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If it had been Margaux that evening, I would’ve walked away relieved that the night was over.
“So this is all Sloane’s fault?” I ask, seeking clarity. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“I mean, yeah. Basically.” Margaux checks her phone. “I’m sorry. Ever since I left Lucerne, my phone won’t stop ringing. Everyone wants to know what happened. Not with work, but with you and everything. You know how people talk . . . one of my friends actually wants to write an article about it for Cosmo.” She splays a manicured hand, tucking her pointed chin. “Don’t worry, though, she won’t use any real names.”
The audacity of this woman to humblebrag about her friend using our situation as entertainment fodder is enough to send me packing, but I keep my feet planted on the floor and finish what I came here to do.
“Is it true you were up for a promotion?” I ask next.
She considers her answer for a second. “Yes.”
“Did you think that by dating me, you’d improve your odds of getting it?”
She wrinkles her nose. “You know how Theodora is.”
“I know exactly how she is,” I say. “Her family is everything to her. I’m the closest thing she has to a son. You thought that if you disappointed her, you’d jeopardize that position.”
Theodora spent nearly an hour on the phone with me the day Margaux resigned. After my aunt realized the scope of what she’d done—pressuring her employee to date me while leaving the new position unfilled—she was horrified at herself. She must have uttered her apologies at least a dozen times if not more. She felt awful for pushing Margaux to date me, and she felt even worse that I was used like a game piece for Margaux’s corporate strategy.
“I didn’t think going on one date with you was going to hurt anything.” Margaux gives a casual shrug. “And Theodora was so sure we were going to hit it off, that we were quote-unquote perfect for each other . . . so naturally, I was curious. Who knows. Maybe we would have been? Clearly you have a type.”
I resist the urge to insult her with the truth.
I do have a type—and she’s light-years away from remotely being in the same orbit as it.
“Did you ask Sloane to keep spending time with me?” I change the subject, keeping this on track so as to keep this entire exchange as short as humanly possible. I don’t want to be around this woman a second longer than necessary.
“Do you even have to ask that? I think you pretty much solved the crime, Inspector Gadget.” She laughs at her lame joke.
I don’t.
“Oh, come on. Are you always this uptight?” She waves her hand across the table at me.
“Are you always this insufferable?” I ask.
Her enchanted smile vanishes, replaced with some semblance of a frown. “Excuse me?”
“You said you warned Sloane not to play with fire.” I ignore her question because I said what I said and she heard me crystal clear, even if she pretends otherwise. “What did you mean by that?”
For the last few days, I’ve been trying to make sense of that . . . If Sloane was dating me at Margaux’s insistence, why would Margaux warn her about anything?
“Because she was falling for you,” she says. “She felt bad about the whole thing. And obviously you guys couldn’t keep your hands in your pants because she slept with you.” Margaux rolls her eyes, and I don’t appreciate her insinuating it was her sister’s fault that we slept together, as if she lured me in with her siren song and seduced me.
I slept with her because I wanted to.
And because she wanted to.
Because every minute I spent with her only made me want more of her, all of her.
Looking back, maybe the distance in Sloane’s voice over the phone earlier in the week wasn’t because I compartmentalized after sex . . . maybe it was because she realized this was becoming real, and she needed to tell me the truth before we took it even further.
That’s why she asked when she could see me again.
That’s why she wanted me to come to her house for a quiet night in—she even said so Wednesday night outside the loft.
“Oh my god.” I run my hand along my jaw. “This all makes sense now.”
“Oh, okay, good for you?” she says, phrasing it like a question. “Did you have any further questions, Counselor, or am I free to leave the witness stand?”
She’s already gathering her keys and phone and the enormous Jackie O.–style sunglasses she plunked on the table the second she sat down a few minutes ago.
I wave my hand, silent permission for her to leave.
Slipping her designer-logo-encrusted bag over her shoulder, she turns back to me.
“You should consider yourself lucky,” Margaux says.
