Anya is still creeping around the edge of the dining room. As if she might be able to slip back into the shadows and escape. “I sent you an email. Did you get my email?”
“Oh. Maybe I forgot to send it.” She chuckles at herself. “I am so scattered. Very busy recently. I should leave and check and then I’ll send it and—”
“Or we can talk about it now.” Francia pulls out the chair between us. “Sit.”
Sensing she’s lost this battle, Anya reluctantly sits down. Under the table, she kicks my ankle. I just smile back at her over my ice water.
“Like I told you the other day, Francia, I’m not really great at the whole wedding planning thing. I don’t have the head for all of the details and the color schemes.”
“You planned your own wedding, didn’t you?” Francia asks. “I saw an article about it in
