Page 53 of The Invitation

Huh?My fingers fly across the keys.

Me: This winter?

Ripley: On our date, smart-ass.

Me: Why? What are we doing?

Ripley: *sighing emoji*

Me: Don’t *sigh emoji* me.

Ripley: Every time we’re together, I understand why you aren’t dating someone a little more.

I smile, glancing up to make sure my mother isn’t near.You walked right into this one, buddy.

Me: Someone a little more … what? A little more patient than you?

Ripley: *stares emoji* You know what I meant.

Me: A little funnier than you?

Ripley: *eye roll emoji*

Me: Ah, a little better at keeping up with me than you. Got it.

Ripley: Whatever you say, Peaches.

I growl. “I hate when you call me that.”

“Who?” Mom slings a bag over her shoulder and opens the door for me. “Who’s calling you names? I’ll fight them.”

My phone vibrates with another text, but I shove it inside my bag.No need to continue that conversation and ruin what’s left of my day.

“Mom, I have no doubt about that.” I laugh at the irony. “Are we done shopping now?”

“I mean, I guess.” We slide our sunglasses over our eyes and stroll down the sidewalk. “We could always grab an early dinner.”

My mind wanders back to Ripley’s text.Wear something warm. I have no idea what that means beyond the obvious, but why would I wear a jacket when it’s still warm enough for shorts? Is he trying to set me up? Does he want me to look ridiculous?

“Georgia?” Mom asks.

“What? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

Her brows lift over the edge of her glasses. “You’ve been dazey all day.”

“Not sure thatdazeyis a word.”

“You know what I mean. Are you getting enough rest, honey?”

“I’ve sat on the couch all alone, eating white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies every night for the past two months,” I say.Just like Ripley said I was.I grip my bag at my shoulder and squeeze it, pretending it’s his throat.

“Maybe you should take a vacation day, and we can have a girls’ day together. Brunch, mani/pedis. Maybe the spa. We could catch a comedy show or something.”

My steps slow as a ripple of annoyance snakes through me.A vacation day? That would require a job, Mom.

She doesn’t know that I’m technically working for Canoodle Pictures, and shedefinitelydoesn’t know, and won’t know, that I’m working with a Brewer. As far as my mother knows, I’m still unemployed.

Or as far as sheshouldknow because God knows if it doesn’t affect her personally, it’s not taking up space in her head.