Dirty Little Lies (Dirty Little #2)

by Cassie Cross

  “Well, what’s done is done.” Corinne’s voice is resigned, like she’s realized that it’s pointless to even try to convince me that I should’ve done anything other than what I did. “You would’ve felt guilty if you stepped down, I know you. You did what you thought was right, and that’s one of the things that I love most about you, Marisa. You don’t let people intimidate you.”

  “I didn’t used to let people intimidate me,” I correct.

  Corinne rolls her eyes at me. Years of being on the receiving end of that look makes me sure that she’s being playful. “You still don’t. Come on, that hasn’t changed. You just had a bad night between what happened with Mom and Dad, and people acting like assholes. The fact that you care so much and things didn’t work out the way you hoped they would makes it worse. You weren’t alone all night, were you?”

  I shake my head. I know she has this vision of me standing in the corner by myself, watching everyone interact, the odd woman out.

  “No,” I reply. “Caleb was there. He brought along his new girlfriend.”

  “She’s cute,” Corinne says. “I saw some pictures of her.”

  “She really is cute. And incredibly nice. And you can tell that Caleb really loves her. It was actually a little bit gross being around them.”

  “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  I laugh. “Me neither.”

  She leans back against her headboard, and I see her fiddling with her sheet like she always does when she’s hesitant to ask me something.

  “Just ask,” I say, trying not to sound as annoyed as I feel. I know what the question is going to be.

  “Felicity told me that Ben was planning on going.” She cringes when she finishes asking, like she’s waiting for me to be offended or angry that she’s been talking about Ben and me with his sister. I’m feeling a twinge of regret about introducing them back when Ben and I were still together, if they’re going to start conspiring against me and getting involved in my love life. Not that I have a love life with Ben anymore.

  “Felicity has a big mouth,” I tease, because I’m not quite sure how to answer a question that she hasn’t asked me yet. “I should fire her.”

  “You’re not her boss.”

  This is true. “Well, I could not hire her again,” I say with a smile.

  “Oh, please. That spread you brought her on to style got the most hits on your site.”

  “Shh.” I smile at her, because I love her so much. “You shouldn’t hang out with her. She’s a bad influence.”

  Corinne grins. “Terrible news, then. She’s in town for a shoot, and we’re meeting up for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Oh god, I’m sure they’re going to start plotting and planning something, like some weird alternate reality version of The Parent Trap.

  “Remember to mind your own business,” I warn. “And make sure she buys you dinner.”

  “Marisa,” Corinne whines. “You aren’t going to answer me?”

  I bite my lip, then decide, what the hell? “Yes, he was there. And that’s all I’m going to tell you about it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I sit alone at a table in the middle of an incredibly upscale restaurant, which is filled with the type of people that I spend a lot of time trying to avoid. The only reason I’m here is because Mitzi Vandergraff asked me to meet her here, and I was intrigued enough to say yes.

  Mitzi, of course, is late. She still believes that we’re living in a world where people regularly make fashionably late entrances.

  The waitress brings me another glass of wine. I’m on my third already; hopefully Mitzi shows up before I’m completely plowed. Otherwise, I might say some things I’ll wind up regretting, especially since I’m not really sure why she asked me to meet her here in the first place. I stepped down from the board for the Murphy Building restoration. What more does she want from me?

  I showed up early, knowing that I needed a little bit of a buzz going if I was going to deal with her, but I don’t want things to get out of hand. My reputation just can’t take another hit right now.

  The next time the waitress walks by, I order an appetizer. I’ve got to get a little food in me.

  When Mitzi finally shows up, I’m drinking the very last drop of red out of my wine glass. She waltzes in like she owns the place, turning heads as she walks by. Even a casual bystander who didn’t know her could tell she loves the attention. That she notices it, and craves it.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she says as the host pulls out her chair for her.

  I know that she doesn’t mean it.

  “To what do I owe this honor? I already resigned from the board, so I’m not sure what business we have left.” I ask. I think I do a pretty good job at not slurring my words.

  “I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you this,” she says, and my pulse automatically kicks into overdrive.

  “Didn’t want to have to tell me what?” Despite the buzz I have going on right now, I have no desire to sit here and let her drag things out, to torture me with some kind of soul-crushing cutdown.

  She pulls her absurdly large handbag into her lap, and reaches inside. She pulls out a piece of paper, and slides it across the freshly pressed linen tablecloth. Her red-painted lips are pressed into a tight line, and she’s drumming her fingernails (painted in a matching shade) on the tabletop. She declines when the waiter asks her for her order; she doesn’t even ask for a glass of water.

  It’s so typically Mitzi to call me into a place like this for a hit-and-run.

  I reach over and pull the paper toward me, bracing myself for whatever is written on there. I hesitate to open it, liking my life the way it is just fine without knowing whatever information is waiting for me inside. Is it some kind of bribe? Is it bad news? Is she going to blackmail me with something? I honestly don’t know what to expect where she’s concerned.

  Cautiously, like it contains explosives, I unfold the paper. There’s a long list, two columns wide. Names and dollar amounts. It’s a list of donations, and I scan through it quickly. When my eyes meet the sum at the bottom of the page, I nearly cry.

