She walked in through the front door at five-thirty and heard laughter coming from the living room—Nikki’s bright, airy laugh, followed by Damen’s lower one, the version he used when he was flirting or getting away with something. Carissa slipped off her heels on instinct and stepped closer without announcing herself.
They were on the couch.
Not in a compromising position. That would have been almost merciful. No, what she saw was worse in its casualness. Nikki sat cross-legged facing him, wearing jeans and one of Carissa’s old cardigans she must have taken years earlier and never returned. Damen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, reading from notes while Nikki repeated the lines back to him.
“How did we meet?” he asked.
Nikki smiled. “At Lindsey Barron’s birthday party in Oak Brook. I was standing by the back window pretending I didn’t know anyone, and you came over with a drink and said you were impressed by my commitment to looking like I hated everyone.”
Damen grinned. “Good. Again, but slower.”
Carissa did not move.
That was her story.
Her exact story.