Getting Even. Avril Tremayne

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      But she couldn’t stop looking.

      Could. Not.

      Only one thing to do: get out.

      She darted a look to the right, where she’d already located the closest exit, which she knew led to some famous mausoleum. Surely if a girl was going to pass out, doing it among the dead—who told no tales and certainly weren’t giving any fucks—was the way to go. She could lie on a crypt, faint, recover and be back in time for you-may-kiss-the-bride.

      Deal!

      She leaned close to the elderly lady sitting primly beside her in navy blue Yves Saint Laurent and whispered, “Excuse me, I need to make a phone call. May I squeeze past you?”

      “Of course,” came the polite reply.

      She stood, waiting for room to be made for her to pass, only to watch in horror as Ms. YSL’s navy blue purse, which was large enough to house a medium-size dog, slid off her lap and landed on the floor with a heavy thud.

      Maybe that wouldn’t have been such a disaster if not for the tube of mints that escaped its navy leather bondage and rolled out of reach, which occasioned a clearly enunciated little-old-lady “Oh fuck” that made Veronica burst out laughing. Seriously? How could she not laugh when an audible Oh fuck exploded in the anticipatory air of a chapel in an accent so posh it would do the Queen of England proud? Problem was, it was the laugh, the one that came with the distinctive taken-by-surprise-no-time-to-stop-it snort, a laugh Rafael would instantly connect with her because it had always made him laugh. Laugh...and kiss her.

      The dominos started falling fast, heads turning row by row toward the commotion.

      Any second now Rafael would turn, too, and see her standing like a hot-pink lighthouse complete with silver-domed roof. Vasovagal syncope would overtake her and she’d collapse in a heap, with her legs akimbo and her underwear showing, not at all like a zero-fuck-giving Johnson, and she’d end up in the mausoleum all right—as a corpse, having died of mortification!

      It happened quickly—a matter of seconds only—and yet it felt like a slow-motion dream. The sights, sounds, scents of the chapel fading out of her consciousness... Rafael looking over his shoulder...seeing her...putting his hand on Felicity’s shoulder...Felicity turning, staring, intent and curious, obviously knowing exactly who she was.

      Bad. Bad, bad, bad.

      And then, before Veronica’s heart could take one more staccato rush of beats, Felicity and Rafael looked at each other, something unspoken passed between them, and as one they faced forward again, heads together.

      God. God, God, God.

      Veronica could hear the whoosh of her pulse in her ears, her breaths huffing in and out, smell her own vanilla scent mingling with the incense in the chapel as heat suffused her.

      There was a rustle beside her; she turned mechanically toward it.

      “I’m sorry about that,” Ms. Navy Blue said—choosing now to whisper! Her purse was retrieved, her legs slanting to the side. “Is that enough room for you?”

      And Veronica’s head cleared. She was in a Yorkshire chapel at the wedding of two of her college besties and she was not going to faint. She was not. Johnsons did not faint in public.

      “No, I’m sorry,” Veronica said, resuming her seat and pasting on a nice big smile. “I think I’ve left it too late to make my phone call—the bride’s about to arrive.”

      A sound at the main entrance confirmed that this was not, in fact, a lie. Veronica swiveled gratefully toward that sound, and the sight of Romy, incandescently happy on her father’s arm, drove all other thoughts out of her head for a blessed moment.

      A pause—then music—and Romy commenced her walk up the aisle, ivory satin swishing around her ankles. The gown was simple, as chic and modern as Romy herself, hugging her generous curves and showing off her most prized possession—her baby bump. Romy had rejected the idea of wearing a veil on the basis it would obscure her view of Matt, and as Romy’s unwavering gaze fixed on the man she’d loved for so long and never thought she’d have, that decision made perfect sense.

      Veronica turned to see Matt’s reaction. Love. Joy. And something she hadn’t quite expected: rampant desire. As though he might break free of the whole wedding palaver, stride down the aisle and devour Romy in one hungry bite. Poor Teague—Veronica’s third college bestie, the harassed-looking best man—appeared to be waging a fierce battle to keep Matt in place via a grip on Matt’s coat sleeve, but he gave up when Romy reached Matt’s side. It was obvious nothing was going to stop Matt from hauling Romy into his arms.

      As Matt kissed the bride way too early and way, way too passionately, the chapel erupted in laughter and sighs.

      Veronica tried to imagine either of her husbands kissing the bride out of sequence and came up blank. Her first husband, Piers, had still been in love with his ex-girlfriend—he hadn’t kept that a secret and he hadn’t cared that Veronica was still in love with Rafael. And marrying Simeon had been about his loneliness and her despair, not love. It was hardly surprising those unions—comfort unions, she called them—weren’t exactly torrid, although both men had given the relationships their best shot, and so had she.

      She looked again at Rafael, wondering if the reason she never felt anything warmer than tepid anymore was that she’d expended all the passion she had to give on him in those heated three and a half years of living together. It had been a Molotov cocktail of a relationship. Ardent. Intensely physical. Tempestuous. From the moment their eyes had locked in her freshman year at Capitol U they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other.

      It was disturbingly easy to imagine Rafael doing to her what Matt was doing to Romy. Easy to imagine her going one better than Romy and wrapping her legs around Rafael’s waist. That would have given Ms. Yves Saint Laurent a real “Oh fuck” moment. It would have shocked Rafael, too, because as passionate as he was in the bedroom, he had a core of decorum she lacked. The kiss—yes. The legs—Veronica, no! Think of your parents!

      Well, it was a pointless rumination since Rafael hadn’t proposed the way everyone had expected him to. It would be more relevant to contemplate his wedding to Felicity. A can’t-wait kiss between those two intensely beautiful people would have the whole population of America swooning as they read all about it in the tabloids. Given Felicity’s acting career and Rafael’s extraordinary critical and commercial literary success—the hot new author with a film adaptation already in the works—it would get a great spread in US Weekly even if the nuptials took place in Colombia instead of LA for the sake of Rafael’s beloved grandparents, which he’d always hinted would happen.

      Veronica’s own weddings had not been in the tabloids. They’d been lavish New York society affairs, but very private—which was the Johnson way. Planned to the last sprig of baby’s breath by her mother, who’d stepped into the breach because Veronica hadn’t cared enough to plan them for herself. Veronica had just wanted them done, done, over and done...

      “Today is a celebration,” the minister said, the formal words reverberating in the chapel. “A celebration of love, of commitment, of friendship, of family, and of two people who are making a choice to be together forever.”

      Together forever.

      Forever.

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