“Oh, he knows,” my best friend says. “He definitely knows. And I’d venture to say the rest of your crew knows. And probably your audience. And your dad? Even he can pick up on the stifling sexual tension in this place. Y’all are swimming in it.”

My face burns red-hot and I smack her arm. She laughs. “I’m happy for you, Shelby.”

“Thanks. Me, too.”

After we finish our salads, Cameron saunters over and I pass him what’s left of my iced tea. He gulps it down gratefully and I try not to stare. His gaze captures mine, and it’s like I can literally feel my clothes peeling off—until our eye fucking is interrupted by a commotion at the front door.

“What the—”

Lyle Jessup stands in the rough-hewn foyer, shit-eating grin in place and his arm wrapped around the bony shoulders of my former best friend.

“Someone order a reunion?”

“I’d like mine without the narcissistic dickhead,” Lorelai mutters next to me. She glances nervously at the cameras suddenly in our faces. “Goddammit, I don’t even have my lashes on today.”

I crack a smile, taking her in. “You’re beautiful, as always. But it’s okay if you leave. Thanks for lunch.”

Lorelai slips out the back door while Cameron crosses the room toward Lyle and Marcella, but Marcella glides past him in enviable steel-gray kid leather booties, aiming for me.

“Heyyyy, bitch!” she shrieks, all plastic smiles and glamorous hair extensions. Before I’m ready, she’s wrapped her arms around my shoulders and is swaying side to side. I imagine her eyes are squeezed shut in feigned sincerity, just to really drive the moment home.

“Congrats, Shelb!” she says, pulling back and cradling my face in her tiny hands. “Your hair is so fab! You look so much older!”

“Thanks.”

She spins around, her high-waisted skirt flaring just below her butt cheeks. I hear a collective groan from my crew and Lyle chuckles. Settle down, boys. I aim a glare at Cam, but he’s got his eyes on me.

I try to communicate a mental Morse code of “everything’s fine,” which is a lie. It’s not remotely okay, but I’ve seen worse.

That is, until Marcella spins toward him and clasps her manicured hands together under her chin. “Oh my God! Cameron Riggs! Look at that beard! And those biceps! Woooow…” She drags out the word and struts over to him. She runs her fingers slowly down his arm and I want to slap her hand away, but the camera is rolling. Honestly. She’s so obvious.

Instead, I slap her with my eyeballs. In my brain. Where I can replay it over and over before bed tonight.

“You’re coming with us, right?” Marcella is asking, her glossy lips in a perfect pout.

“Where are we going, exactly?”