Free Queen of Babble Gets Hitched by Meg Cabot Page A

glances. Tiffany nods.
    “He’s in love with you, of course,” Monique says.
    “You’ve never even met him,” I cry.
    “I have,” Tiffany says, stuffing a wad of Jamaican jerk sandwich into her mouth. “And he totally is.”
    “She’s right,” Gran says. “I’ve always thought that boy wanted to put a load of coal into your steam engine.”
    I nearly spit out the bite of tandoori chicken I’d just taken.
    “How can you say that?” I cry. “He’s Luke’s best friend! He’s my best friend’s ex-boyfriend!”
    Tiffany looks at me blankly. “So?”
    Monique is giving me the same blank stare. They must teach it at modeling school. “Yeah,” she says. “So?”
    Gran sounds impatient. “Dr. Quinn comes on in ten minutes. How long is this going to take?”
    “So… so…,” I say, for once in my life actually sputtering to find the right words. “So… Look. I’m sure men fall head over heels for you two all the time. I mean… look at you. But in real life—for real girls, like me, that is—that just doesn’t happen. Men don’t go around falling in love with me. And certainly not without encouragement.”
    “Oh, and your letting him touch your titties in that taxi wasn’t encouragement?” Monique asks.
    “You let him spend the night too,” Tiffany points out.
    I put my finger over the mouthpiece of my cell. “Excuse me,” I say. “My grandmother is listening in on this.”
    “Too late,” Gran says. “I already heard. This is even better than Dr. Quinn.”
    “We were both drunk,” I insist in my own defense for what has to be the millionth time. I’m regretting ever having opened my mouth about any of this, a not unfamiliar sensation. I’m especially regretting not having hung up when Gran answered. “Look, forget I said anything. It was nothing.”
    Why had I even said anything, especially to these girls? I wouldn’t have if I’d been able to discuss any of this with Shari. If I could just call Shari and go, Shari. This is what my fiancé’s best friend said to me. What do you think? none of this would be happening.
    But I can’t do that. Because my fiancé’s best friend is her ex-boyfriend.
    And I can’t talk about what happened with Chaz with Shari. Because it would all be too weird.
    But Monique and Tiffany, it turns out, are not proving to be adequate Shari substitutes. Not at all.
    “That last bit he said,” Monique says, “about the game just starting? That didn’t sound like nothing to me. Does it to you, Tiff?”
    “No way, José,” Tiffany says. “I think he’s warm for our Miss Lizzie’s form.”
    “Told you,” Gran sings.
    “Oh my God, you guys.” I shake my head. “He is so not. And even if he is… it’s not going to go anywhere. He’s completely damaged from what happened with Shari. He says he—”
    It’s at this moment—fortunately—that the door to the shop bursts open, and Ava Geck comes tumbling through it, her bodyguard and Chihuahua in tow. Ava has a wild look on her face, as if she’s being hunted. She’s wearing short-shorts over fishnet stockings, even though it’s approximately twelve degrees outside, and her lower jaw is moving rapidly… except that she’s not speaking.
    Tiffany scowls down at the book in front of her. “What are you doing here, Ava?” she demands. “Your next appointment’s not for four weeks.”
    “Sorry,” Ava says, still chewing. She collapses onto the chaise longue I insisted Madame Henri place in the far corner for nervous, waiting mothers, and peers out the plate-glass window in the front of the store, her body hidden from view by a display dummy dressed in a princess gown from the 1950s, complete with a voluminous, diamanté-dotted tulle skirt that takes up almost the entire display window. “We were in the neighborhood looking at condos and suddenly… paparazzi! Can we hide for a few minutes until they go away? I don’t have any eyeliner on.”
    “Hold on, Gran,” I say into my cell. I walk