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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Paige sat, wrapped in a towel, at the edge of her bed, her clothes spread out around her like an ornate Japanese fan: the black-and-white, silk-and-chiffon, sleeveless cocktail dress with its discreetly plunging, ruffled neckline, the lacy peach-colored bra and panties for underneath, the delicate white cashmere shawl for overtop. A pair of black, thin-strapped, open-toed high-heeled pumps sat on the floor by her feet. A black-and-white alligator clutch rested on the side table. Everything waiting for her to stop sitting and get moving.
Except she couldn’t.
She’d been trying for the better part of twenty minutes—ever since she got out of the shower—to get dressed, to do her hair, to put on her party face for her uncle’s eightieth birthday bash. And yet here she sat, as if paralyzed from the neck down, unable to rouse her various body parts into action.
A failure.
This wasn’t how her life was supposed to have turned out.
She was thirty-three years old. She was smart. She was attractive. She’d always imagined she’d have a loving husband, two bright, well-adjusted children, and a successful career by now. Instead she was single, unemployed, childless, and living with her mother, a woman who was obviously experiencing some late-life crisis of her own. How had that happened?
Not that she was without prospects, she reminded herself, trying to coax her limbs into action. Her recent job interview had gone well and a follow-up meeting was scheduled for next week. Her relationship with Sam was progressing nicely, if cautiously, both afraid to push too far, too fast.
And, to her great surprise, Mr. Right Now was back in the picture. When he hadn’t contacted her again after she’d canceled their previous date, she’d assumed she wouldn’t be hearing from him again.
And now, suddenly, here he was.
Hey, Wildflower. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Really hoping we can try again.
You’re a little late,she berated him silently, knowing he would have been the more suitable choice for tonight’s party, the kind of gorgeous that would have made Heather’s jaw drop and Noah definitely sit up and take notice.
Noah,she thought, watching his face materialize in the mirror across from her bed.Damn him anyway.
She should have been over him by now. Not only had he been unfaithful, he’d been unfaithful with her cousin! The two were living together. He’d replaced her as easily as a roll of toilet paper! So why was she wasting even a moment of her time pining over the miserable son of a bitch?
She was a modern woman. She didn’t put up with this kind of shit. She wasn’t about to forgive and forget, or wait patiently for him to come to his senses and come crawling back to her. She wasn’t Chloe. She could never forgive a betrayal of such magnitude.
She hated him.
So why did the thought of him with her cousin still bring tears to her eyes? Why did the prospect of being in the same room with him again send her heart racing and make her go weak in the knees?
How was it possible to love someone you hated?
And how could she go to this stupid party and watch her father’s surviving twin laugh and dance and, damn it,breathe,while her former lover cavorted with her own virtual twin? She knew Heather would be draped all over Noah, hanging on to his every syllable, making a great show of her conquest. “I can’t go,” she muttered. “I can’t.”
“Please, darling,”she heard her mother say.“For me. I don’t think I can do this alone.”
“You’ll have Michael,”she’d reminded her. Her brother and sister-in-law had arrived that afternoon and were staying at the Ritz, where the party was being held.
“It’s not the same.”
“Fine,”Paige acquiesced, although it wasn’t. But she’d been too preoccupied trying not to blanch at her mother’s shocking new hairdo to argue further.
The last couple of weeks had seen a series of unsettling events where Joan Hamilton was concerned: the ocular migraine and severe indigestion, both of which had resulted in visits to the ER; the uncharacteristic shopping sprees; the hiring of a personal trainer; the sudden desire to start dating; the shaving of half her head. Was her mother in the midst of a nervous breakdown? Or was it possible there was something even more sinister at play? A brain tumor, perhaps?
Please, no,Paige thought.
There was muffled ringing from somewhere beside her.
Paige twisted her head from side to side, trying to determine the source of the sound. Her cellphone, she realized, her hand rummaging through her clothing, ultimately locating the phone beneath the thin cashmere shawl and bringing it to her ear without checking the caller ID.
She let it ring three more times without answering, hoping it was Sam, calling to cancel. Which would free her up to contact Mr. Right Now, invite him to the party instead. Although it was unlikely he’d be free on such short notice, or that he’d agree to go even if he was. What man in his right mind willingly subjects himself to the kind of scrutiny he was sure to receive at tonight’s affair?
And what was the matter with her, considering dumping a man as nice—asreal—as Sam for a man she hadn’t even met, a postage-size illusion on a dating app?
Was she just using Sam? Was that the sort of person she’d become?
