“Oh, sweetie,” Claire said, grabbing a café napkin and handing it to Stevie.
“Sorry, shit.”
“It’s okay.”
Stevie wiped her eyes, the brown paper scratching at her tender lids.
“You like her,” Claire said. “You really like her.”
“Who, Delilah?” Stevie said, and Claire busted up laughing. Stevie laughed too, tears mixing with this brief moment of mirth, but then Claire reached out and squeezed her arm.
“You like her,” she said again, “and she told you to leave this morning. Didn’t she?”
Stevie lifted her thumb and forefinger into a finger gun. “You know your girl.”
“I do,” Claire said. “All too well.”
“So I guess that’s that.”
Claire sniffed, eyes softly narrowed in thought. “You know, when you were dancing with Jenna last night, Iris was . . .”
Stevie’s heart nearly stopped. “Iris was what?”
Claire tapped her fingers on her mug. “I could tell she didn’t like it, I’ll just say that. She didn’t like it one bit.”
Stevie thought back to their night together. She figured Iris had just gone home, forgotten about Stevie and Jenna, and simply been caught up in a moment of lust when Stevie showed up at her apartment.
But then Stevie’s brain locked onto those illustrations—illustrations in complete dissonance with the way Iris refused to look at her while she picked up her room. Or even more, the way Iris did look at her—all smirk and flirt as she called herself an amazing screw.
An act.
A total show.
Stevie studied actors as part of her job. Dug into their performances, their methods, the way they created a persona, a character.
And Iris?
She was a fucking pro.
“Stevie,” Claire said. “Iris has been through it—with relationships, I mean.”
Stevie nodded. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“She told me about Jillian and Grant. People from high school and college.”
Claire blinked. “Iris doesn’t usually tell anyone those stories.”
“I’m not usual, Claire,” Stevie said, feeling suddenly as bold and brash as Iris herself. Plus, she was right. There was nothing usual about Stevie and Iris. Nothing at all.
Claire watched her for a second before seeming to come to some conclusion. “No, I don’t think you are. Does Iris know how you feel? Is that why she asked you to leave?”
Stevie laughed. “One doesn’t just tell Iris Kelly that they like her, do they?”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Wow, you sure do have her number.”
“I don’t,” Stevie said, swiping a hand through her messy curls. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Well, Iris is . . . yeah, she’s tough. Words are cheap to her. She’s heard it all, both good and bad, and that’s made her . . . skittish.”
“Skittish.”
“About love.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Stevie said. “So how do I convince her?”
Claire tilted her head, gaze spearing Stevie. “First, you make sure you want to. Don’t jerk her around, Stevie.”
“I’m not. I swear, I’m not. I . . .”
She couldn’t say love to Iris’s best friend. Iris deserved to be the first person who heard those words.
“I promise you, Claire,” she said, “I’m very serious about Iris. And anything you can tell me to help me convince her how serious I am would be greatly appreciated.”
Claire’s brows lifted, a smile fighting to get through her pursed mouth. “Okay, then.”
“Okay, then.”
Claire’s glanced around the store, then back to Stevie. “Iris responds to sincerity. Actions. She’s a writer, yeah, but like I said, words are cheap when it comes to her own love life. But I think, with the right person, she’d believe they really cared about her if they showed her. Proved it, I guess. It’s just that no one has done that in a long time, and she’s been hurt by that.”
Stevie nodded. All of that made perfect sense. She was sure Jillian uttered a lot of pretty words to get Iris in bed, then betrayed her at the first turn. Even Grant, who Stevie thought really loved Iris, left her in the end. He probably even said those exact words—I love you, but . . .
So it made sense that Iris needed proof, actions that spoke way louder than any words Stevie could rattle off. It was true, in the past few weeks, she and Stevie had been putting on quite a show for the world, for Stevie’s friends, for themselves.
But what if that show were real?
What if, for all of Iris’s scoffing at romance, that’s what she really needed?
Really wanted.
Stevie smiled at Claire, an idea forming in her mind. “So I need to woo her.”
Claire grinned. “Deep down inside, I think Iris really just wants to be swept off her feet, you know?”
Stevie grinned back, hope pushing out all her earlier despair. Iris wanted romance lessons? She wanted situations for her characters to fall in love?
That was exactly what she was going to get.
“Hey, babe.”
Stevie glanced up to see Delilah coming into the café, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans cuffed at the ankle.
“Hey,” Claire said, tilting her head up for a kiss. “Is it lunchtime already?”
“Close enough,” Delilah said, thumb sweeping over Claire’s jaw. “I missed you.”
All of Stevie’s insides melted right then. Just a little.
“Hey, Stevie,” Delilah said, nodding at her. “What’s up? Iris here?”
“Um . . . no,” Stevie said.
Delilah’s gaze darted between Stevie and Claire. Then she closed her eyes. “Oh god.”
“What?” Claire asked.
“I want no part of this,” Delilah said.
“Part of what?” Claire asked innocently.
Delilah waved her finger between Stevie and Claire. “This little matchmaking thing you have going on.”
Claire pressed a hand to her chest. “I would never.”
“You would and you are and Iris will flay you alive when she finds out.”
“Not if Stevie here gets the girl,” Claire said, winking at Stevie over her own mug. Stevie smiled back, a confidence she would never have expected of herself filling her up.
Delilah pressed her thumb and forefinger into her eyes. “May the goddess have mercy on your souls.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
IRIS DIDN’T TALK to Stevie all weekend. Stevie didn’t text, didn’t call, and Iris didn’t either. She didn’t even think to. She also didn’t stalk Stevie’s social media. Stevie hardly ever posted on her Instagram anyway, not that Iris noticed.
Not that Iris was thinking about her at all.
Still, Sunday evening, after two days of relentless writing, her novel’s word count finally creeping up to about the halfway mark, she sat in her living room drawing Stevie Scott.
Stevie Scott’s mouth on Iris’s neck.
Stevie Scott’s hands on Iris’s body.
Stevie Scott’s eyes closed as Iris touched her, kissed her, made her— “Fuck,” Iris said as the definitely not-safe-for-work illustration came to life on her iPad.