by Cat Carmine
“You think I can’t get dressed up for your fancy friends?” I glare. “I’ll have you know I can clean up just fine. I don’t always wear yoga pants, you know.”
“I happen to like your yoga pants. A lot,” he adds with a cocky grin. “And it’s not that I don’t think you’d clean up nice. It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s these people, Rori. They’re kind of —”
“Wes, if you don’t want me to go, just say so. I’m going to retract my offer in five, four, three —”
“Of course I want you to come,” he says hastily. He leans back in his chair, folding his arms and looking at me with a strange smile on his face, as if this game just suddenly got interesting. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Tomorrow night.”
“It’s a date.”
“I thought it was a favor for a friend,” he smirks.
“Figure of speech, Wes.” I roll my eyes. But inside, my stomach is rolling too, wondering what the hell I just did.
As soon as I get home that night, I know there’s only one person I want to talk to. I just pray I can catch her before she heads in to work for the day.
I go into my bedroom, close the door, hit the dial button, and then hold my breath and only let it out after she picks up.
“Great timing,” Celia announces, by way of greeting. “I just got off the phone with your mom.”
“You did?”
“Yes, we were going over the final details for the flowers.”
Right. I’d forgotten that my parents were doing the floral arrangements for Celia and Jace’s wedding. Not sure how I’d managed to forget; Mom has only been talking about it non-stop since Celia asked her.
“Oh yeah, how’s that going?”
“Good. Great, actually. She’s been sending me pictures and concepts and samples as she goes and I think everything is going to be perfect.”
“I’m glad.” Not surprised though. Mom has always had a great eye for this kind of thing. She and Dad run that business like it’s their fourth child. “How are the dress fittings going?”
“Amazing. Though I think I’ve gained five pounds in the last month thanks to stress eating, and it’s all going to my gut — if I gain any more, Bree is going to have to work some kind of magic. I know you can make dresses smaller, but I’m not sure it works so well in the other direction.”
I laugh. “Two words: empire waist.”
“Good idea. I’m going to suggest that to her.”
Celia’s friend Bree is a clothing designer, and had volunteered to make her dress for her. I was a little sad that we hadn’t gotten to do a trip to the bridal stores to try on a bunch of dresses, but I know it means a lot to Celia to have her circle of friends participating in her wedding. It’s why she’d asked my parents to do the flowers, after all, even though there are plenty of good florists in Ambleside, where Celia grew up and where the wedding is taking place.
“So what’s new with you?” she asks now. “How’s your favorite new client? Agreement still holding up?”
I can hear the sly grin in her voice. I had texted her about the contract I made Wes sign, so she knows full well that our relationship isn’t quite as platonic as I’ve been pretending it is.
“Oh, fine. Actually, get this — I’m going to the country club with him tomorrow.”
“What?!”
“I know,” I laugh. “Can you imagine me at a country club?”
“That’s not the crazy part. Are you telling me you’re going on a date with Wes, missy? Wasn’t that the whole point of your weirdo napkin deal?”
“It’s not a date,” I say hastily. I get an eerie sense of deja vu from my conversation with Wes earlier.
“Oh, so it’s a work thing? You have to go?”
“Well, not exactly, no…”
“I knew it.” She sounds way too smug.
“Honestly, Celia, it’s not like that. I’m doing him a favor. He needed someone to bring to this dinner thing with him.”
On the other end of the line, Celia squeals. I roll my eyes.
“Oh, this is perfect. I knew this was going to happen.”
“It’s really not like that,” I protest, but I know any argument I offer at this point is going to be ignored. Ever since Celia met Jace, she’s been convinced I’m one quirky encounter away from my own love story. Getting reacquainted with Wes plays into her narrative perfectly.
“Anyway, speaking of dates” Celia says, interrupting my train of thought and making me groan. “When I was talking to your mother, she mentioned you still didn’t have a date for the wedding.”
“Right. About that ...” When I got the invitation to the wedding a couple of months ago, I’d checked plus one in a fit of optimism. Celia had teased me about it at the time, but I’d taken it as a challenge. Things to do before the wedding: lose ten pounds and find a boyfriend. Unfortunately, I hadn’t made any progress on either front.
“Well, you know who you could ask, right?” There’s a playful note in her voice, and I know instantly who she means.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because. Just... no.”
“You’re doing him a favor and going to this country club thing. Why can’t he do you a favor and come to the wedding with you? Besides, I want to meet this famous Wes.”
