by Leigh, Tara
The weather was forty degrees colder than it had been the day of the Bachelor Brunch, and I shivered in my heavy coat, pulling my cashmere scarf closer as I tried not to look like I had no idea where I was going.
I’d studied a map online, so I knew where the fitness center was—on paper. But now, with buildings rising up around me, and stairs where I hadn’t anticipated them, I wasn’t quite sure. Walking along the wide brick pathway toward the main quad, I veered left at the iconic Low Library asking for directions twice before finding the right place.
Tripp was just walking out the door, his dark hair looking damp and almost black, his jacket open and a gym bag slung over his shoulder. “See ya, Welles,” he said, peeling away from the guy beside him, his eyes lighting up when they met mine.
Before I could even say hello, he picked me up and twirled me around as if he was a soldier home from war. As if we hadn’t seen each other just a few days ago. As if he didn’t care who was watching.
Someone, I’m guessing the guy he called Welles, yelled, “Jesus, Montgomery, get a room!”
Tripp ignored him. “Sorry, that’s my roommate. He’s not going back to our place though.”
I glanced up, but all I saw was the back of a sandy-haired boy wearing a dark coat, walking away. “You didn’t have to kick him out. I’d love to meet your friends.”
“Classes are over for us, he’s heading home. I’ll introduce you next semester.”
Despite the cold, a warmth spread inside my stomach at Tripp’s easy mention of future plans, past the Debutante Ball he’d committed to. A warmth that burned even brighter once his lips met mine.
Everything about Tripp’s kisses, from our very first on that rock in Central Park to this one—and all the kisses in between—felt so right. Just like it felt right to be molded against him now . . . except for all our clothes in the way. I’d kissed boys before, but only Tripp’s kisses turned my body into dry kindling, primed to combust.
Only Tripp made me crave them everywhere.
When we finally pulled apart, flushed and breathless, we were wearing matching grins. “I missed you,” he said, his voice a low rasp that made me want to kiss him again, feel the sear of his lips burning me up. Then again, everything Tripp Montgomery did made me want to kiss him.
I touched my forehead to his. “I missed you, too.” A white vapor cloud bloomed between us, briefly obstructing my view of the sharp cupid’s bow that had been carved into his upper lip, almost like an arrow drawn on a map. You are here.
Yes, I was.
We stood like that for a minute, Tripp’s arms wrapped around my back, holding me tightly, my feet several inches from the ground. Tripp made me feel small and delicate, far from the tall, awkward girl that was always shoved to the back row of every photograph. But eventually, he loosened his hold and I slid down his lean, muscular frame. “Want to see my place?”
I laughed. It was why I’d come, after all. “Of course.”
4
December 2007
Tripp
In her puffy white coat and thick scarf, Jolie looked like a beautiful snow angel. The winter sunlight had turned her tousled riot of hair into a blonde halo, and for a moment, I was seized by panic that she would melt away. That what we had was too good to last.
I’d never been with anyone like Jolie before. Someone who didn’t want anything from me but my attention, someone who understood the world we lived in, the expectations and responsibilities of privilege. Someone so goddamn gorgeous, inside and out.
The sudden grip of fear was banished by the brightness of her smile, the lilt of her laugh. I reached for Jolie’s hand and we covered the few blocks to my apartment quickly, her long legs easily matching my stride.
My jacket was flapping open as we walked, the hair I’d barely dragged a towel over after my shower freezing on my head. But inside I was burning up, on fire. My churning happiness at Jolie’s presence was like an engine on overdrive.
I opened the door cautiously. I’d cleaned up before Lance and I headed to the weight room together, but I still swept a cautious eye over the place, alert for a dirty jockstrap or a stray Playboy I may have missed. Or, more likely, that my roommate had planted. I made the mistake of telling him about my parents guilting me into escorting a debutante to her ball and he’d been giving me shit ever since.
It was all in good fun though. Lance was one of my oldest friends. And he was only too happy to have my share of Columbia pussy to himself.
When I didn’t see anything too embarrassing, I turned my attention to Jolie, who was looking around my apartment with unabashed curiosity, her slow perusal missing nothing.
“It’s very . . .” She began in a breathy voice, then paused, her hands lifting to untwine the scarf from her neck. “Very adult, I guess. I can’t wait to live on my own.”
Watching a woman unwrap a scarf from her neck shouldn’t be an erotic act, but when it was Jolie doing the unwrapping—it was as sexy as a personal striptease. Her hair was caught and lifted by the cashmere, the slow, sensuous slide of fabric revealing her delicate neck, inch by flawless inch. My throat was dry when she handed it to me, my fingers stiff as I helped her with her coat.
“Me, too. It wouldn’t feel like I was robbing the cradle.”
She scoffed. “Please, you’re barely two years older than me.”
I folded both over the nearest chair, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Wanna drink?”
“Sure.”
I grabbed two cans of soda out of the fridge, handing one to her as I led us to the couch, deliberately keeping my head turned away from the hallway that led to my bedroom, which was where I really wanted to be.
