by A. R. Torre
“She’s really great,” Matt said proudly. “Almost won state her senior year.”
“Further proof that putt-putt was the worst idea of a first date,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “It worked out for me in the end.”
“So . . . high school sweethearts,” Cat cooed. “I love that.”
“Where did you two meet?” I asked, anxious to move off the topic.
“I was an intern at an investment firm that William led. This was before Winthorpe Tech.”
“Or Winthorpe Capital,” William added proudly. “She fell for me back when I was a pauper.”
“Well,” Cat chided, “not exactly a pauper.” She laughed. “I was the pauper. I was impressed by anything fancier than a TV dinner or ramen noodles.” She kissed his cheek. William beamed at her, then glanced at me.
“Do you still play golf?” he asked.
I fought the urge not to respond too eagerly. “Absolutely. Once a week, if I can. Not that I’ve found a course since we moved here.”
“You should teach Cat. I’d love to be able to play with her.”
My enthusiasm waned at the suggestion.
“Oh, please.” Cat waved off the possibility before I had to respond. “I’ve tried. I can’t even connect with the ball. It’s embarrassing.”
I liked the idea of an inept Cat Winthorpe but didn’t believe it. “I bet you’re not that bad. Maybe you just need a few pointers.”
“No.” She set down her glass on the flat arm of the couch and shook her head. “Honestly, I’m terrible. I don’t have the patience and temperament for it.”
William grinned. “It’s true. And it doesn’t help that she’s competitive. She once threatened to divorce me over a foosball game.”
She shrugged. “I don’t like to lose. Which”—she turned to me—“is why I won’t try golf. It’s setting myself up for failure.”
Her psychology was interesting. She was overly confident but also just vulnerable enough to be likable. What I had yet to figure out was if the vulnerability was calculated or authentic. It was certainly annoying. Everything about her was annoying, though I was self-aware enough to understand that my jealousy played a part in my irritation.
The lights dimmed, then relit. Cat straightened up, off William’s chest. “Oh! That’s the power coming back on.”
“Well, that wasn’t too long.” Matt clapped his hands together and pushed to his feet. “Neena? Should we let them get back to their night?”
He was too polite for his own good. I followed him reluctantly, searching for something, anything, to prolong the conversation. I drew a blank and exchanged a stiff hug with Cat at the door.
“So, dinner on Thursday, right?” Cat held open the door, all but pushing us through it.
“Sure.” I stared at William until I caught his eye. “See you on Monday.”
He nodded with an easy smile, and I tried to understand where the intense dislike from his employees came from.
“There’s something off about Cat.” I dabbed on eye cream as I leaned over our master-bathroom vanity, struggling to see in the dim light. I glanced up at the light fixture above me; only one bulb of the eight was working.
“Off?” Matt sat on the toilet, his pants around his ankles, and peered at me through the open door. “She seems nice.”
I snorted. “Nice? Matt, you can’t take everyone at face value. You don’t know women like that. They have nothing to do all day but cause trouble.” Which was one of the reasons I had always worked. Some women enjoyed sitting at home, but I didn’t. I needed interaction. Friendships. Relationships. My own identity. Otherwise, there was no security blanket. No fallback plan. I refused to be held hostage in a marriage without knowing and exploring my other options. My mother had taught me that. She’d realized that a better life existed for her, and she’d put a plan into place and then taken it, leaving her alcoholic husband and daughter behind and driving three states over to live in a McMansion with an attorney she’d met through a classified ad. I would have liked her to bring me, but she did a full upgrade and now posts photos on Facebook under her new name, with her stepdaughter, Aspen vacations, and quotes about Jesus. I friended her under a fake account and now follow the entire family. I’ve considered seducing her husband but haven’t had the energy or enough ill motivation. I’ve kept the possibility as a delicious late-night snack I might one day consume.
“Well, I like them.” Matt nudged the door closed with his toe, not waiting for a response.
