a drink, I’ll have one too. Whatever you want to make.”
Was she implying that Giana should have a drink? That her
intended was late, and Carol had experience with people who
were supposed to be getting married, but got cold feet instead?
Or was she just saying that Giana looked nervous as hell and
could use some steadying?
Whatever it was, Giana showed Carol to the living room
and let her take a seat on the leather couch. She did so,
crossing her legs and letting one cheap white heel swing out
over the other. Giana didn’t like that she appraised the clothing
and noticed. That wasn’t important. Had she been so
judgemental before? This woman had come dressed nicely in
what she could afford. She was here to do her job and she was
probably awesome at it. Efficient. She’d brought the
paperwork. What the hell did the cut of her clothing matter?
Giana reached her office and poured two glasses of whisky.
Two fingers, neat. She turned the tumbler around in her hand
and watched as the crystal caught the light. Her head was a
mess. Her heart was a mess. She should feel something other
than panic and worry when she was about to get married,
shouldn’t she?
No. Everyone probably felt this way, whether they could
remember or not. She loved this woman, and she hadn’t
treated her right. She basically lived in a goddamn palace
while her fiancée lived in a hole in the wall and drove an
unreliable, unsafe vehicle and probably had just about nothing.
This was the right thing to do, even if she did seem like a
virtual stranger.
She picked up her phone without drinking the whisky and
was about to call Coralyn to ask where she was when the