“Motherfucker.”
Shaking my hand dry, I retrieve the photo and breathe a sigh of relief that there doesn’t seem to be any damage. There’s a wet stain on the floor from the coffee, and where I’d normally rub it into the rug with my foot, this isn’t the type of home where that behavior’s acceptable, so I rush to fetch a cloth only to be stopped by a second loudrat-tat-tat.
I have half a mind to ignore it. We just got back, this isn’t my house, and it’s only going to be for Miles. On the other hand, the person knocking seems too insistent to leave, so I drop the cloth over the coffee, smooth myself down, take a deep breath, and open the door.
And I’m seriously impressed by what—or rather,who—I find on the other side.
Miles must have sent out a homing beacon, and honestly, after the basket full of Sephora upstairs, I should have expected it.
Polo players all over the world are exactly alike, attracting the exact same women. Big tits, big hair, and what seems to be a perpetual bad smell under their noses, while making sure they’re first in line for becoming the next flavor of the month. Because if they play their cards right, it’ll land them a rich husband.
Too bad this one is temporarily taken.
“Hi, ba . . .” The girl stops mid-word, her mouth open in a perfect O, and stares at me,hard. Her eyes drop to my bare feet and drag all the way up my sweatpants until she meets mine. “Who areyou?”
I definitely haven’t had enough coffee for this, especially since this bitch made me spill my first cup.
From the glower she’s shooting my way, I’m ninety-nine percent certain she’s already fucked Miles. But on the chance she’s the one percent, I do my best to plaster on my best fake smile and greet her like the good little housewife I’m currently role-playing.
“Hi there, can I help you?”
She peers around me. “Where’s Miles?”
I narrow the door. “He’s not here right now, but I can tell him you came by . . .” I leave the sentence hanging to see if she’ll fill in her name.
“I usually wait.”
I bet she fucking does.
I widen my smile. We both know exactly what she means, just like we both know I’m not letting her in. “That’s okay, I’m heading out to meet him shortly. We won’t be home for a while.”
Her eye twitches as she registers the way I saidhome, and her jaw juts with a clench. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Ruby?—”
“And you are?”
“Miles’s wife.”
This time, her jaw drops, along with her gaze, giving me a thorough reassessment before coming to the same conclusion. She scoffs so hard she almost chokes. “I don't think so. Miles wouldneverget married.”
It’s a universal fact that women who want to fuck polo players do not like female grooms. And that look she’s currently wearing sums up all the shit I’ve put up with from the snootyPalm Beach bitches. They see us as competition, when most grooms know far better than to get involved with a polo player—present company excluded under extenuating circumstances.
And I dearly wish she weren’t making it so easy for me to dislike her, but I take great pleasure in my next move.
My hand grips the doorframe, flexing my fingers along the wood one at a time. I don’t know if it’s the movement that catches her eye or the vibrant sparkle of my rings, but she stares at them. Andstares.
“Not sure what to tell you.” I shrug.
She lets out a little splutter, followed by a humorless laugh. Her eyes dart from the ring to me, and back again. Her eyes narrow, and my stomach plummets. I know she’s about to tell me this ring is fake. She’s exactlythatgirl who’d be able to tell on sight.
But thankfully, my ass is saved by the arrival of Story walking up the path, carrying two cups of coffee.
“Morning . . .” she greets, taking in the scene. “Sorry, have I interrupted?”
“Not at all,” I say, while Miles’s groupie spits out, “Yes, this lunatic has broken into Miles’s house and is claiming to be his wife.”
I roll my eyes, though it’s followed by a second panic that maybe Story knows this woman, andworse,they’re friends. Maybe I’ve misread the whole situation.