Of course he did. He liked everyone, which was one of the reasons he needed me in his life—to point out shortcomings where they existed. Not that the Winthorpes had many. I put toothpaste on my brush and started on my teeth, thinking over the evening. I’d spent most of it looking for flaws in Cat, which had been an annoyingly arduous task. Quite frankly, she was prettier than I was. Younger. More delicate. But my body was better than hers. She had almost no muscle tone and probably skipped weight training altogether.
I ran my toothbrush under the water and remembered the beautiful moment this week when I’d bent over to grab my purse on the way out of William’s office. I’d glanced up, catching his gaze on my butt, and his mouth had curved into a smile, his cheeks pinking as he had glanced away. Tonight, I’d given him multiple opportunities to look, but he’d remained focused on Cat.
The toilet flushed, and I pulled the toothbrush out of my mouth and leaned forward, spitting into the sink.
Five minutes later, I lay next to Matt and stared up at the coffered ceilings, the light from the television dancing across their details. A late-night comedian delivered a punch line about the royal family, and Matt laughed.
Moving into this neighborhood could be monumental. The women who lived inside these gates all partied together, shopped together, vacationed together. And already, things were clicking into place. I had a job with one of the most promising tech companies in Silicon Valley. An office adjacent to William Winthorpe’s. Thanks to the power outage, we’d just spent two hours bonding with them. We’d made dinner plans for next week. The proximity that our houses would grant and the potential social introductions from Cat could be the keys to the kingdom I deserved to live in.
Except that now, sinking into our soft bed, I was overwhelmed by the discrepancies between us. Cat and me. William and Matt. Their gorgeous showcase mansion and our ugly foreclosure.
Matt coughed, and I reminded myself of all his good traits. He bought me this house. He made me look less risky to a wife like Cat, who might otherwise see me as a threat. And if he managed to build a friendship with William Winthorpe, there would be many additional possibilities.
I turned toward Matt and moved closer, fitting my body into the side of his, my arm stealing around his chest. He patted my hand, his eyes already beginning to sag with sleep, and I felt a wave of deep affection for the man who loved me so much.
I’d upgrade from him at some point, but not yet.
CHAPTER 5
CAT
The neighbors had left, and William’s legs were tangled with mine, my head in the crook of his shoulder. I ran my hand along his stomach, enjoying the warmth of his skin. “What did you think of them?”
“They were fine,” he said, the words elongated by a yawn. “Better than the Bakers.”
Better than the Bakers. I flicked back through the events of the night. My distrust of Neena had mellowed as the night had gone on, the transition heavily aided by alcohol. She’d been entertaining to watch and had a crass humor that was funny, if not a little bitchy at times. She’d gotten sharper with her husband as the night had progressed, growing more bossy with each drink. But that was how some couples communicated. Not everyone was like us. I was reminded of that each time I visited my parents, their forty-year marriage no weaker despite their constant fights.
“Is that what she’s like at work? Coy and snarky?” I ran my hand over his upper abs and mimicked the pursed-lip pout that Neena had adopted at several moments du
ring the night.
He chuckled and ran his hand over the top of my head, smoothing his fingers through my hair. “More like a stiff and efficient cheerleader. Rah, rah, rah, fill out this questionnaire about your feelings, rah, rah, rah.”
I snorted and scooted farther up his chest until our faces were aligned. “If I recall correctly, you have a thing for cheerleaders.” I brushed my lips teasingly over his. “Should I be worried?”
His hands tightened on my waist, and a thrill of pleasure lit through me at the glow of arousal that hit his eyes. “Still got that uniform from high school?”
I kissed along his jaw, then whispered in his ear, “And the pom-poms.”
He groaned, the brand of his arousal hot and hard against my hip. “God, I love you.”
I met his kiss, my heartbeat quickening. In the warmth of his hands and the loss of our clothes, I forgot all about our new neighbors.
