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Prologue
Lena
Four years ago
I was dressed to the nines. I had worn my favorite little black dress and strappy red heels—my friend Hannah called them my “fuck me shoes.” She wasn’t wrong. I knew they made my already long legs look even longer. And the Spanx I had squeezed myself into using a considerable amount of lotion and holding my breath—made my curves look downright delicious.
I didn’t need male attention to tell me what I already knew—I was damn hot.
My long, dark hair was particularly shiny, and I liked the way it felt trailing down my back. Jenna, my college roommate and all-around neurotic, had done my makeup complete with a smoky eye and glam-red lipstick.
I loved getting dolled up. I liked feeling gorgeous and desirable. And tonight, I was feeling a good dose of both.
“Come on, Lena, couldn’t you have dressed a little more—I don’t know—conservatively?” my older brother Adam groaned when I arrived at the swank party he and his partners were throwing to commemorate the opening of their brand new law firm.
They had rented out the ballroom at The Dandelion Hotel. Our hometown of Southport, Pennsylvania, had few options when it came to putting on fancy events. The Dandelion Hotel was it. But whoever Adam had hired to put the shindig together had done a great job. The room was filled with flowers and tiny twinkling lights. A small band played in the corner, rocking out jazzy tunes that were both upbeat and unobtrusive. The food was on point. I grabbed another crab puff from a platter being carried by a bow tie wearing waiter.
This whole thing was definitely out of my league. As a senior at Penn State, I was more used to a keg party at a frat house than sipping champagne and caviar but I was comfortable in both situations. I could party like a rock star but also hobnob with the best of them.
I popped the puff in my mouth and looked down at my skintight dress. “I look great.” I shrugged and flipped my hair over my shoulder indifferently. Adam wasn’t exactly a prude and he was far from conservative. You only had to look at his hoochie wife to see he didn’t exactly have a problem with women showing skin. I knew of more than a few skeletons in his buttoned-up closet. But he was my brother and I suppose in his mind that meant he had the right to be a giant pain in my ass.
“I think Mr. Jessop’s eyes are about to pop out of his head, and Mrs. Jessop looks ready to murder him.” Adam’s expression was decidedly sour. He had always been overprotective. Annoyingly so. He was seven years older than me and he seemed to think that gave him permission to try and dictate my life from the guys I dated to apparently the clothes I wore. He needed to get a grip. I was well past needing anyone to protect me.
I put a hand on my brother’s arm reassuringly. “Mr. Jessop is an old perv. Everyone knows he only goes to Jessie’s Diner because of the short skirts the waitresses wear. And if Mrs. Jessop finally offs the dirty bastard, then maybe you’ll get a new client. After all, someone will have to get her out of trouble.” I picked up a champagne flute and downed half the contents in one go. If the college had taught me anything, it was how to drink like a champ. I often put the frat guys to shame.
“Mom, tell her.” Adam appealed to our mother, who was chatting with her best friend, June Galloway over blinis.
Mom waved away his comment. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, Adam. Your sister is a beautiful young woman. Don’t be so archaic.”
I gave Adam a Cheshire Cat grin and finished off the champagne, immediately grabbing another glass. Adam intercepted me and took the flute from my hand. “Seriously, slow down Lena. This isn’t a Phi Kappa whatever party. This is an important night for me, hold it together.”
Adam was such a buzz kill.
“I turn twenty-two in a month. You’re worse than Dad. Actually, Dad wouldn’t be so uptight.” I wiped my fingers on a napkin and balled it up in my hand, wishing I could throw it in Adam’s face. I loved my brother, but he also annoyed the shit out of me.
I glanced across the room to where Adam’s bitchface wife, Chelsea stood wearing the skimpiest dress I had ever seen. Thin strips of silver material crisscrossed her body, barely covering up anything. And Adam was giving me hell about my choice of wardrobe?
She was talking to a man I didn’t know. I saw her put her hand on the man’s arm and leave it there. She tossed her head back and laughed at something the man said, her long blonde hair smooth and perfect. If I didn’t hate her so much, I’d appreciate how smokin’ hot she was. Chelsea Sloane was hands down, the best-looking woman in the room—excluding me, of course.
