Not everyone is dealt a good hand in life. And not everyone’s operating with a full deck of cards to begin with. We wouldn’t be human if we were all exactly the same and got along without strife or adversity. One of the problems with the world is that we aren’t empathetic enough to other people’s struggles. We don’t try to put ourselves in others’ shoes often enough. Don’t stop to hear their side of the story. We just make assumptions or roll with our preconceived notions and never try to alter our ways of thinking. Or improve them.
Shae has taught me how to be better than that.
She’s a constant reminder that there are tons of individuals out there like her who need people like me to slow down, pay attention, and just listen.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaims, reaching across the table to grab my hand. She’s looking at something over my shoulder, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Don’t look now, but our nineth grade chem lab teacher just walked through the door.”
“Mr. Durkin?”
I spin around in my chair, immediately spotting the man himself ambling over to the pick-up counter.
“You remember what you did to the poor man, right?” she asks, that familiar childlike expression brightening her eyes.
I smack her arm. “What I did? You’re the one who accidentally set his ponytail on fire with the Bunsen burner!”
She laughs so hard a snort escapes, which she tries to muffle by slapping her hand over her mouth. “But you were the one who called him over to our table to ask a question in the first place. So, it’s your fault he was hospitalized for third-degree burns.”
Trying to control my own laughter, I glance back over my shoulder as Mr. Durkin waits for his takeout. “Look. He got rid of the ponytail.”
“Uh, he probably couldn’t grow it back after you singed the whole thing off.”
“It was you!”
Our hysterical laughter has tears leaking out the corners of my eyes.
These moments are why I put up with Shae’s not-so-flattering qualities. Why I defended her so fervently the night everything blew up with West. Because deep down, she’s a good person with a good heart. She just gets confused along the way sometimes and needs someone like me to veer her back onto the right path. We have too many memories together to just write off like they’re nothing. We’ve grown together, we’ve laughed, cried, cheered…so many experiences shared side-by-side.
And even though I have to take my salad to-go and scarf it down between phone calls and emails at work, I don’t allow myself to get angry about it. Sure, if it had been Quinn or Sloane or Gretchen at the café, it would have been waiting on the table for me before I ever walked in.
But Shae is…Shae.
For better or worse, she’ll always be in my life.
Because you don’t give up on the people you love.
What about West?
He’s different. I never loved him.
Keep telling yourself that, Harp.
July
“Here.” Gretchen thrusts a glass into my hand. “Drink up.”
I should know better.
Rule of thumb, if Gretchen ever hands you a glass filled with an unknown liquid, you should always question its origins. Caution is basic protocol with her. You see, she has a pension for brewing batches of what’s-behind-door-number-three type of surprise mixes. In my mind, I picture her in her loft, stirring a cauldron while wearing a witch’s hat, cackling at how epically she fucks people’s nights up with her bazillion proof alcoholic concoctions.
But because I’m so frazzled by a certain helicopter pilot I can’t shake—story of my life—I take a sip without even thinking.
And spend the next three minutes hacking up a lung.
“Oh, my God. What is this?”
Gretchen winks as she calmly sips from her own glass. “Pure fire, babe.”
“Yeah, no shit. It’s burning a hole through my esophagus like acid. I thought we said no more hot sauce, Gretch.”
She bumps her shoulder against mine. “There’s only a teensy bit of Tabasco in this. Way less than last time. Come on, Harp, where are your lady cojones?”
“They just got off a conference call with my stomach and colon, and they all agreed it’s not worth spending the rest of the night kneeling at the altar of the porcelain god.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
The only reason I hold on to my glass of liquid poison is because I need something to occupy my hands so I don’t fidget like I’m on Ritalin.
We’re at Sloane and Carter’s housewarming party on his sprawling property outside of Charleston, near the Mount Pleasant area. Rice Hope Plantation was once used for rice farming and has been in Carter’s family since the late 1800s. Having officially moved in together, the couple wanted to throw a big barbeque bash for their friends and family.
And as thrilled as I am for my girl, I couldn’t be more pitiful right now.
Sloane took her own calculated risk by hooking up with her fifteen years older divorce attorney. And after a bit of a rollercoaster romance with some twists that no one saw coming, everything worked out perfectly for her.
But when I take risks….they blow up in my face like Hiroshima.
Maybe I should just set my throat on fire and get obliterated. Gretchen would proudly take the blame.
“Quinnie the Pooh not going to make it tonight?” Gretchen asks as she appraises the growing crowd of party guests.
I suppose I should join in on that scene scoping. There are quite a few of Carter’s lawyer friends here tonight, several pleasantly good-looking ones among the bunch. Even a couple of Sloane’s unattached, attractive graduate school classmates have shown up.
So, what’s stopping you from getting back up on that horse?
Oh, just the fact that the last guy I rode was hung like one, and I doubt anyone else could compare.
“She said she’d try,” I answer, “but it probably won’t be until later.”
My ex-stepsister has a summer job with her father at some rich guy’s estate. Together, they raise and train horses, and some millionaire is paying them to start a new breeding program or something. I’m not a horse person, so I don’t know the details. Basically, she’ll be ensconced on his estate for the summer, so we probably won’t see much of her over the next couple of months.