“Because there’s a big difference between spending a couple of hours out in Westchester County versus an entire weekend in Connecticut.”
“Potatoes, potahtos,” she says. I can picture the way she’ll be grinning right now.
“No. We’re not going there. He’s my client.”
“Whose pants you want to get into.”
“Celia!”
“What? I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“No, but I know you. Better than you think, probably.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you get up in your own head too much. I’m sure it goes back to Wes and what he did to you back then — you think you were wrong about him, that he didn’t love you as much as you thought he did, and now you don’t trust yourself to ever be right. But Rori, what if he did? What if it’s always been Wes?”
Her words are slicing through me, but it’s her last question that pokes at my heart with an icy finger.
“I was wrong about him,” I say bitterly. “Because the person I thought he was — the person I loved — wouldn’t have just taken off like that. You’ve got to let go of this idea of that Wes is back in my life for a reason.”
“Have you ever asked him why he didn’t show up that night?”
I don’t answer because I know as soon as I admit that I haven’t, she’ll take that as some kind of proof that she’s right. But my silence is answer enough.
“Why don’t you just ask him?” she prods gently. “You never know, maybe there was a good reason. After all these years, don’t you owe it to yourself to find out?”
“Because I don’t want to know,” I spit. I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that it’s the truth. I was wrong about Wes all those years ago, and hearing him confirm it will only make it more real.
On the other end of the line, Celia sighs. “Okay. I’m not going to push you. I just think that if you had to create this silly contract to be able to work together, then there’s obviously something still there.”
I’m glad we’re not in the same room together, because I roll my eyes at that. “Just because there’s something physical between us, doesn’t mean there’s anything else, you know.”
She laughs softly. “Fine, Rori. If you say so.” I can tell she isn’t buying it, but at this point, I don’t feel like arguing about it anymore.
We spend the rest of the call talking through the plans for the days leading up to the wedding — bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner, trips to the salon. There’s a lot to do, and I’ll be so busy at the wedding itself that I really don’t even need a date. I don’t know why I was
so bent on getting one. And I’m certainly not going to entertain Celia’s idea of asking Wes. The thought is almost enough to make me laugh out loud. An evil little part of me would actually like to do it just so that I could see the stricken expression on his face when I did, and the awkward way he’d try to clamber out of it. That alone might be worth it.
“Well, honey,” Celia says. “I’d love to chat longer, but my soon-to-be-husband is glaring at me because I’m sitting here talking to you while he’s been unloading the dishwasher and getting tonight’s menu ready.”
“Oops,” I laugh. “I didn’t realize you were at the bar already. Tell Jace I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. We needed our girl talk. Have fun on your date tomorrow.” Before I can protest, Celia laughs. “I know — it isn’t a date. But have fun anyway, okay?”
I grumble out an agreement and get off the phone.
“It’s not a date,” I say into my empty bedroom, but the bare mint green walls seem to have no opinion on the matter.
Fifteen
The Kinsmen Country Club in Westchester County is only about an hour’s drive from Manhattan, but it feels a world away from my tiny two-bedroom walk-up apartment with the laminate counter tops and the shower that seems to perpetually drip. From the moment we cross through the huge iron gates, I’m plastered to the window of the car, watching the huge grounds sprawl out before us.
“So this is how the other half lives,” I joke. I had put aside my conversation with Celia yesterday, and was making an effort to try to enjoy myself. After all, how often does someone like me get to go to an actual country club?
“Not half. This is the one percent,” Wes answers wryly.
I stare in awe at the lush manicured grounds, the tall rosebushes in full bloom, the smartly dressed valets in their white uniforms and matching caps. The building — or should I say buildings — are equally spectacular. The main building, where we’re coasting to a stop, is as big as a hotel, with a grand front entrance flanked by ornate white pillars. I can see other buildings behind it, and in the distance, the perfect green pitch of a state-of-the-art golf course.
I smooth down the dress I’m wearing and suddenly wonder if I haven’t made a huge mistake. These are Wes’s people, not mine. My family never hurt for money but my parents worked hard. They owned their own business and because the entire success of the endeavor was on their own shoulders, they worked long hours, weekends, holidays. If our delivery driver called in sick, it was Dad out there in the red van, dropping off orders and making deliveries. We had a small house, we didn’t take fancy vacations, and my sisters and I did chores around the house or the store to earn our modest allowances.
