We Don't Lie Anymore (The Anymore Duet Book 2) by Julie Johnson

Author:Julie Johnson [Johnson, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JOHNSON INK, Inc.
Published: 2022-02-21T18:30:00+00:00

TWENTY-ONE

josephine

I close the front door as softly as I can manage, but the click of the latch still makes me wince. My head is splitting. Even through the dark lenses of my polarized Prada sunglasses, the world is far too bright; every sound that reaches my ears is ten times its normal decibel. I haven’t been this hungover since…

Ever.

By the time we fell asleep last night — or, technically, in the wee hours of the morning — we’d put a sizable dent in the Wadell wine cellar supply. When I woke this morning, blinking blearily against a shaft of blinding midday sun, I was sprawled on the white sectional, barefoot in an unfamiliar, oversized t-shirt, my thoughts as fuzzy as my tongue. There was no sign of Odette or Ophelia. They must’ve stumbled off to their beds at some point, leaving me passed out on the cushions. I’d scribbled a short note on a Post-It — Thanks for listening. xx - Jo — and stuck it to their coffee machine before slipping out the side door.

I had to pull over twice on the ride home to throw up.

Serves me right for drinking half my body weight in champagne. It felt good in the moment — each sip washing away the memories of my confrontation with Archer, until my head felt as empty as one of the bubbles in my glass. Until I couldn’t even recall why I’d felt so pathetic and broken and lost in the first place. But now, in the cold light of day, all those feelings have not only returned, but are compounded by the ceaseless pounding at my temples and queasy swirling of my gut.

My ill feelings further amplify at the sound of approaching kitten heels in the hallway, heading my way. I make a break for the stairs, but it’s too late. My foot isn’t even on the first step when she steps into the atrium and brings my walk of shame to an abrupt halt.

“Miss Valentine.” Her voice hits me like a slap. “You’ve returned.”

Wiping my expression clear, I turn to face her. I know what she must see — borrowed t-shirt, bedhead, bare feet, black circles beneath my eyes. I’m a disaster. And she’s the picture of poise in her gray blouse, buttoned straight to the collar. Not a single wrinkle on her skirt. Not a single lock of hair escaping her low chignon.

“Good morning, Mrs. Granger.”

“Morning? It’s nearly afternoon.”

“Right.” My smile is weak. “Good afternoon, then. If you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way upst—”

Her voice stops me again. “I was quite distressed when I arrived this morning and found you missing. Your bed not slept in, no sign of you. In another hour, I’d planned to phone the police and file a report.”

“I’m just in time, then.”

The silence is frosty.

“I apologize if I worried you,” I say. “I spent the night with some friends. We lost track of time. When I realized how late it was, I was too tired to drive home.

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