“His fiancée,” Yvonne snaps, ignoring Jenny’s outstretched hand.

Jenny recoils as though someone’s struck her. Then her gaze slowly drops to Yvonne’s left hand, where my ex is still wearing the ring I gave her.

Jenny’s eyes drift slowly to me, and I know the second she meets my eyes that she’s figured out the truth. Or at least enough of the truth to leave me truly, utterly fucked.

Deservedly so.

“Preston?” Jenny whispers again, her tone different this time, as the truth settles around her.

“I see you’ve picked a real brainiac as your revenge plan, sweetie,” Yvonne says, placing a hand on my shoulder. I brush it off, but it’s too late. Jenny’s eyes are boring a hole into the spot where Yvonne’s hand rested.

“I’ll explain,” Yvonne coos in a saccharine voice worthy of Hollywood’s nastiest villains. “The guy you’ve been screwing is my fiancé, Noah Preston Maxwell Walcott Jr. He goes by Preston, except when he’s slumming it.”

Yvonne’s gaze rakes over Jenny, and the slur is clear.

“That’s enough,” I say, slamming my fist on the table, long past caring about causing a scene. I stand, grabbing for Yvonne’s elbow, but she flits away, eyes still on Jenny.

“I made a mistake,” Yvonne says. “I had a little indiscretion, and Preston here wanted his revenge. Guess you’re it.”

Yvonne keeps yapping, something about having the wedding invitation to prove it, but Jenny’s stopped listening, as have I.

We stare at each other, her in righteous anger, me in mute misery.

“Jenny—”

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Just don’t. You’re the one I emailed all those weeks ago asking to rent the house?”

I nod.

“And that guy…the other Preston?”

“My friend. Edward Vaughn.”

She lets out a little laugh. “That’s your friend from prep school.”

I can only nod.

She glances at Yvonne, who has finally quieted down, although she looks highly peeved now that she’s no longer the star of the show.

“And you’re engaged,” Jenny says, looking back at me. “I’ve been sleeping with an engaged guy.”

“No,” I say, stepping toward her and reaching out a hand. “The rest of it’s true, and I’m a shit and a liar. But I’m not engaged. I ended it with Yvonne.”

“Then why do I have a wedding invitation in my purse?” Yvonne taunts.

“Because you’re a fucking psycho!” I shout before turning my attention back to Jenny, feeling a little desperate now. “Please, Jenny. Hate me for the rest of it, but believe that I was single when we…hooked up.”

But Jenny’s not listening to my shitty apology. She’s too busy looking around the room.

Because everyone else in the room is looking at her.

Too late, I realize why.

Jenny’s wig has slipped, revealing the unmistakable spill of her blond hair over her forehead and down over one slim shoulder.

“Oh my God, is that Jenny Dawson?” someone whispers.

Everywhere I look, idiot gawkers are pulling out their cellphones and taking pictures of a frozen Jenny.

Run, I want to scream at her.

Even more than that, I want to shield her with my body, scoop her into my arms and kiss her, not just to protect her like I did that day in the home center, but to show her that I…

My thought scatters before it can form as Jenny slowly lifts a trembling hand and pulls the wig all the way off.

Her chin is high. There’s no sign of tears.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe she did it again,” an old biddy sitting on my left says, loud enough for Jenny to hear. “That’s his fiancée.”

I see Jenny stiffen, and I frown in confusion, getting the distinct suspicion I’m missing something.

Then Jenny looks at me, her eyes utterly broken and desperate, and I realize the magnitude of what’s happening here.

Jenny came to Louisiana to escape. To hide from the paparazzi and the fickle public that turned on her the second she ceased to be their perfect angel and became a perceived home wrecker.

Perceived, because she didn’t sleep with that shithead Shawn Bates before.

But she did sleep with me—she all but announced it.

And judging from the whispers around us, it’s all the confirmation these assholes need.

Jenny fixes a brilliant, bright smile on her face before giving a low dramatic curtsy, as though thanking them all for the chance to perform, before turning that broken smile on me. “Goodbye, Preston.”

“Jenny—”

She picks up her purse and walks toward the front of the restaurant, not looking to either side, and definitely not looking back.

It takes every bit of self-control in my body not to run after her, not to throw myself at her feet.

But there’s something I have to do first.

I turn to Yvonne, and she takes a step back from the rage on my face. “You said you have our wedding invitation, darling?” I ask. “May I see it?”

Apparently she’s too busy reeling from the scene that just went down to think clearly, because she slowly pulls it out of her purse and hands it to me, her gaze trailing after Jenny.

“You slept with Jenny Dawson?”

I ignore her. Knowing Yvonne, she’s probably rethinking her strategy. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she still tried to coax me down the aisle, then encouraged me to keep Jenny as my mistress just so she could benefit from the notoriety.