Page 50 of Donut Disaster
“That’s great, I think,” I say, sliding a platter of donuts before them and watch as they snatch them all up like vultures in a feeding frenzy. “When I kissed Noah last fall, I was pretty sure he was the one. But it turned out, he was themarriedone.” I wrinkle my nose. “And just to cut you off at the smooching pass, both Everett and Noah have the ability to curl my toes with their kisses.” Among other things, but I leave that out for now.
Meg shakes her head. “That was the past. You and Noah hit the pause button half a year ago. A lot has changed. You need to smack him with your lips and see if the magic is still there.”
Lainey offers an apologetic shrug. “She’s right. And if the spark isn’t there, I say let’s book Amanda Wellington and get that wedding train started with Everett.”
Lily nearly chokes on her donut. “Essex isn’t the marrying kind.”
“I think he is,” I assure her as I hold out my faux engagement ring. “In fact, he was the one that suggested I date Noah just so I wouldn’t have any regrets before we took things to the next level.” A collective sigh ripples through them. “And I’m not sure about kissing Noah. I kissEverett. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last six months. Just the thought of kissing two men sets my teeth on edge.”
“Please.” Lainey shoves a donut my way and I take it. “You’re not kissing two men at the very same time. And it’s not like you’re cheating on anybody.”
Keelie nods. “It’s purely for research.”
“Research,” I parrot back.
Meg sputters a maniacal laugh. “Somebody get this girl a lab coat. Something tells me this research project will go on for months.”
And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
I take an aggressive bite out of a warm glazed cruller.
Research begins in less than two hours.
Am I really going to kiss Noah to see if the spark is still alive?
Deep down, I already know the answer.
Chapter 16
The Strand sits on the outskirts of Leeds—not that it makes it any more appealing.
A balmy breeze licks by, scented with the perfume of the night jasmine crawling up the side of the big boxy building. There’s a neon sign stretching into the sky that bears its moniker, and judging by the well dressed, well kempt, impressively hygienic clientele filing in the door, one can draw the conclusion that, yes, a two hundred dollar cover indeed keeps the riffraff away.
It’s dimly lit inside, loud raucous music blares overhead, and there is a sea of small tables scattered around a large room with a tall ceiling that could rival a circus tent. A stage protrudes right down the middle of it, and right now a woman in a tight red dress is warbling into a microphone.
Noah anted up without missing a beat and paid for our admission.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I feel terrible insisting he take me to such a pricey club for both investigative and research purposes.
He lands a sweet kiss to the top of my head. “You own every last part of me, including my money. I couldn’t care less if it was a ten thousand dollar cover. I’m just thrilled to be in your social orbit without Everett and Cormack around for a change.”
“Hey, speaking of Coconut Featherhead”—a nickname that Noah’s longtime friend Monica Peeler gave Cormack way back in high school, you have to admit, it has a ring to it—“how did you manage to shake her? I haven’t seen her by your side at the last two functions. Granted the last function was a funeral, but Cormack has never let the dead stop her from some one-on-one time with theBig Boss.”
He makes a face as he does a quick scan of the club as if he sensed her presence. Nothing would surprise me anymore.
“The counselor suggested we spend a week apart.”
“That sounds like a great way to wean her.”
He ticks his head. “She sends an average of fifty texts a day, and that number just climbed into the hundreds.”
“Or not. You know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I offer, but Noah doesn’t look too pleased with the reminder. “And the stalkers grow restless and hungry for their obsession.”
“Touché.” Noah picks up my hand and kisses it. “Is it a bad thing that I could relate to that last part?”
“Not if I’m the object of your obsession.”
A waitress comes along and seats us at the front of this restaurant-slash-God knows what. The crooner is traded for a contortionist, and I’m only vaguely amused.