Eight hours later, after a leisurely breakfast in the gardens and coffee, I drove to the country club and met Kelly on one of the tennis courts. Rolling my neck slowly to the left, then right, I watched as she tossed up and then delivered a serve that could have decapitated a mouse. I lunged right for the ball, missed it by inches, and shot her an impressed look.
“Thanks,” she called out breezily. “I’ve been logging extra lessons with Virgil.”
“It shows.” I scooped up the ball and tossed it over the net toward her, then motioned her to come up closer to practice short shots. “How’s he compared to Justin?”
“Twenty years older, thirty pounds fatter, but Josh doesn’t complain nearly as much, so it’s worth the lack of eye candy.” She tossed up the ball but hit it a moment too early, lobbing an easy target over the net toward me. I met the ball early and quick, snapping it to the far left side of her court. Kelly’s husband was notoriously jealous, the sort who combed over her cell-phone log and popped into our lunch dates to make sure they were legitimate. I wasn’t surprised to hear he’d found fault with Justin O’Shea, the club’s best-looking tennis pro, but Justin was flamingly gay. Virgil could be a toad and he’d still be more of a risk.
“How’s the new neighbor?” She wiped her white-sweatbanded wrist across her forehead.
“Not sure yet.” I bounced a fresh ball against the clay court. “We’re having dinner with them on Thursday. She’s hard to read. A little . . .” I caught the ball and held it for a moment, trying to find the right word. “Reserved. She seems to be studying us very closely.” On our brief stroll through the house, she had seemed to mentally catalog our possessions, as if she were adding up their valuations in her head.
“No offense, but you’re very studyable.” Kelly grinned, her freckles almost bleached by the sun. “Honestly, I don’t even like tennis—I just like seeing what car you’re going to pull up to the club in.”
I made a face and knocked the ball toward her. She hit it back and we volleyed for a good dozen times before she missed a shot. Kelly was good, but I had trained for six months before joining the club, taking daily private lessons in San Francisco and weeklong camps at Stanford. My “natural aptitude” had needed to look effortless, and from the first day at Menlo, it had. I had intentionally lost a few early matches, blushing and stammering through the friendly ribbing, then quietly and almost immediately became the strongest player in the club.
That was the secret to success in this town. Presenting a picture of effortless perfection with behind-the-scenes ruthless hard work. Everyone thought I woke up as Cat Winthorpe one day, but I had clawed and scraped for every piece of this life. Still did.
We played a quick game, then headed for our bags. Kelly turned to face me, her racket swinging loosely from her hand. “Does it bother you, the new neighbor working for William?”
“No.” I dipped, picking up a ball and leaving the others for the collection crew. As I watched, they jogged onto the court, their baskets in hand, all-white uniforms darting to pick up the bright-yellow balls. “Why would it?”
“I don’t know. You and him were a workplace romance . . . she’s in his workplace now.” She shrugged. “There’s a reason I don’t let Josh hire any single women at the office.”
“She’s not single,” I reminded her, coming to stand beside her at the bench. Unzipping the side pocket of my bag, I pulled out a monogrammed hand towel and dabbed at the sweat along my forehead.
“Oh, right. The chubby husband. He’s in construction, right?”
“Demolition.” Which, from my uneducated perspective, seemed to be the easiest of the trades. Smash things down, haul them away. I’d pulled up his company and glanced over their website. It seemed like a small operation, one that couldn’t support the Atherton lifestyle. Which . . . would make for an interesting sideshow. Even if they did get the Baker house for a steal, trying to keep up in this town would burn through their money quickly. And Neena Ryder wanted this lifestyle. I had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the offhand comments she threw out in an attempt to fit in. She wanted it—the only question was what she would do to attain it. I made a mental note to check with Human Resources and see what we were paying her.
“Well, that’s good that she’s married. Maybe he and Josh could connect. He’s always complaining about the stuffed shirts I make him hang out with.” Kelly tilted back her head and squirted a stream of lemon-infused water into her mouth. “Not William, of course.”
