“We shouldn’t go out alone anymore,” she said. “Even if I’ve done nothing, your wife still looks at me like an enemy. I’m a woman too, I get hurt.” She wiped at her eyes. “Also, that night three years ago, I was drunk. Let’s just pretend it never happened. We can still be enemies, but move on.”
So that was why Gideon was impossible to reach before our wedding night. He’d been busy with Arabella. No wonder she had time to get a tattoo on him before the wedding.
Even though I’d braced myself, her words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.
But Colette, hot-tempered as always, rolled up her sleeves and started forward.
Luckily, I grabbed her in time. But a kid holding an ice cream cone barreled into us, and the sticky mess splattered across my clothes.
When I looked up, Gideon was using his finger to wipe ice cream from the corner of Arabella’s mouth. I felt ridiculous, humiliated, scrubbing my shirt until the stain only grew worse.