Not that sex on a couch wasn’t just as good as sex on a bed. Hell, sex anywhere was fantastic. Which was the problem—I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have sex with Jolie. Her soft yielding to my hard, her wet heat clenched around my cock, her breathy cries of pleasure just before her face was transformed by the kind of exultant wonder that only comes from an orgasm.
So, yeah, I was hoping my willpower would be stronger in the living room. Jolie was a virgin, and I wasn’t going to rush her. She was worth the wait.
I sat on one end of the couch and Jolie sat on the other, toeing off her boots and slipping them between the couch cushions.
“Legs for days,” I mumbled, reaching for her ankles and running my hands up her calves, my hardening dick giving another twitch inside my sweatpants.
Jolie groaned. “Don’t say that, you’ll make them grow.”
I shifted my weight. “You have a thing against being tall?”
She scrunched her nose. “You try being the tallest girl in your class and having a name like Jolie.”
I thought for a minute, frowning. “I don’t get it.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this.” She covered her face with her hands, burrowing deeper into the couch. “Instead of the Jolly Green Giant, they called me Jolie the Green Giant.”
I bit down on a grin, keeping my face impassive when Jolie peeked out from between her fingers to look at me. “You think going by Tripp is any easier?”
Slowly, her hands lowered. “You could always go back to Remington.”
“And make comparisons to my father even easier? No thanks.”
Her expression softened. “Are you worried about that? You know, when you start working for the company full-time?”
I leaned the back of my head on the couch and pushed out a heavy sigh, absentmindedly massaging Jolie’s feet as I considered her question. Or rather, how to answer it. My feelings about being Remington Montgomery III were . . . complicated.
“I don’t know if worried is the right word, but yeah. I guess.” I cleared my throat against an encroaching tightness. “This is going to sound ungrateful but, I’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know my father is a douchebag. He’s a shitty father, a shitty husband, and probably a shitty partner.”
“But somehow
he’s built a business that does good things. MC Partners has helped clients send their kids to college, save for retirement, and more. A hundred employees pay their mortgage with salaries earned from MC Partners. On Wall Street, the Montgomery name means something. And if that’s my legacy, I can’t turn my back on it.”
5
December 2007
Jolie
The chime of the doorbell crept beneath my closed bedroom door, a buzz of excited voices following on its heels. I took in my reflection one last time as Nina and my father greeted Tripp and his parents downstairs. The Vera Wang gown I was wearing had to be the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen. It was white, of course, but it was ethereal and elegant, and didn’t make me look like a pale beanpole. In fact, it even gave me the appearance of breasts and a waist—a minor miracle.
My hair had been curled and then pinned up, with a few tendrils artfully pulled out to frame my face. I was wearing make-up, but not too much.
Even to my own eyes, I looked young and fresh. And happy. Happier than I could ever remember being.
I felt like a princess, and not because of my Park Avenue address and privileged upbringing. The kind of princess that belonged in a fairy tale, living happily ever after with her prince.
The month since the Bachelor Brunch had flown by, mostly because my every waking thought had been devoted to Tripp. And since winter break began nearly two weeks ago, we’d been practically inseparable.
Tonight’s Ball felt less like a snobby, outdated, and thoroughly pretentious tradition than a grand celebration of our . . . I didn’t know what it was, exactly. Relationship, maybe? Calling Tripp my boyfriend seemed inadequate when he now consumed my thoughts, my days, my dreams. Especially my dreams.
Most girls my age had longer relationships with their lip gloss than with their boyfriends. Tripp meant a hell of a lot more to me than the shade du jour.
Tonight, I was going to show him exactly how much more.
Descending the staircase of our duplex, I had eyes for only one person: Tripp. He was talking to his mother when I stepped out onto the landing, but his head swiveled toward me the second my foot hit the first step, his eyes darkening with appreciation as they traveled from the top of my head to the tips of my kitten-heels, and then back up again.
Just a few minutes ago, I’d been pleased with my reflection in the mirror. But that brief surge of satisfaction was nothing compared to the soulful longing reflected in Tripp’s expression, a vulnerable mix of awe and hunger that left me breathless. My pleasure was magnified a thousand percent, knowing I’d pleased him. That he was proud to be my date. My escort.
The energy in Tripp’s gaze was like a light beam meant just for me, delivering a rainbow of colors to slip and swirl beneath my skin, vibrantly hued energy doing all sorts of things to all sorts of places.
Walking down the long staircase became an erotic act, each brush of my thighs resulting in a shower of sparks, hidden beneath yards of white tulle and duchess satin.
For several long moments, it felt like Tripp and I were the only two people in the world.
Until the booming voice of his father broke the spell. “Well James, if you can only have one kid, you might as well break the mold,” he said heartily, clapping my father on the back.
On the surface, there was nothing overtly wrong with his comment. But I had a perfect view of Nina’s pained face. Knowing how badly she wanted to have a child of her own, I hated Tripp’s father for chipping away at the fairy tale feeling of this moment.
Today, of all days, I didn’t want to be reminded that not every love story ends with a happily ever after. That some love stories are just the first act of a tragedy.
Stepping forward to take my hand, Tripp was the perfect distraction as I made my way down the remaining steps. “You look beautiful,” he whispered.
