To be honest, one line in a newspaper was nothing. She’d had far more accurate and damaging reports printed about her before. Her mother’s garden club might be twittering about it—but, honestly, it would pass. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d downplayed something until it went away. No, she had to face the fact that she’d grabbed on to to the flimsiest of excuses to go and see Donovan and ended up having her worst suspicions confirmed.
It was one thing to have no shame; it was another thing entirely to realize she had no pride, either.
That’s not true. She did have her pride. The fact she’d gotten the information she wanted and was currently sitting in her car alone was proof she possessed a spine and self-control. Her dignity might be a little dented, but her pride was intact.
If feeling a little shaky.
In a way, she should be glad that Donovan was at the center of this debacle. It wasn’t as if their paths crossed often—they traveled in different circles—so she wouldn’t have to face him repeatedly, knowing the whole time that he was able to picture her … Ugh.
Time would work its magic, and probably by the time she saw him again this would be an even fuzzier memory—and hopefully she’d be past the chemical reaction he seemed to cause.
Her mom’s ringtone sounded again, and this time she answered. “I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to call you back. I’ve had a busy morning.” That was true; panic had kept her quite busy.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on my way to Connor’s studio.” That wasn’t a lie, either; the St. James Media building was sort of on her way. “I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
“And are you going to tell me what that comment about you and Donovan St. James is about?”
Lorelei forced herself to laugh. It sounded fake and hollow to her ears, but her mother didn’t seem to notice. “There was an after-party and we were both there, but … me and Donovan St. James? That’s insane.”
That wasn’t a lie, either.
CHAPTER THREE
“BUT YOU SAID YOU’D stand in for Vivienne while she was on her honeymoon. They’re expecting you to be there.”
That was before I knew what I was getting myself into.
Standing in for Vivi had sounded like a good idea—it would give her a chance to show that her sister wasn’t the only one with saintly, service-oriented tendencies and get her out there as Connor’s representative—but she hadn’t had a full understanding of what Vivi’s life was really like when she’d hatched that plan. Oh, she knew in theory that Vivi was busy and involved in everything, but actually inheriting even part of that schedule had left her wondering how Vivi had time to do anything else. Like sleep. She sighed into the phone. “I know, Mom, but I think I’m getting a migraine.”
“You’ve never had a migraine in your life.”
I never had Donovan St. James turning up everywhere like a bad penny before, either.
She’d finally read the emails from Vivi about her schedule. After her shock at how dense that schedule actually was had passed, she’d nearly choked when her preparations for those events had informed her that Donovan was also all over that schedule. Somehow she’d missed the memo that outlined how he’d gotten neck-deep into the city’s business. No wonder Vivi and Connor had invited him to the wedding. If nothing else, it was professional courtesy.
“Well, it’s a killer headache, regardless.”
“Your father and I have tickets for the ballet with the Allisons. You’ll have to solider through. It will be a challenge, but—”
“LaBlancs love a challenge,” Lorelei finished for her. “I know.”
“You’ll do fine, darling. Even with a headache.”
Her mom’s words brought a smile to her face even in her misery. Finally she was getting somewhere.
“Just be friendly and gracious. Stick to club soda and remember to think before you speak.”
And there was the dig. Lord, it was hard to live down a reputation.
Eventually, though, she’d live it down. Even if it killed her in the process.
Her mother hung up and Lorelei leaned her head back against the couch. In reality she was pretty much ready to go—and early, at that—but panic had set in, causing her to call her mom for a way out of this mess.
The headache, while not as debilitating as she’d claimed, was real—and it was named Donovan. She thought longingly of the bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge as a solution. But even if she hadn’t sworn off drinking, hadn’t she already proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she, Donovan and alcohol were a bad, bad mix?