But she’s being suspiciously close-mouthed about the whole deal.
Might have to go all Sherlock Harper and investigate that.
Sloane breaks away from the group she’s chatting with and approaches us with a glittering smile. “Hey, you guys having fun? Is the food okay?”
“Oh, you’ve provided quite the smorgasbord, babe,” Gretchen muses, her attention snagging on the male company rather than on the food table. “Remind me to thank you in the morning.”
Sloane shakes her head in bemusement.
“Everything is perfect, hon,” I reassure her, laying my hand on her arm. “The place looks beautiful.”
“Doesn’t it?” She glances around the large patio that’s lit up by string lights and tiki torches. The love for not just the property, but for her besotted boyfriend, shines in her ice-blue eyes. “It’s crazy, I’ve always dreamed of living somewhere like this. Just never thought it would actually happen.”
“The scenery definitely isn’t lacking,” Gretchen agrees, grinning at one swarthy suit in particular who might as well be undressing her with his half-lidded eyes.
Confession #1: I’ve always been envious of my friends in one way or another. Gretchen’s confidence with men and self-possession in general. Sloane’s brain and cleverness. Quinn’s emotional strength and survival instincts.
Confession #2: Standing next to these two women, I can’t help but find myself…lacking.
I’m the type of girl who chooses truth over dare. I’m even more afraid of taking chances now than I was a month ago. I worry too much about pleasing my parents than pursuing my own dreams and am slowly digging myself into a hole because of it. Burying my head i
n the sand like an ostrich. A cowardly ostrich.
And the cherry on top?
I’ve become powerless to a man.
West has infiltrated every part of my brain, no less than he had when we were dating. There’s something wrong with that.
“Mmm, what do we have here?” Sloane swipes my glass from my hand and lifts it to her mouth before I can stop her.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that—”
She chokes, nearly spitting everything back out. “Jesus Christ, Gretch. For once, could you just make something with Malibu in it? Something sweet and fruity? I’d even take Peach Crown at this point.”
Gretchen scoffs. “You want Malibu, you can go back to tenth grade and have an upperclassman buy you some. But if you want to get your man all randy for some saucy sex times, you come to me.”
Sloane spots Carter across the patio and grins lasciviously. “Trust me, he doesn’t need any liquid courage.”
“A real man never does.”
Sloane winces as she hesitantly brings her gaze back to me. “That reminds me, Harp. I forgot to tell you that—”
A familiar figure standing on the periphery of the party catches my attention. The self-assured smile, the aviator sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar, the rumbling, boisterous laughter as he shakes Carter’s hand.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I grumble. “How could you invite him?”
“I’m sorry!” Sloane says frantically. “We invited both of you when you were still together. Then I just forgot to uninvite him…at first. But you know how well West and Carter hit it off. It was bromance at first sight with those two. Carter acted so bummed when he thought West wasn’t going to be here.” She pushes her lower lip out in a pout. “I just didn’t have the heart to tell him that his new friend couldn’t come to his party.”
“And what the hell am I?” I shriek. “Chopped liver? Whatever happened to hoes before bros?”
“It got overruled by dicks before chicks,” Gretchen answers helpfully. “The happier the man, the faster his flag will rise up its pole for you. I don’t blame her. I’d want to keep Counselor Cockstand pleased, too.”
Sloane shoots her former roommate a glare. “Not helping.” Then she tentatively looks back to me. “I’m really sorry, Harp. I just figured there’s plenty of people here, so you should be able to avoid each other. You guys can just stay on opposite ends of the yard all night, right?”
I can’t come up with a solid answer.
I did not prepare myself for this.
It didn’t once occur to me that West would be here. Even though, yes, he and Carter really have become close in the short time they’ve known each other.
Gretchen helps tip my glass toward my mouth. “Look, you want my advice?”
Nope. “Yep.”
“Utilize the flaunt and flirt strategy.”
Sloane’s features tighten with wariness. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Talking to Sloane like I’m not even here, Gretchen attempts a pseudo-serious expression. “She can’t leave because she can’t let West know that he gets to her. That will give him the upper hand. They have to live together, which means she has to save face when they’re in public together like this. And the only way to truly save face tonight is by flirting with every eligible bachelor here.”
I allow her sage words to sink in as I consider the repercussions. Recalling West’s reaction to my teasing a few weeks ago has me cringing. But his rule did say no flirting with his friends. He didn’t say anything about no flirting with other people, right? Which he doesn’t have control over anyway because he doesn’t own me.
But we also don’t need to further complicate things at—sigh—home.
“And what is that going to accomplish?” Sloane interjects. “It’ll be kind of hard for her to hook up with anyone after they hear she’s still living with her ex.”
Gretchen turns to me, flourishing her hand around the patio. “This is the fucking jungle, babe. The dating pool is a constant battle. Man v. woman, man v. man, woman v. woman… It doesn’t matter. This is war. And you, Barbie, have to prove a point to your adversary. That even though he might have wrecked you on the inside, you’re a survivor and you will survive him.”
