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Simone follows my gesture and opens the correct cabinet. “Lovely.” She helps herself to a glass like it’s her own damn gargantuan house. When she’s got a cupful of wine between her fingers, she leans against the kitchen counter opposite me and glances around curiously. “Nice place.”
I frown. “Nice place?”
Her eyes meet mine. She gestures broadly at the room. “Yeah. Nice place. Your house, I mean.” There’s a pause, then, “I’ve never actually been inside.”
“You’re not even going to ask about Sebastian?”
“I’m giving you time to decompress,” she informs me, then nods to the half-empty bottle beside me. “I figure when that’s done, we can introduce the subject of men.”
A noise comes out of me, from the very back of my throat, that can only be described as the sound of pure, visceral disgust.
“Maybe two bottles,” Simone amends before tasting her wine and wandering toward the big bay window at the far side of the kitchen. “Wow. Great view.”
I clomp over the solid hardwood floors and scowl at the crashing waves. The feel of Sebastian’s stubble is imprinted on my palm, and no matter how many times I wipe my hand on the side of my leg, the feeling doesn’t go away.
I actually kissed the scumbag back. Why was my hand even on his face? What iswrongwith me?
Simone’s eyes dart to my manic movements, then back to the ocean.
I force myself to be still. “Yeah. The view’s what made me buy the place.” It sounds like I’m a crotchety old man complaining about the neighbor’s overgrown hedge, not a successful woman staring at a multimillion-dollar view.
That’s funny—successful. What does that even mean? From where I’m standing, this life sure doesn’t feel like a success.
The sun sets over the Pacific Ocean before us, leaving a trail of glittering fire across the surface of the water. The sky is a riot of burning orange and deep purple.
And all I want to do is scream. I take another drink of wine.
“So, I googled you,” Simone announces while she inspects the chandelier in the adjacent dining room. She walks into the space and trails a finger over the back of one of my velvet-upholstered chairs, glancing over her shoulder to meet my gaze.
Half my brain is occupied by the thought of a firm male mouth pressed against mine, parting my lips, plundering. The other half is screeching in inchoate fury. There’s not much left over to keep up with Simone’s conversation.
“Huh?” I manage to say before gulping down the rest of my wine.
“I googled you,” she calls out while I pour the rest of the red stuff into my glass, jiggling the bottle to get every last drop. I can do that now, because my prick of an ex-husband isn’t looking over my shoulder criticizing my every move. I lick the rim of the bottle for good measure.Take that, Derrick. You jerk.
“Oh,” I answer, shoving all thoughts of my ex into a dank, dark corner of my mind. Then another man pops into the forefront of my thoughts, and I have to wrestle him to that dark place too. “Anything interesting come up about me?”
“You mean apart from the fact that you’re a brilliant businesswoman, a philanthropist, and obviously a gazillionaire?” Pause. “Nah. Not much.”
I join Simone, who’s walked through to the small living room on the western side of the house. I’ve furnished it as a reading room, complete with big comfy chairs, a long couch, and lots of task lighting anywhere I might want to sit or lie down to read. In the evenings, this room grows warm and cozy, but right now it just makes me sweaty.
Simone flicks one of the lamps on, then touches the throw blanket draped over the side of the armchair. “Sounds like you’re a pretty big deal, Georgia.”
“Are you sure you googled the right name?”
Simone gives me a flat look, apparently unimpressed by my quip. “False modesty doesn’t become you, lady.”
“Did you also read the section that says, ‘Bitter divorcée and asshole magnet?’”
A bark of laughter. “Didn’t get that far. The Wikipedia page is pretty long.” Her eyes gleam as she meets my gaze. “Does that mean we’re ready to talk about a certain Texan sculptor?”
I slump into the armchair and squint at the bright light of the lamp. Simone flicks it off and takes a seat on the couch across from me, kicking her legs up onto the cushions. The fading sun streams through the gaps in the blinds, leaving parallel lines on the ceiling and walls.
Simone curls an arm behind her head and takes a sip of her drink, staring at me expectantly. The woman is more comfortable in this house than I am. “Take your time,” she says, meaning the exact opposite.
“He kissed me.”
Coughs and splutters are the only answers I get for the next minute and a half. Simone sits up, sets her wine aside, and coughs until tears stream down her rosy cheeks. I get up, slap her on the back, and rush to get her a glass of water, using those precious moments to pretend the kiss never happened and I didn’t admit it out loud.
