding her—as if she needed any more reminders—of the ordeal of the last forty-eight hours.
With a groan, she tapped the message app...
Five from her mother. Delete.
Two from her father. Delete.
Thirteen from her best friend, Ashley...hmm. Maybe she’d read those later.
Twenty-seven from Parker.
The man was desperate.
Her finger hovered over the delete button, but instead of deleting the messages, she deleted him from her contact list.
“Liar. You’re dead to me,” she muttered before tilting her head way back and letting the bubbly burn down her throat.
Parker’s voice rose between her ears, C’mon, Jazz. I figured you knew.