Stevie: Our place?
Adri: Sorry. You know what I mean
Stevie did, but she hadn’t been to the apartment she’d once shared with Adri since she moved out, and she honestly wasn’t too keen to change that, particularly now that Vanessa lived there. Stevie winced, thumbs hovering over the keys. She looked up at Iris again, who was now waving to a group of people heading toward them.
Stevie: I can’t today. I’m actually at the Belmont with Iris
Three dots bounced onto the screen, then disappeared before appearing again. Stevie felt her throat go a little tight. But she and Adri were over. Friends only. Dating other people. Adri would understand.
Adri: Got it. No worries then
Stevie pressed a hand to her stomach. Dammit, she hated texting for this very reason. She knew Adri and there was definitely a tone to her response, but Stevie also knew if she asked about the tone, Adri—and most people, it was a fucking text for Christ’s sake—wouldn’t have a clue what she was talking about and then Stevie would feel like an idiot.
So she swallowed several hundred times, took five thousand deep breaths, and dropped her phone back into her bag.
“Hey!” Iris called to the incoming group, then turned to grab Stevie’s hand, whipping her to her side before Stevie had even finished zipping up her tote.
“Oh, okay,” Stevie said, stumbling against her.
“Pucker up, buttercup,” Iris whispered, and Stevie laughed again, feeling herself instantly relax.
“This place is gorgeous,” a pretty brunette with glasses said. She had on a vintage-style polka-dotted one-piece, a wrap skirt around her waist. She held hands with a curly-haired woman in a black tank top and shorts, an array of arm tattoos gleaming under the sun.
“Isn’t it?” Iris said.
“Of course it is, it’s the Belmont.” This from a refined-looking blonde with shaggy bangs, her hand tucked in the palm of a woman with reddish-brown hair cut short and shaved on one side.
“You can take the girl out of the cotillion, but you can’t take the cotillion out of the girl,” the tattooed woman said.
“Flip her off, Astrid,” Iris said to the blonde. “I beg you.”
Astrid just pursed her mouth and shook her head.
“Point,” the tattooed woman said.
“Fuck, it’s hot,” the guy Stevie remembered as Simon from the Empress said. “Is it supposed to be this hot in June?”
“Global warming, baby,” a Black person with a halo of dark curls said.
Iris just beamed at all of them, then slid her arm around Stevie’s waist. “Everyone, this is Stevie.”
At that point, the entire six-person group seemed to freeze, as though they just realized Stevie was there.
“Holy shit,” Tattoos said.
“Sweetie,” the brunette in glasses said to Iris, her brown eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. “Did you . . . did you bring a date?”
“Oh god,” Simon said, shaking his head.
“What?” his partner asked.
Iris laughed. “It’s nothing as dramatic as that. Stevie’s my fake girlfriend.”
All the friends blinked as one, like some sort of weird groupthink.
“She’s what?” Astrid asked.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Simon said.
“Iris, what are you talking about?” the brunette asked.
Iris sighed and Stevie truly wanted the earth to swallow her whole right now. This was beyond awkward. She wasn’t sure why she thought this would go well, or that she could do it without feeling like a complete idiot.
“Okay, just listen,” Iris said, then she proceeded to explain about meeting Stevie at Lush and running into her again at the Empress. She didn’t mention Stevie’s lies, nor did she mention the fact that they were fake dating for real—or fakely? God, this was confusing—for Stevie’s friends. She simply said Stevie agreed to go on some dates with her for the sake of research.
“Research,” Astrid said. It wasn’t a question. More like an accusation.
“Yes,” Iris said. “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d all just get over it, because Stevie here is lovely and being a very good sport.”
They all exchanged glances and Stevie felt herself shrinking even more. Iris’s grip on her tightened, and then the woman in glasses stepped forward and held out her hand.
“I’m sorry, Stevie, we’re being so rude. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m Claire.”
“Hi, Claire,” Stevie said, shaking her hand. “I know this is weird.”
“It’s Iris,” the tattooed woman said. “Think nothing of it. I’m Delilah.”
Stevie smiled and waved, then the others introduced themselves as Astrid, Jordan, and Emery.
“Great,” Iris said lightly, but her voice was a bit tight. “Now that that’s over with, my girl and I are going to take a dip.” She turned toward Stevie. “Shall we?”
“Um, sure,” Stevie said, letting Iris lead her away. As they went, she heard a whispered “What the fuck” from someone in the group, but Iris just kept moving. They stopped at another set of chairs and Iris shucked off her shorts and . . .
Stevie nearly passed out.
See, part of the problem with fake dating a ridiculously hot woman was that Stevie still hadn’t scratched that itch for some physical activity that had reared its ugly head in Bitch’s last week when she’d tried to nuzzle Adri. And now, standing here under the sun while a very beautiful and curvy Iris stripped down to her tiny bikini . . . well, Stevie was having feelings.
“Well?” Iris asked. “Are you coming in with me, my little rosebud?”
Stevie cracked up at the name, which again helped her relax. “I guess I am, mon petit chou.”
Iris laughed. “French, already? I’m flattered.”
“It means my little cabbage. I’m not sure how flattered you should really be.”
“Vegetable talk. That’s hot.”
Stevie shook her head, the blush creeping over her cheeks irrepressible.
Iris tilted her head, gaze narrowing. “It’s not an act, is it?”
“What?”
“The shy thing.”
Stevie choked on a laugh. “Um . . . no, not at all. You were there the night we met, right?”
Iris shrugged. “I remember a really sexy woman kissing me first.”
“Followed by evidence that I am the worst seductress in the Pacific Northwest,” Stevie said.
Iris’s expression remained thoughtful as she stepped forward, fingers sliding under the hem of Stevie’s tank. “Then allow me to take the lead. May I?”
Stevie swallowed, acutely aware at how close Iris was. She knew it was fake—this wild woman playing at romance to get into a character’s head or something—but with Iris a mere breath away, Stevie could count every single freckle on her face, and her lungs were having a hard time remembering how to function.
She managed to nod though, and Iris lifted her shirt up, prompting Stevie to raise her arms. The fabric slid slowly—way more slowly than it really needed to, in Stevie’s opinion—and when the tank slipped free, Iris was smirking.
“What?” Stevie asked, rolling her shoulders back. The single strap of her bathing suit pulled at her neck.