Isabella was not interested in falling in love. Marco was not looking for a relationship.
The perfect combination for a foolproof agreement.
Right?
*
Isabella Hammond, the first female billionaire in her city, is a smart, straightforward and stunni...
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Bianca's parents, thankfully, have a big house.
Not that this would matter to me on a normal day, but it matters to me today.
It's Saturday.
Bianca and Reid's bachelorette-slash-bachelor weekend starts in T-minus thirty minutes when we all pile into our cars and drive sixty-seven-point-eight miles to the resort, which should take us approximately two and a half hours if we average a speed of thirty miles-per-hour – at least according to Rosalie.
I'm standing in Bianca's parents' dining room, stuffing a blueberry waffle into my mouth, trying to steer clear of Bianca's friends, Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany and Tiffany.
And Marco.
And Marco's grin.
And Marco's eyes.
He's somewhere in the house, but the important thing is that he's not here, in this room.
My eyes flicker to the entrance of the dining room, where I'm standing, wondering whether even the thought of him is enough to conjure him up.
If that were the case you would have conjured him up a lot in the past week.
I scowl because the treacherous part of my brain is right.
Ever since we kissed, the rate at which Marco infiltrated my thoughts had only sky-rocketed. I found myself gripping my desk at random moments during the work day with thoughts of how good that kiss was. I found myself falling asleep at night with the shocks of pleasure that shot through me when he kissed me.
I narrow my eyes at the entrance, daring Marco to appear.
He doesn't.
Instead, Jenna walks in looking slightly harassed.
She stands on the other side of the table and looks down at the lavish breakfast spread.
"So, do you want me to drive or can I drink a mimosa or maybe five?" she asks, gesturing to the glasses, "I think I feel a headache coming."
I savagely eat a piece of the waffle I'm eating, standing up, without a plate.
My mother would die.
"The Tiffany's bothering you?" I ask, nodding to let her know that she can drink.
Jenna picks up a dainty glass of mimosa and downs it in one gulp. "They're very ... chipper for being so early in the morning," she tells me, drily, picking up another glass.
As if they wanted to demonstrate how chipper they were, there is a loud Tiffany cheer from the front of the house and Jenna makes a face at me before downing the drink in her hand.
"It's strange," I tell her as Jenna picks up a few grapes, "Because they're normally quite intelligent people."
She nods. "They are. I don't know what happens when they're all put together. It's unbearable." She looks at me. "Still got the blue in your hair?"
