Bedwrecker(24)

Here’s the thing—I don’t believe in love. Lust, yes. A million times over, but love, no—it’s not for me.

When there is no answer, I go in search of her. The house my grandmother willed to me is small, but nice. With a galley kitchen, family room, and master bedroom downstairs and second bedroom upstairs, it’s plenty big for two but not that big that I shouldn’t be able to locate her whereabouts.

When I don’t find her anywhere inside, I head back to the kitchen and step out onto the outdoor patio.

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

All put together in tight skinny jeans and a red silk top with silver pointy flats, Makayla is up on a ladder streaming red heart lights all across the patio. To make matters even worse, there are red plates and red wineglasses on the bar. Oh, and red rose petals are sprinkled everywhere.

The sound of the door slamming closed behind me makes her twist around, and the waves of her light brown hair move with the same grace she carries. “Maggie, you’re home from work early,” she says with a smile.

Just starting her jewelry company, Makayla works from home. Now that I have a full-time job, I drive to either the headquarters of Simon Warren on Melrose, the distribution center in Santa Monica, or our locations up and down the West Coast. Depending on my whereabouts that day, sometimes I stay overnight at my mother’s house in West Hollywood. Sometimes I come back home. Since today is Friday, and I’m having a party, I came home.

Hating to crush the cloud she’s floating on, I take a deep breath and try to control my ire. “Yes, for the party,” I respond. Okay, so the word party might have come out through my teeth.

She is staring at me.

I look down at myself in my tight white blouse and even tighter black pencil skirt. “What?”

She shrugs. “You just look so—”

“Plain.” I cut her off.

Every day, I feel like I’m playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes. That’s probably because they are hers. Right now, buying a new professional wardrobe is way beyond my means. Besides, like Makayla, my mother has always had style, unlike me. She’s just shorter than I am, and a little thinner, too, so everything looks—different on me.

Money issues suck.

“You have to do what you have to do” is what my mother has always told me. And I hope to be able to live up to more than just Katherine May’s style. Her determination is awe-inspiring.

Like me, my mother was an only child raised by a single mother. My grandmother’s family had come from money made during the California Gold Rush, a time when loose gold nuggets could be picked off the ground. The money survived generation after generation, but now it has almost run dry. I look around. Sadly, this bungalow is the last of the wealth for the May family.

“Nice,” Makayla counters. “Really nice.”

The distraction isn’t going to work, and I refocus. “Makayla,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” she answers innocently as she takes the last two steps down the ladder.

I glare up at the heart lights and then lift my palms to indicate our surroundings. “What is all of this?”

Pulling her brows together as if confused, she steps toward the round table. “What do you mean? They are decorations for the party.”

Trust me—she’s anything but confused. She’s so up to something. The song changes to “Kiss Me” by Ed Sheeran and I jab my finger in the air. “This is not music I would expect to find on an Anti–Valentine’s Day playlist.”

What I’d expected is something like “Wrecking Ball,” “Single Ladies,” or even “Yesterday.”

So my mood, lately.

“About that list,” she trails off in a whisper, her expression anxious as she begins to pour a glass of wine.

Makayla is all about lists. She is organized. Put together. Always dots her i’s and crosses her t’s. To be honest, she’s as close to perfect as any one person could possibly be. And I turn to her whenever I feel like my disorganization needs organization, which I did when I needed help planning this party.

My party.

My Anti–Valentine’s Day party.

Accepting the glass of wine she’s handing me, I narrow my eyes at her. “Yes, about the music list, and the food list, and the decoration list. What happened to them?”

She takes a sip of her own wine. “Oh,” she waves a hand, “I didn’t think you were serious. I thought we were just messing around when I helped you create them.”

With my feet screaming in pain, I reach back and take my heels off one at a time. I miss my Converse so much.

Pain relieved, I glare at her. “No, I wasn’t kidding. I was serious. Black hearts. Hate songs. A vegetarian menu. Singles.”