  “We met our goal?” I ask, with a completely undignified squeal, which makes some of the snooty clientele sitting around us stare. My heart is pounding with the thrill of victory, the first one I’ve felt since the news broke about my parents, and maybe even before that. “We met our goal.” I repeat as I look at the total again, in shock. No, we exceeded our goal.

  “Looks like we miscalculated and I gave you the wrong total. The people who attended decided to take pity on you with their checkbooks after all.”

  I’m so happy about this that I can’t even drum up enough anger or annoyance to tell her to go to Hell. That’s how excited I am. My foot is bouncing, the bottom of my heel tapping against the hardwood floor. Adrenaline makes my fingertips all tingly, and enhances the effect of all the wine I’ve drunk. This is great news, not only because I love the Murphy Building and I want to see it returned to its former glory, but also because in your face, Mitzi Vandergraff.

  In. Your. Face.

  “Congratulations,” Mitzi says, and only she can make what should be a nice sentiment sound so bitchily terrible.

  “I’m keeping this,” I say, folding the paper up and putting it in my purse. My stomach rumbles, and I decide that I absolutely do not want to spend any more of my precious time sitting here with someone like Mitzi when I’m feeling so over the moon about my success. I’m in a good mood, a little bit tipsy, and I want to go have an actual lunch (not froufrou hors d’ouvres from this place) at my favorite restaurant near the Murphy Building. I want to feel the relief and excitement for what I had a hand in accomplishing.

  I just can’t believe that we exceeded our goal. It’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for.

  I say goodbye to Mitzi, walk outside, and hail a cab in front of the restaurant.

  When we hit a patch of traffic, I pull the paper out of my purse, taking a look at who donated
what. I’m going to send each and every one of them a hand-written thank you note. I’m already working up some of the messages in my head when my gaze falls on a particularly large donation. A donation that makes up almost a third of what we needed.

  When I see the name, my heart stops.

  Ben Williams.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I’m sitting at a corner table in my favorite restaurant, one that has just as many good memories as bad ones for me. The french onion soup that I order every time I come in here does a lot to erase those bad memories, though.

  The list of donations is unfolded in front of me, and I stare at Ben’s name in between bites of my soup. My eyes keep repeating a circuit between Ben’s name and the amount he donated. The shock of it still hasn’t worn off. I mean, Ben might not have been very generous with his heart when we were together, but I knew he was a generous man when it came to the way he spent his time and his money. I’m not surprised he donated; that building holds what I’m assuming are some good memories for him, too.

  But that building is everything to me, and this isn’t a donation so much as a saving grace.

  What I’m having a difficult time figuring out is...why? The donation must have come in after the fundraiser, so did he do it because he knew we came up short of our goal? Is this some kind of grand gesture? Old Ben always did go for gestures of the sweeping romantic kind. He always figured that one big move was more important than the little things that meant more, at least to me.. Is this more of that? A romantic gesture to get my attention? He knows how desperate I was to fund this project. Did he do this for me? For a tax write-off? So I wouldn’t cut off the sex?

  I take another sip of my soup, when-

  “Marisa?”

  It’s Ben, of course. I don’t even need to look up from my bowl. His voice has always set every nerve in my body on edge, and it’s no different now. Goosebumps break out all over my skin when I look up at his stupid, unfairly handsome face. Why does he have to look so good all the time?

  I quickly pull the paper off the tabletop, try (and fail) to discreetly slide it back into the outside pocket of my purse. Ben follows my movement with his eyes, but he turns away just as soon as I catch him.

  “Hey,” I reply with a smile.

  “How are you? Everything okay?”

  I take a deep breath and nod. “Yes, absolutely. How are you?”

  He shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his ridiculously well-cut suit.

  “I can’t complain. I had a meeting nearby that got canceled. Thought I’d stop by for some lunch.”

  I nod absently, looking down at my bowl of soup. “I hope you enjoy.”

  When I look up, he gives me a tight smile. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would’ve missed the flash of disappointment in his eyes.

  “Thanks,” he says wistfully. “You too.”

  It’s not until he turns away from me that I realize that I don’t want him to go. After saving my ass with the Murphy Building benefit, and actually caring enough to help us meet our goal, the very least I can do is invite him to sit down and have lunch with me.

  “Ben?”

  He turns. “Yeah?” The disappointment I saw earlier has been replaced with an earnest hopefulness that was always the end of my willpower where this man was concerned.

  “Have lunch with me,” I say, motioning to the chair across from me. “If you want to. Please.”

  His eyebrows raise in surprise, and it’s actually kind of cute. “Really?”

  I can’t help but let out a short laugh. “Yes, really.”

  “I’d love to.” He doesn’t even finish his reply before he pulls out the chair, and unbuttons his blazer as he takes a seat.

  When the waiter comes back around a minute or so later, I ask him for another menu, and request that he holds my order until Ben’s is ready.

  After he takes a sip of water, Ben says, “You’re in a much better mood than you were the last time I saw you.”

