Raf & Shane & Wendy
They’re nearly ready for wallpaper now. Raf moves the roller in slow, even strokes, primer soaking into the drywall. Beside her, Shane works quietly, sleeves shoved up, forearms streaked with white.
She reloads the roller, glancing over. “I haven’t really told you about my ex-husband, have I?” she asks, testing him, keeping it casual above the surface.
Shane’s brush slows. “No. But you can. If you want.”
“Do you know about him?”
“Not much. Just what you’ve said. That it’s messy.”
“Messy’s generous. Why would you want to be around someone carrying this much… baggage?”
Shane looks over, a faint crease between his brows. “Are you saying this is more than a work project, Raf? More than a friendship?”
Their eyes lock. She doesn’t answer. Not right away. But she sees it in his face—something open. Something quiet and hopeful. Not a calculation. Not a strategy. Just… him.
She leans forward, only slightly. Inches away now. She wants to. She really wants to. But her mind stumbles: What happens after? This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not with a client—
A sharp knock cuts through the moment. Raf pulls back, fast. Shane lets out a nervous laugh, then sets the roller aside.
He heads for the door, but stops. Glances back. Raf’s already turned away, eyes on the wall again, pretending nothing happened. And for a second, he wonders—
Does she feel it too? And if she does… Would it be worth what comes next? Because Raf Simonetti wasn’t someone you screwed around with. She wasn’t someone you ruined a pool with and ghosted afterward. Not like—
“Surprise,” Wendy beams, framed in the doorway, holding up two oversized McDonald’s bags. “I brought dinner!”
Shane forces a laugh. “McDonald’s… my favorite,” he says as she breezes past, Manolos striking hard against the floor.
“Our favorite,” Wendy corrects, just as her gaze lands on Raf. Her smile falters. “Oh. Sorry, am I interrupting? Again?”
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“We’re just prepping the walls,” Raf says, barely turning.
Wendy gives a clipped laugh. “Let her work, Shane. Let’s eat.”
“Raf, eat with us,” Shane offers, too casually.
“No, it’s fine. I should get home to give the nanny a break. I don’t eat fast food anyway.”
“Single mom life must be exhausting,” Wendy says, too sweet as she drops the bags on the island. “I don’t know how you do it—work, divorce, everything.”
“I could write a novel about it,” Raf replies. “You’re an agent, right? Maybe you could represent me. You’re so good at selling fiction, after all.”
“I deal in nonfiction,” Wendy says with a brittle laugh, just as Raf leans in and kisses Shane on the cheek.
“Bye, honey. Enjoy your five-star meal.” She turns, then stops herself. “Wendy’s your name, right?”
Wendy’s smile vanishes. Shane freezes. Raf lets the question hang.
“I’m bad with names too,” Wendy snaps. “Luckily, the tabloids make yours easy to remember.”
Raf’s smile fades. She gives Shane one last unreadable look. Then she’s gone. The door shuts behind her a little too hard. Wendy’s already unwrapping fries on the midnight-blue sectional.
“Say what you want about LA fine dining,” she says, popping a fry into her mouth, “but nothing beats trash food after a long day.”
“Somehow I think you came for more than trash food,” Shane says, settling in beside her.
Wendy smirks, tossing the bag aside. “Slow down, cowboy. Just because we had a moment or two doesn’t mean I’m on call.”
“On call? That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it? You’ve got me on one shoulder, Raf on the other. What more could a boy want?”
“Raf and I aren’t like that.”
“Good. You can do much better. Did you tell her this couch isn’t exactly new anymore? Not after the way we broke it in.”
“You’re aggressive as hell, you know that?”
“Am I?”
Before he can answer, Wendy leans in. Close enough that she can smell Bleu de Chanel on his skin, laced with salt and grease.
“McDonald’s is better than sex anyway,” she murmurs, brushing a kiss against the corner of his lips. Then she pulls away abruptly.
He blinks. “You’re leaving?”
“Let’s do this again sometime,” she says, light and easy, then heads for the door without a glance back.
She’s nearly at the stairwell when she hears him: “Wendy, hold up.”
She turns, already bracing. “Gareth. Everything alright?”
Her eyes flick to the strain in his T-shirt. The taut line of his biceps. Those pecs. Cute. Strong in that eager, slightly dumb way.
“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything,” he says. “But someone told me Leah’s planning something. Said she has… ammo. Against you.”
There it is. She knew it. Ever since the Felicia fallout, things had shifted. People whispering. Watching. Connecting dots she’d worked hard to scatter. No texts. No email. No proof. Or so she thought. Still, Felicia had warned her before she went down: They’re talking, Wendy.
“Ammo,” Wendy repeats. “What kind?”
“I don’t know. Just… serious enough that you should be careful.”
She doesn’t react. Just looks at him. “And who told you this?”
“Just… people talk.”
“Who’s people?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’d say it does. But fine. You have sources to protect. Now, was there anything else?”
“No. That’s it.”
She flips her hair, already done with him. “Well, I appreciate the heads-up.”
He nods. Starts to turn.
“And Gareth?”
He stops.
“Do me a favor. Don’t tell anyone else. I’ll look into it. But let’s keep this between us, shall we?”