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He does this soundless laugh. “Good to know.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“You’re a thirty-three-year-old woman. Of course you’ve had sex. Lots of sex. I’m not one of those uptight assholes who can’t stand to be compared to other men.”
“Lots is a little much.”
“But don’t worry. I’m not afraid of competition. When you scream my name it won’t be because I was first. It will be because I was best.”
Heat kindles between my legs, which is strange, because I don’t like cocky bastards. Or maybe I do. The man I loved before wasn’t exactly humble. I’d been so dazzled by him in the beginning. His interest in me felt special, as if we shared something.
He looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
It was only later that I realized he could give that look to many women.
He was a charming man. A seducer. A much older version of Finn. Which is the reason this fake relationship doesn’t have a chance of working for real, even if we wanted it to. Men like that have no reason not to stray. Not when every woman is willing.
Of course there was a dark side to Lane.
He turned possessive toward the end. He called it love, though I’m not sure if he even believed that. There was an obsessive tinge, though. He followed me to college when I tried to leave him. He only wanted to use me, but he ended up ensnaring us both.
Chapter Eight
Finn
I’ve imagined having sex with Eva Morelli plenty of times.
What man hasn’t? She’s a beautiful woman.
But I’ve never thought about who she does have sex with. Presumably she dates—real dates, not pretend dates. I don’t like charming men. Even if she isn’t interested in a relationship, presumably she has hookups, at least sometimes. Pretty much everyone single pairs up after those glamorous balls and galas. She might be too busy when she plans them for her parents or for her brothers, but she attends them, too.
There’s always Tinder, though I can’t imagine her showing up to swipe right or left. I can’t imagine mere mortals having a chance with her. She’s like a goddess. Like you’d visit her at a temple, arms full with priceless offerings.
“So who was the lucky guy?” I ask, being a nosy fucking bastard. “The one who took Eva Morelli’s virginity. Someone from high school, maybe.”
Even in the darkened car I can see her cheeks flush. “Does it matter?”
I have a feeling it does. There’s an extra heaviness in the air. It makes me even more curious. There’s never been gossip about her. Not that I can remember.
Never that casual conversation that haunts her siblings and cousins. Did you hear? Sophia Morelli is dating a DJ who lives in Los Angeles. Tiernan is fucking a secret Constantine bastard. Selene was caught in the locker room of the 49ers with one of the players.
No one in our circle can escape the gossip, but somehow Eva has.
Which means she either lives like a monk, or she’s been with people who demand extreme discretion. Some politician, perhaps. Visiting royalty isn’t out of the question.
“Come on,” I say, coaxing. “You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know you won’t tell anyone,” she says, laughing a little. That dissipates some of the old grief in the air. “Because I’m not going to tell you anything.”
She would need discretion if the person were married.
That would explain the absolute silence.
If the relationship continued, it would also explain why she wants this fake relationship.
I’m not judging Eva. I’m not even judging this random person, whoever they are. We’re well past the times of Bridgerton, but in our social sphere, people still make marriages based on money and connections. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for love.
“Where are we going?” she asks as I take a turn away from the Upper East Side restaurant I told her mother about. It’s a very nice restaurant, the kind that Eva Morelli can go whenever she wants. She can go there whenever she wants, but it’s not what she needs.
