“The young, rich ones are always terrible,” Cleo says. “Cocky, easily distracted, and they only think with their dicks. Even if you do sleep with them, it’s like ten seconds of jackhammering and then it’s over and you’re beingpushed out the door by their apologetic domestic staff. These guys have no money sense, will sleep with anything that walks, and have an eighty-percent blood alcohol level at all times.”
I groan. She’s not totally wrong. I know firsthand about the arrogant attitudes, the sleeping around, the cockiness, and the general lack of functioning brain cells. The sex sounds terrible, but hey, if I only have to endure ten seconds of terrible penetration it will be worth keeping Nana comfortable.
“Come on, Cleo. I wouldn’t be the first woman to marry a jackass for his money.”
“That’s true…” She tilts her head, scrutinizing my face. “You really sure you want to do this, boo?”
“No.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud.
I don’t want Cleo to worry about me…which is why I haven’t told her about Windemere's indecent offer. His eyes pop into my mind yet again and the back of my neck tingles. What if he’s here tonight? A rush of excitement goes through me, but then quickly dissolves. How ridiculous. There’s no way a guy like him would go to a club like this. He probably goes to fancy wine bars or whiskey cellars, or maybe those private clubs where you can smoke cigars in plush leather chairs as you look out at the glittering Manhattan skyline.
“But,” I quickly recover, “it’s not like I’m committing to anything right away. This is more of a scouting expedition. I just want to see what’s out there.”
“I get it, but I hate seeing you like this. You’re desperate and you’re not thinking clearly. I’m sure we can come upwith a better plan than you marrying some random twat you don’t even know just for his money.”
“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally.
A group of women walk by. Catching them from the corner of my eye, I recognize a few of them from my former tennis team. Moving away from the railing, I wave and start to call out to one of them, but the group diverts their eyes and hurries away.
Ah. Of course. None of them want to be associated with me. I should be used to it by now. Their rejection shouldn’t sting so badly, but it does. Right in the center of my heart, where I’ve already been bruised again and again by everyone else that’s turned their back on me.
Except for Cleo.
I used to come to this club and spend the nights talking and dancing with my friends and their friends, and everyone else that extended from our circle. There’s been none of that tonight. People I used to share drinks with and spend hours laughing with at a corner table won’t even look at me now. Maybe I’m overanalyzing it, but even the men seem to be more standoffish than usual. I’m used to attracting their attention pretty easily.
It’s not the dress I’m wearing, either. I’ve never worn overly revealing or short dresses. It was a point of ridicule with some of my old friends, who had no problem flaunting their cleavage or wearing hems that showed off the line where ass cheek meets thigh. My dress tonight is body-hugging enough to be sexy, but it covers me from neck to lower thigh.
“So how’s it going at the guest house?” Cleo asks. “You climbing the walls yet? Can’t be fun rooming with yourparents in such a tight space. At least, tight compared to your old place.”
“It’s what horror movies are made of,” I say dryly, and we both share a laugh.
Cleo slurps the last of her drink through her straw and eyes my near-empty glass. “I’m gonna go get us refills. Do you want to save our spot here or come with?”
“I’m good here,” I tell her, reaching into my clutch. “I can cover this round.”
She slaps my hand away. “Don’t even think about it. I’ve got this.”
With that, she flounces away, leaving a smile on my face. Everyone deserves a friend like Cleo. Especially in times like these.
Honestly, the worst part of living at the guest house isn’t that it’s a small space or that it’s so much less lavish than the penthouse was. It’s that my dad is always there. He’s convinced that he’s somehow the victim in all of this and that everyone is doing him wrong. So what if he skimmed a little cream off the top? His plan was to reinvest it anyway and get a huge return, which of course he intended to redistribute to his clients, but then the feds came down on him first.
Right.
He’s conveniently forgetting the part where he took that money—literal millions of dollars—and used it to support his own lifestyle. My mother doesn’t remind him of that fact, of course, or call him out on his bullshit either. She just smiles and tries her best to keep the peace, even as he’s ranting and storming through a house that’s not ours, destroying whatever happens to be in his path.
Windemere offered you a place to stay, the devil on my shoulder whispers.
Cleo returns with our drinks, and I take a long pull from mine.
“What’s that look on your face?” she asks me. “Is your drink sour?”
“What? It’s just soda water and cranberry, remember?” I turn my frown upside down and take another drink. “Must be a little lemon in there.”
“Just soda water?” a male voice cuts in over my shoulder. “We need to fix that.”
I feel a sudden warmth against the back of my bare arm as I catch the musky scent of expensive cologne. Cleo’s brows arch with interest right before she eyes me pointedly. Turning toward the voice, I have to lean back because the man is leaning down into my space. Readjusting my stance, I run a hand down my hip and smile.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Piper. And this is my friend Cleo.”