  I know I promised myself I’d keep things light with him, and that includes steering clear of these emotional minefields that the two of us always seem to have difficulty navigating, but I can’t help myself today. Not after learning about what he did.

  “I am in a good mood,” I admit.

  “I’m glad,” he replies. “It suits you.”

  “Thank you.” I do my best to fight the blush that I can feel rushing to my cheeks.

  “Is it okay if I ask what got you in this mood?”

  I know he’s doing a little digging here, hoping he’ll get a personal piece of information along with my actual answer.

  “I just had a meeting with Mitzi Vandergraff.”

  He looks puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a person who was even remotely happy after spending time with that woman.”

  I let out a loud, unexpected laugh.

  Ben’s eyes widen, but he laughs along with me, even though he’s obviously confused by my outburst.

  “I haven’t heard you laugh in a long time,” he says with a gentle smile.

  There’s a good reason for that; I haven’t felt like laughing around him in years. But now is not the time for such admissions. That would only hurt him, and hurting him is the very last thing I want to do right now.

  “It’s nice,” Ben adds, before I have a chance to reply.

  “It’s because of you.”

  His eyes are even wider than they were just a second before. “What? Why?”

  Cat’s out of the bag at this point, no use in trying to walk around it. I reach down into my purse, pull out the piece of paper I was looking at right before he showed up, and slide it across the table.

  “Ben.” His name comes out much more tenderly than I meant it to.

  When he realizes what I’m showing him, he breathes a soft, “Oh.”

  “Why did you do this?” I’m careful to keep my voice soft, because I don’t want him to think that I’m accusing him of anything. I really just want to know why, what the angle is, if there is one. “Was it some kind of grand gesture, or were you trying to-”

  “No,” he says vehemently. “It wasn’t a grand gesture. Well, it was a gesture, just not a grand one. I know how much that building means to you, Marisa. I would’ve done this regardless of whether you ever spoke to me again or not. Sorry I was late with it.” He clears his throat, and reaches up to adjust his tie. “I was…distracted before I got to go inside.”

  I can’t help but smile at the way he explains his tardiness, but I’m still curious. “Why, then?”

  He shrugs. “We went on our first date there. We made memories there. That place is special to me too, Marisa. I don’t like seeing it falling apart.”

  Not really sure how to respond to that, I fiddle with the napkin that’s splayed out across my lap. “I didn’t think…”

  “You didn’t think what?”

  “I didn’t know that place meant anything to you. That those memories were special for you.”

  Ben looks down, and turns his glass of water between his index finger and thumb. “Yeah, I…I can see why you might believe that.”

  Even though I know I shouldn’t ask this, I do it anyway. “Why is it different now?”

  I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to this question the other day, but all the fear that I’ve been feeling about finding out what Ben is playing at has morphed into an irritating curiosity. I have to know what’s going on, what the end game is here.

  “Why is what different now?”

  “Why are those memories special to you now? Why is the Murphy Building special to you now?” What I leave unspoken is the question that I want to ask the most: why am I special to him now? Instead, I say, “None of it seemed to matter to you much when it should have.”

  He looks down, and takes a deep breath. “I deserve that.”

  Yes, he does.

  “I was trying to tell you before, Marisa. I needed my head to catch up with my heart. I was stupid back then. I wasn’t re
ady for you when I had you, and it’s one of the biggest regrets of my life.”

  They’re the words that younger me always longed to hear, and they’re the words that older me just cannot afford to believe. Believing them means that I’m ready to risk my heart with this man again, and I cannot. Still, the sick, sadistic part of me has to ask.

  “And you are now? Ready for me, I mean.”

  He swallows so hard that I can actually see it. “Yes.” His voice is rough, and god help me...he looks sincere. “But I know you aren’t ready to believe me.”

  He’s right. I’m not even close to allowing myself to believe him one more time, when all my past attempts have only ended with my own heartbreak. But I’m not rigid enough not to acknowledge that he does seem to have changed. The Ben I knew all those years ago was all about what he wanted, when he wanted it. He never had enough patience to wait for anything, to play the long game. So, in that respect, I don’t even recognize the man sitting in front of me.

  The foolish, reckless, easily charmed part of me that loved him so desperately for so long wants to believe him. Wants to give him another shot just to feel the way I felt when I thought we were in love and together on the same page. Already he’s chipping away at the resolve it took me so long to build up.

  The waiter arrives with our food right as I open my mouth to say...I’m not even sure what I was going to say to what he just told me. I figure that’s a sign - that maybe this is as good a time as any to take a step back and give myself some time to think about what’s happening, about what he just told me. Maybe Ben has changed. It certainly seems that way, and I think Ben has proven himself enough so far that it’s not just wishful thinking. He is different.

  As we eat, we get caught up on each other’s lives.

  Ben fills me in on how his parents are doing, about how his company’s softball team missed the playoffs by only a single point. He shows me pictures of the new apartment he just moved into, about trying his hand at some DIY projects during the remodel.

  I ask him if he and Oliver still play frisbee in Central Park on Saturday mornings like a couple of frat boys. Back in college, I’d always wake up to an empty bed on the weekend mornings, and could usually find Ben there.