Page 9 of Not You Again
What part of the city do we live in—him, lavish Buckhead, and me, bustling Midtown.
Where we went for school—Georgia State, of course. Where we met.
All I can think as I sip my champagne is how much I hate this. I can’t help thinking it’s all things about him I should already know. Like it was wrong for us to have been apart all this time.
Which is absolute bullshit, considering the way we ended things.
Out of nowhere, Kit tilts his head and asks, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I steel my spine and focus on the way my heels pinch my toes.
He shakes his head. “I can always tell when you—”
“Kit,” I warn. If he outs us right now and ruins my shot at that money, I might murder him.
He lets out a laugh that falls flat, scrubbing his fingers against his jaw. He’s close enough I can smell his aftershave. Citrus, cedar, sandalwood. It’s a more adult version of him, and I want to nuzzle into his neck to breathe him in.
Of all the men in Atlanta, why the hell did it have to be him? He’s not even supposed to be here; I heard years ago from an acquaintance that he’d surfaced in Manhattan.
“What brings you here?” I ask abruptly. After a nervous glance at the cameraman behind Kit, I rearrange my face to look demure. Polite. Kit is supposed to be a stranger, after all.
He sucks in a breath and levels his gaze on me. “To the show or—?”
“Atlanta.” My champagne glass clunks down on the table as I shift on my feet in frustration. “Why are you in Atlanta?”
“Because I live here?” He gives the cameras a sidelong glance, setting his glass down, too.
“Right.” I scoff.
He turns to face me fully, squaring up for a fight, then deadpans, “Andie, if you say this town isn’t big enough for the both of us—”
A frustrated sound somewhere between a whine and a grunt leaves my mouth, and I can’t help myself. I stomp my foot. He’s under my skin after only five minutes. How the hell am I supposed to make it eight whole weeks?
The producer behind him watches in amusement, brows raised.
“I need some air.” I down the rest of my champagne, pick up the skirts on my off-the-rack gown and march out the door.
My heels sink into the soft country club grass, but I don’t stop. Calves burning, I glance over my shoulder. Kit’s closer behind than I expected. He eyes the curves of my hips with a deep frown on his face. The camera crew is on our heels, ready to catch more of this disastrous reunion.
There are so many words that want to claw their way out of my chest—most of them made of four letters—and I don’t know where to start.
But he does.
“What brings you here?” he blurts out as I stop to lean against a white oak, shoulders slouching. The crew hustles to get a clear shot, forming a semicircle around us on the lawn.
“To find love, obviously.” I flick his question away with my hand. It’s a lie, of course. I’m here for the divorce money in eight weeks. I suppose I should be grateful I landed the one man I can guarantee I’ll walk away from.
He gestures to the crew around us. “Maybe we should tell the producers we’ve—”
I glare at him. It’s a look that says don’t you dare. If he outs our past relationship right now, I’ll—
“I don’t see how we can hide it.”
“Kit,” I say through my teeth. “Shut. Up.”
“Andie,” the producer behind Kit interjects, “have you met Kit before?”
Without removing my glare from Kit, I bite out, “Yes.”