You’ve got to be joking. “You mean my cousin Marielle?”
“The one and only. Such a twat.”
I felt bile rise in my throat. How could she? We’d grown pretty close while I lived in London.
“That’s not the worst part.”
“What’s worse?”
“I asked a mutual friend how long they’ve been shagging, and she told me close to six months.”
I felt like I might be physically sick. Three or four months ago, when things had started to go south with Liam, I’d found a red Burberry trench coat in the back seat of his car. He’d said it was his sister’s. At the time, I didn’t have reason to suspect anything. But Marielle definitely had a red trench.
I must’ve been quiet for a while.
“Are you still there?” Scarlett asked.
I blew out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, love. I thought you should know so you aren’t nice to that slag.”
I’d been meaning to call my cousin, too. Now I was glad I’d gotten so busy.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“You know I always have your back.”
I smiled sadly. “I do know that. Thanks, Scarlett.”
“But I have some good news, too.”
I didn’t think anything could perk me up after what she’d just told me. “What’s that?”
“I fired one of my senior editors. I found out she’d been avoiding covering certain designers based on their race.”
“And that’s your good news?”
“Well, not really. The good news is that she had a ton of things on her schedule, and I’m going to have to work a gazillion hours to cover them.”
“I’m thinking you don’t get the meaning of good news, Scarlett.”
“Did I mention that one of the gazillion things I’ll have to cover is a fashion show in New York in two weeks?”
I smiled. “You’re coming to New York!”
“That’s right. So book me a room at that grossly overpriced hotel your granddaddy’s dick now owns half of. I’ll email you the dates.”
After we hung up, the bartender brought me a menu. “I’ll take a vodka cranberry, please.”
“You got it.”
When he came back to take my order, on autopilot I ordered a salad. But before he could walk away, I stopped him. “Wait! Can I change that, please?”
“Sure. What can I get you?”
Fuck the calories. “I’ll have a cheeseburger. With bacon, if you have it. And a side order of coleslaw. And French fries.”
He smiled. “Bad day?”
I nodded. “Keep the drinks coming, too.”
The vodka cranberry went down smooth. As I sat at the bar, looking at the notes my father had spewed at me and thinking about my cousin Marielle screwing Liam behind my back, I started to get angry. My immediate reaction had been to feel hurt when Scarlett told me, but somewhere between the first vodka and the second I ordered, that shifted to pissed off.
My father can go to hell.
I work for my grandfather. No different than he does.
And Marielle has bad hair extensions and a nasally, high-pitched voice.
Fuck her, too.
And Liam? Fuck him the most. I’d wasted a year and a half of my life on that cardigan-wearing Arthur Miller wannabe. You know what? His plays weren’t even that good. They were pretentious, just like him.
I gulped a quarter of my second vodka in one swallow. At least things couldn’t get much worse. I suppose that was the bright side.
Though I’d thought that a few seconds too soon.
They absolutely could get worse.
And they did.
When Weston Lockwood sidled up and planted his ass on the bar stool next to mine.
“Well, hello, Fifi.”
***
“So how have the last twelve years been treating you?”
Weston ordered a seltzer with lemon and sat looking at me, even though I stared straight ahead, completely ignoring his presence.
“Go away, Lockwood.”
“Mine have been pretty good. Thanks for asking. After high school, I went to Harvard, though I’m sure you know that. Got an MBA from Columbia and then went to work for the family business. I’m a vice president now.”
“Gee, should I be impressed that nepotism got you a fancy title?”
He smiled. “Nah. Plenty of other things to be impressed with. You remember what I look like naked, don’t you, Feef? I’ve filled in nicely since eighteen. Whenever you’re ready, we can go back to my room, and I’ll treat you to a little looksee.”
I turned and scowled. “I think you left out something important that happened over the last twelve years. You obviously had a severe head injury that left you living in a fantasy world and unable to read emotions on other humans.”
The asshole wouldn’t stop smiling. “Those who protest the hardest are usually trying to mask their true feelings.”
I let out a groan of frustration.
The bartender walked over and set down the food I’d ordered. “Anything else I can get you?”
“Bug repellent for the cockroaches around here.”
He looked around. “Bugs? Where?”
I waved him off. “Sorry. No. No bugs. I was just being funny.”
Weston looked at the bartender sympathetically. “We’re going to work on funny. She’s not quite there yet.”
The bartender seemed a bit confused, but left anyway. When I reached for the ketchup, Weston stole a French fry from my plate.
“Don’t touch my food.” I leveled him with a glare.
“That’s an awful lot of food. You sure you want to eat all that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just looks like a lot of meat for your little frame.” He grinned. “Then again, if I remember correctly, you like a lot of meat. You did twelve years ago, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes. Lifting my cheeseburger, I sank my teeth in, suddenly completely starving. The jackass next to me seemed to find my chewing riveting.
I covered my lips with my napkin and spoke with a full mouth. “Stop watching me eat.”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t. Over the next half hour, I finished off my food and guzzled another drink. Weston kept trying to make small talk, but I continued to shoot him down. Then my bladder was full, and I didn’t want to try to balance my oversized purse, laptop, and planner while I hovered over a public toilet. So I reluctantly asked the pain in the ass to keep an eye on my stuff.
“I’d love to keep an eye on your stuff.”
I rolled my eyes yet again. As I stood, I wobbled a little. Apparently the alcohol had given me more of a buzz than I thought.
“Hey, be careful there.” Weston grabbed my arm and held on tight. His hand was warm and strong and—oh my God, I’m definitely tipsy thinking this.
I tugged my elbow from his grip. “I slipped on my heel. I’m fine. Just watch my things.”
In the bathroom, I relieved myself and washed my hands. Catching a look at my reflection, I noticed I had mascara smeared under my eye. So I wiped it off and ran my fingers through my hair—out of habit, not because I gave a shit what I looked like for Weston Lockwood.