Butterflies dipped and swirled within my stomach, their delicate wings flapping against my ribcage. “Thank you,” I said, my voice tremulous.
There was a charged silence as Nina distributed flutes of champagne poured by our housekeeper. I looked at my father when I was handed a glass. “Some occasions call for more than apple juice, princess,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
We all clinked rims and I took a small sip, wrinkling my nose at the sharp bite of the bubbly wine. I’d had alcohol before, but it was usually covered up with so much soda or juice I could hardly taste it.
“Remington, mind coming into my office for a few minutes? I was hoping to get clarity on something that’s come up this week.”
Nina frowned, her tone lightly chiding. “James, surely business can wait.”
Tripp’s father grunted. “Business doesn’t wait for anyone. Come on, Chapman. And I wouldn’t mind exchanging this for something stronger from your personal stash.”
As the two wives stared morosely at their husbands, Tripp directed me to the settee on the other side of the room, beneath a window overlooking Park Avenue. My breath caught as my bare shoulder brushed against Tripp’s tuxedo jacket, then again as his hand captured mine, his thumb gently sweeping over my palm. I bit my lip to prevent a moan from escaping. “Has your father seemed . . . different to you?” he asked quietly.
I set my still full glass on the cocktail table, knowing alcohol would only amplify the feelings swelling inside my chest. My ribs ached, in danger of cracking from the pressure. “Different, how?”
Tripp shrugged. “I don’t know. More preoccupied with work than usual. In a foul mood, but with no explanation.”
Truthfully, all my focus had been on Tripp and studying for my end-of-semester finals. I’d barely seen my father in the past month. “Well, he’s been keeping the door to his office closed lately. I never even know if he’s in there anymore.”
“There’s something going on, I just don’t know—” He broke off as raised voices echoed from down the hall.
I glanced at Nina, who appeared frozen in place, awkwardly looking between Tripp’s mother and my father’s closed office door. “Another glass of champagne, Lily?”
Fingering the twisted rope of pearls and diamonds at her throat, Mrs. Montgomery nodded her assent.
They carried their fresh glasses over to us and made an awkward attempt at small talk, asking about school and our New Year’s plans. We all spoke in loud tones, jumping on the ends of each other’s sentences in an effort to cover up the argument taking place just thirty feet away.
It didn’t go on for long. I practically jumped out of my skin as the office door flew open, hitting the wall with a resounding thwack that reverberated throughout the entire apartment.
Tripp’s father, red-faced and pulling at his tie, stormed past us. “Let’s go,” he barked, yanking at the front door and blowing through it.
Tripp’s mother tossed back what was left in her glass and placed it beside mine on the cocktail table, then stood up and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles of her dress. “We’ll wait for you all in the car downstairs.”
Nina scrambled to her feet. “I’m just going to go check on your father,” she said, heading toward the open door of his office.
Tripp and I edged closer together on the settee, looking at each other with wide-eyed, what-the-hell-do-we-do-now expressions. “Any chance they’ll decide not to come and we can go alone?”
I thought about it for a minute, before shaking my head. The International Debutante Ball was a prestigious, invitation-only event, reflecting more on the families of the debutantes and their escorts than the debutantes and escorts themselves. Nina had spent as much time and attention choosing her dress as I had, and my father saw it as a networking opportunity. The Montgomerys undoubtedly felt the same. Whatever disagreement they had couldn’t possibly warrant skipping the Ball. “I doubt it.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. My mom’s been talking about this thing for weeks, apparently it’s quite the social prize with her circle.”
I rolled my eyes. “I really hope when I become a parent, I won’t live my life
through my kids.”
“And just how many kids should we have, future Mrs. Montgomery?”
Tripp’s tone was light and teasing, but it sent chills racing along my nerves. “Well, it would be a shame not to have a Remington Montgomery IV, right?”
He pulled a face. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“I love your name,” I said defensively, feeling my cheeks heat. “Your initials make the perfect name for a girl, too. Romy.”
“R-O-M . . .”
I nodded, mortified that I’d admitted to something so presumptuous. “Your initials, plus a v above an i looks like a y.”
“Romy,” Tripp repeated, his voice husky. “Someone’s put quite a bit of thought into this.”
I glanced down at my lap, knowing my face was bright red. I’d come up with the idea after doodling his name in every one of my notebooks. “Maybe just a little.”
Tripp’s thumb gently prodded my chin back up. “I love it.”
That electrical current between us reignited, its crackling heat melting away my embarrassment and showering my skin with sparks of arousal. “I’m glad.”
His eyes beamed their focus on my mouth, the distance between us disappearing with agonizing slowness. My lips parted instinctively, my tongue eagerly anticipating one of Tripp’s kisses. I could spend hours fantasizing about Tripp’s kisses, but the reality always blew them out of the water.
We were barely a breath away from each other when my father’s voice stopped us in our tracks. “You kids ready?” he called tiredly, emerging from his office with Nina.
We shot to our feet.
“Yes, sir,” Tripp said, lacing his fingers through mine, and whispering, “raincheck,” into my ear as we followed them into the elevator.