I didn’t respond, well aware she wasn’t talking about my husband. Unzipping the small coin pouch I kept in my bag, I worked my wedding-ring set back onto my finger.
“I’ll plan something,” she continued on, her eyes following a muscular ball boy as he dipped over the net. “Something to get her husband and Josh together. Maybe a going-away party. You know we leave for Colombia on the eighth?”
“I know.” I pulled at her arm. “Come on. Loser buys me breakfast in the club.”
CHAPTER 6
NEENA
I learned to play chess on a broken board at the Boys and Girls Club. My teacher was Scott, a guy three years older than I was, who stared down my tank top at my thirteen-year-old chest and offered me cigarettes behind the dumpster while I waited to be picked up. My dad was often late, and one time, night falling in the questionable neighborhood, I took my first quick puff. The next week, a deep drag. A few months later, his fingers were down my pants, and my lit cigarette fell to the soggy ground. I watched it burn out against a wet red leaf and wondered how far away my dad was.
Chess is easy if you think ahead, the further out the better. You have to weigh the strengths you have. Decide what pieces can be sacrificed. Choose what pieces need to be protected. But the key, Scott preached, if playing against any skilled opponent, was the fake. You had to convince them that you were moving down one path—maybe a dumb path, an innocent path—while you skillfully tiptoed through your true plan, the one that would lead them straight to checkmate.
“Neena.” William smiled at me from the doorway to my office. “Got a moment?”
“Of course.” I gestured to the seat across from my desk. He ignored it and stood before me, his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, his legs slightly spread, his shoulders back. The pose of a man secure enough to put the weapons of his fists away. “How can I help you?”
The grin dropped from his face with unsettling ease. “Marilyn just spoke to Courtney in HR. She’s putting in her two-week notice.”
I frowned, irritated that I hadn’t picked up on any signs in my initial meeting with her. “That’s interesting.”
He moved forward and gripped the back of the chair I had intended him to sit in. His fingers drummed against the cloth, and he leaned forward, putting weight on it. I watched his clean and short-cropped fingernails bite into the gray upholstery as he cleared his throat, then spoke softly and precisely. “It’s not interesting.”
I settled back and fought the urge to cross my arms defensively over my chest. Picking up my silver pen from beside my calendar, I tapped the tip of it agai
nst the paper and stayed silent, holding his gaze calmly.
“I may have been unclear in why I hired you, so let me make it perfectly obvious. I hired you so that I would know whatever Marilyn is thinking before she puts in her notice. I hired you so that I don’t have to deal with interesting situations. I hired you to spy on this team and manipulate them into building the best damn medical conduction system that any heart has ever seen and to make me a billionaire. Do you understand that objective?” The last sentence was spaced out as if there were periods behind each word.
“Yes, sir.” I lifted my chin enough for him to realize I wasn’t intimidated.
He straightened, and when his hands fell from the chair, the imprints remained, like little teeth marks in an eraser head. “Convince her to stay or you’re fired. You have two weeks.”
Or you’re fired. Two weeks. He picked up his tie and smoothed it down the front of his shirt. On another man, it’d be a nervous tic. On him, it was merely a return of everything to order. I’d bet he was controlling in the bedroom. Precise. Authoritative. Dominant.
My lips parted slightly at the thought. “I’ll convince her to stay.”
He turned and ambled out of my office, his broad shoulders pinned back into their natural position.
I let out a slow breath, my heart racing, and turned to the computer, pulling up the calendar software and locating Marilyn’s schedule. So there was the real William Winthorpe. Not the charismatic husband who had pulled Cat to his side on the couch. Not the affable businessman who had offered me the job. Not the polished intellectual I’d watched videos of, speaking at medical conferences and corporate events.
The real William Winthorpe was an asshole, and I was fascinated by him.
CHAPTER 7
CAT
