Well Played, стр. 38

So much for a relaxing night in. I was too angry to sleep, and too keyed up to do anything relaxing. After the third lap of my small apartment, pacing off my nervous energy, I stopped to straighten up my little bookcase. Then I cleared the clutter off my kitchen table. A couple laps later I dug out the broom and dustpan. By one in the morning my place sparkled, and I’d exhausted myself. Just as I fell facedown into bed, sinking into sleep, I remembered I’d told Emily I’d drop by her place for that wedding stuff. Ugh. I fumbled in the blankets for my phone and turned it on.

More texts from Liar MacLean:

Hope you’re having a great . . .

In a few days we’ll be on the road to Maryland. I think . . .

Wow, you must be busy this Saturday night. Usually you . . .

Stacey, is everything okay? Text me back when you . . .

Nope, nope, nope, and nope.

I cleared all the notifications with stabby fingers, leaving the texts unread. Then I set my alarm and pulled the covers over my head. I’d talk to Emily about all this tomorrow, I thought, as everything faded around the edges again and sleep crept in. Maybe some good old-fashioned girl talk could help me solve this.

If I got any more text notifications that night, I slept through them. Which was what they deserved.

•   •   •

In retrospect, I probably got to Emily’s place a little earlier than I should have the next morning. But I’d bolted awake around six, unable to get back to sleep. I’d been dressed and ready to go soon after sunrise, and she’d never actually specified a time. It wasn’t until I pounded on her door and she opened it wearing her bathrobe and a blinking, sleepy expression that it hit me. A little after eight on a Sunday morning was too early to show up with my laptop and anger in tow.

But because she was the Best Friend Ever, she didn’t slam the door in my face. Instead she opened the door wide. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” As I stepped inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit me, so at least I hadn’t gotten her out of bed with my early morning visit. Emily’s place wasn’t much bigger than mine, though it was a real honest-to-God apartment, and not a studio space over a garage. As she bustled in the kitchen with coffee mugs and creamer and whatever else, I plonked my laptop on her dining table and woke it up.

“Here.” Emily passed a mug across the table to me. “Have you even had breakfast yet? Let me drink this and I’ll get those seating charts for you . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took in my laptop and my thunderous expression. “What’s up? You’re not just here for the seating charts, are you?”

“Look at this.” I turned the laptop around so the screen faced her.

Emily squinted at the screen and took a sip of coffee. “What am I looking at, exactly?”

“This email.” I tapped my fingernail on the screen in emphasis. “Look.”

“What, the one from Daniel MacLean?” She tilted her head and read it over again, while I was pretty sure steam was coming out of my ears. “Oh, he’s looking forward to coming to the wedding. That’s so nice of him to say so. I’ve always liked—”

“What about Daniel MacLean?” Simon emerged from the bedroom, and I tried not to do a double take. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he’d be here, but they were engaged. Of course they’d have sleepovers. I’d never seen Simon first thing in the morning, and I’d certainly never seen him this rumpled, in sleep pants and a stretched-out T-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, settling it, but he still looked roguish; with a week before Faire opened, his pirate beard and hairstyle were in full effect. But the concerned look he shot our way was less carefree pirate and more worried Faire organizer. “Is something wrong with the Kilts?”

Emily shook her head. “They’re confirmed, at least according to this email. But I’m obviously missing something.” She looked up at me quizzically. “What am I missing, Stace?”

“Okay, you read that email. Now look at this.” I took the laptop back and hit a few keys, bringing up a screenshot of Dex’s text message—the one about his roommate’s wedding—before flipping it back in her direction.

“Huh. Well, that’s weird. That text pretty much says the same thing.”

“Exactly. And this phone number”—I handed her my phone, with Dex/Daniel’s contact screen showing—“matches this phone number.” I alt-tabbed back to the email, with Daniel’s electronic signature. “So they were written by the same guy, wouldn’t you say?” My voice was judge, jury, and executioner.

“Oh, yeah, definitely. But why are you texting with Daniel MacLean? I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”

“And why would he tell you the same thing twice?” Simon frowned and leaned against the archway leading to the kitchen. “He’s not forgetful like that.”

She looked down at her mug. “This isn’t decaf, is it? Because I don’t think it’s working.”

“Because . . .” And now I saw the problem with keeping this whole thing with Dex a secret. It was going to take forever to bring Emily up to speed on why I was so pissed off. I sighed. “Okay. Remember last summer? You asked me about . . .” Emotion overwhelmed me for a moment, and I had to clear my throat. This was harder than I thought it would be. “You asked me who I’d been seeing? The mystery guy?”

“Ohhhhhh.” Emily’s eyes lit up at the promise of early morning gossip. “Why, yes. I do remember that.” Emily rested her chin on her hands, settling in for my story.

“I don’t think you need me for this.” Simon threw up defensive hands and went into the kitchen in search of coffee. I gave him a thin smile of appreciation that he didn’t see, then I turned back to Emily and,