“I don’t think you’re helping by infusing more drama into the situation,” Sloane argues. “That’s the last thing they need more of.”
Gretchen shrugs, watching us over the rim of her glass. “The dating game is like a woman’s period. It’s messy, but it’s nature. And it’s not about to change. The best thing to do for those cramps is to scarf down some chocolate and apply heat.” She points at her glass as she says the last word.
Sloane frowns. “Not all of your metaphors make sense.”
Gretchen salutes us with her homemade lighter fluid. “Let your vagina do more of the thinking and they will.”
The scary part is, what she’s saying actually makes sense.
But I’m not sure I want to create more waves with West. I’m not aiming to provoke him anymore than I already have by our constant pranking. We need less tension, not more. It would probably be best to just stay out of each other’s way for the next four months.
My gaze unwittingly seeks him out again on the other side of the yard.
Only this time, he’s not talking to Carter.
The pretty brunette he’s chatting up is definitely shooting him the googly eyes. He looks all comfortable and relaxed with her, too, casually sipping his beer with a friendly smile. He’s certainly not shooing her away.
Bright sparks of jealousy explode in my chest like the damn Fourth of July.
Flaunt and flirt.
Apply heat.
In that moment, Gretchen and her vagina have never been wiser.
I tilt my head back and swallow the rest of my drink.
If he can do it, then so can I. These aren’t his friends. We’re not in our house. He has no say over what I do in public with my own crowd. I’m not breaking any rules here. Besides, he knew I would be here tonight. As far as I’m concerned, that means he accepted the possibility that I would be talking to other men.
Pushing West so far to the back of my mind he’ll have to buy a bus ticket to get back to the forefront, I set my wily sights on a cute blonde guy who’s been shooting me coy grins for the past ten minutes.
Welcome to the jungle.
“Wow, your job sounds really exciting.” Not. “Lucky you, to get to do something you’re so passionate about.” I envy you that.
Even though Darren here is a little dull around the edges, I am jealous that he can talk so animatedly about his job as a…financial adviser? No, a stock broker. An investment banker? It’s something to do with money, and he hasn’t been able to really stop talking about it. I started dozing off somewhere around the middle, which was at least an hour—er—fifteen minutes ago.
Darren’s dimpled smile peeks out again. “I can’t imagine doing anything else. I’ve always said that anyone who hates their job has no one to blame but themselves.”
I hide my flinch behind my glass.
Ya had to hit the nail right on the head, didn’t ya, Darren?
All in all, he’s a really nice guy. Clean-cut, well-mannered, smart, dedicated to his job. Clearly husband material and someone my mother would probably approve of. Therein lies the problem. Even his four-letter-word bank seems to be limited to “heck” and “dang.” He’s got all the makings of a devoted family man and well-respected member of the community.
Too bad my lady bits haven’t gotten onboard with the idea of taking him for a spin.
As a matter of fact, I doubt his premarital sex carousal even spins at all. He strikes me as the courtship type. The wait-until-the-fortieth-date-to-have-sex type. The type who would ask permission before undressing you. And hey, there is nothing wrong with that if that’s your thing.
But why can’t it be my thing?
Dammit, why can’t I be attracted to him or to the half a dozen other
men I’ve spoken to tonight? Why couldn’t any of them have motivated the demon slut to awaken from her slumber, or at least crack open an eye? I didn’t realize until tonight how picky I’ve gotten.
You’re not picky. You’re just hung up.
Nope. I don’t accept that.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end for about the seventeenth time in the past twenty minutes. So, I know that West is watching me from his position on the opposite end of the patio, where I know he’s been talking to a cute little redhead for the past four or so minutes.
Not like I’m keeping track or anything.
Not like he’s keeping track of me either.
His predatory eyes have not been stalking me through the crowd, his powerful, agile body moving like a lithe jaguar. Or a sleek panther. He’s not gnashing his teeth at every male who comes within five feet of me. And he’s certainly not resisting the urge to bound over here and piss a territorial circle around me.
Oh, no. Gretchen was right.
He’s like a damn jungle cat.
Every man at this party might as well be his prey. His body language has signaled that he sees every walking penis as a threat. He might as well roar out his possessiveness and declare his rank in the food chain to the rest of the jungle.
When our gazes collide, something distinctly male and dominant gleams from his features. In that moment, I feel like I’ve been marked. Sirens start blaring in my head.
Danger! Danger! Danger!
“Would you please excuse me, Darren? I’m in need of a refill.”
He politely dips his head, just like the southern gentleman I’m sure his momma raised him to be. “Of course.”
Damn, he’s too nice. Why can’t I be into nice? I used to be. What the hell happened?
West.
That prick.
I don’t even know where I’m headed as I move across the patio, doing my best to appear unapproachable. I just need to find a quiet place to gather my thoughts. And maybe go on an excavation to dig up some more courage.
I find that quiet bubble at the far corner of the house. There’s enough seclusion that no one will accidentally stumble upon me, yet I can still hear the low hum of the party behind me. I’m staring down at my shadow in the grass when someone steps into the path of the patio lights, shrouding my secluded bubble in darkness.
The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2) Page 7
