Page 81 of Sexy

And that’s why I’m here alone. I told Claudio I’d talk to him later. I just wanted a few minutes alone with my dad to say goodbye. People who have been loved their whole life like he has can’t possibly understand how I feel right now.

I sigh as I wring my gloved hands in my lap. It’s warm today, so they’re sweating. My whole body is hot and slick under my black lace dress and my matching hat. It feels like punishment for some reason.

It’s not the money that bothers me. I’m not sure I remember what it’s like to live on a budget, I was so young when Randall appeared. But I’m smart and I can adjust. I can figure it out. So it’s not the money. It’s the feeling I get about the whole situation. The lies about his illness. The last-minute changes to the will. It’s like he left me behind. Like he took it with him, after all. He took everything with him and left me here all alone.

My mind wanders to Fletcher. I think about him constantly. His home up in those mountains. His family. How happy he looked when he was there. A different kind of happy than when I saw him at the hotel. Why does he keep them secret? Why does he cheat? Why does he do anything?

I can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s like he switched places with Cole, who I have barely thought about at all in the past week. I can’t stand to look at Cole, to be honest. Even now, his name starts to make my stomach sick.

A man clears his throat behind me. “Do you need anything, Miss Preston?”

I don’t turn. I just shake my head.

“You can stay as long as you want. Do you need a ride home?”

I’ve been here for more than an hour, just staring at the grave. Contrary to movies, they don’t just fill the grave in after people leave. Cemeteries, it seems, run on a schedule just like anyone else. So the shiny black coffin in the hole in front of me only has those few symbolic handfuls of dirt on it. I can hear the machinery off in another part of the cemetery as it works to cover another recently deceased’s grave. I might be fucking up their schedule, come to think of it.

But who cares? I guess if there is a moment in life when you can be a little bit selfish about taking up other people’s time, it’s when you’re sitting at a cemetery.

“No, thank you,” I finally say. “I have my car.”

Everybody disappeared after they found out about the will. It’s not official yet, these things take time. But the writing is on the wall. Tiffy Preston was cut out. She owns one struggling luxury hotel in Nevada, and I’m sure they think I’m gonna get nowhere with that, since the whole place is in flux after Fletcher left and Chandler took the job in Vegas that Cole offered him.

Cole. I can’t even.

I can’t even with that hotel either. I just feel… defeated.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

I turn my head a little at the woman’s voice behind me, but not enough to see who it is.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

Clothing rustles as she makes her way up to the row of chairs in front of the grave where I sit alone. She takes a seat two chairs down and places a black leather attaché case on the red velvet cushion.

I stare at it, then glance up at her face and frown. It’s the woman who was having lunch with Cole last Sunday. “Can I help you with something?”

She smiles. And she’s very pretty with her blue eyes and blonde hair, her perfect face with her perfect makeup. No bloodshot eyes for her. No tearstains on her cheeks. Her hair is swept up in a professional do that is sophisticated and sexy at the same time.

“I’m a friend of Fletcher’s.”

I shake my head and look down. But I say nothing. I just haven’t got the energy.

“And he was going to show you this last weekend, but he…” She pauses, maybe trying to find the right words for what happened last weekend. “But he didn’t have time.”

“I’m not interested.” It comes out flat. Devoid of emotion.

“Maybe not.” She sighs. “But he thinks you should at least know.” She pats the case and stands. “When you’re ready.”

I have nothing for that. I don’t even have a slight curiosity about what that case might contain. A letter of apology? That makes me snort and the woman halts her retreat mid-stride, to see if I have anything to say.

No, more likely it’s more lies.

“He’s sorry,” she says.

“I bet he is.”