I don’t know what the people here are like — really, with the exception of Wes, I don’t even know anyone that rich — but I can’t imagine I’m going to have much in common with them.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Wes says, sensing my discomfort.
“I’m sure,” I say, even though that’s far from the truth.
“Good. Because I’m not.” He smiles again, and for a second it’s that same boyish grin he had in high school, charming and sweet and with a hint of self-deprecation.
To my surprise, I reach over and squeeze his hand.
“How bad could it be, right?” I say, trying to sound reassuring.
Wes doesn’t answer, but he does stare down at my hand clasped around his.
“Why, Rori Holloway,” he teases. “Who was it that made the rule about no touching of any kind?”
My cheeks flush. “Yeah, well, I’m just comforting a friend.” Comforting a friend and getting distracted by how nice my hand feels in his, how perfectly nestled it is inside his much larger one.
For a moment we regard each other. Something in Wes’s eyes blaze, and then he nods once.
“Right. Well, let’s get this over with, shall we?”
His driver has brought the car to a stop now, and a white-jacketed valet hovers outside, waiting for some kind of invisible signal. As if he receives it, he suddenly opens the back door on my side, offering me his hand so that I can slip out of the car.
While I wait for Wes, I look around again, trying to keep the stunned expression off my face. This place is practically palatial. Wes comes around from the other side of the car, and I’m grateful when he links his arm through mine. I’m not a country club kind of girl. What am I even going to say to these people?
But Wes grins at me, and all my worries melt away. Being with him makes it seem manageable. It might even be ... fun.
God. Why am I thinking those things? I shake my head lightly and tuck a few imaginary strands of hair back into place before looking up at Wes.
“Ready?”
He nods. “Ready.”
The inside of the club is as majestic as the outside. It feels almost like a glamorous hotel, with a grand lobby, a formal restaurant off to one side, and a bar off the other side. There’s a huge staircase in front of us, too. I wonder where it leads.
Wes looks back and forth. “I think we’re meeting in the restaurant,” he says, leading me over in that direction.
“Tell me about your friend, again?” I’m walking stiffly in my high heels, trying not to trip and look like an idiot. I’d opted for stilettos over wedges, and even though I’m glad I did — for the ass factor alone — it’s been ages since I’ve worn them and I’m feeling a bit like a baby gazelle on new legs.
“His name’s Tyler Grant. His father is Malcolm Grant, of —“
“Good Grant Media,” I interrupt. “Wow, okay. So we’re talking about the richest of the rich.” Good Grant Media is a media conglomerate that owns half the newspapers, a third of the television networks, and one of the biggest media streaming sites in the country. Add in a few magazines, publishing companies, and radio stations, and there pretty much isn’t a medium out there that they don’t have their fingers in.
He nods grimly. “Yeah. Tyler’s a great guy though. You wouldn’t know from meeting him that he’s a Grant. I think he likes it that way too — he’s always tried to distance himself from the family business. Although, of course, when you’ve got a family like that, it’s hard to get too far away.”
“I bet.” I actually can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up under a business like that. Even with Mom and Dad owning the flower shop, there’d always been a little pressure on us to get involved in the business, maybe even take over one day. I help out with marketing all the time, but I have to admit that running a flower shop has never really piqued my interest. I’m lucky that Blake works there now, so that helps take some of the pressure off Emma and me.
“I think that’s him over there, actually,” Wes says, pointing to a couple sitting at a small table over in the corner. “Shall we?”
I nod and he leads me through the restaurant, towards his friend. I try to get a read on him as we walk. He’s handsome, in a cocky sort of way, with dark hair that’s just a little bit too long and untamed. His grey eyes are sparkle with cheer when he sees Wes. He stands and clasps his hand warmly and they do that bro-shake that involves a half-hug and clap on the back. When they’ve exchanged greetings, Wes steps back and puts his hand gently on my lower back.
The touch makes me shiver. His fingers graze the area just below my waistline, and all I can think about is how much I want him to move them lower, even though we’re in the middle of this extremely fancy restaurant and everyone would be able to see. I’m so distracted by the thought that I barely hear him introduce me to Tyler. I have to wrench myself back into the moment when I see Tyler extend his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Rori,” he says smoothly. “Wes has told me a lot about you.”
“Not that much,” Wes protests, but Tyler grins.
“Likewise,” I say, shaking his hand. “Thank you so much for extending the invitation.”
“Not at all,” he says. “I’m determined to get Wes a membership here, and bringing a gorgeous date is only goi
ng to help make his case.”
I sneak a glance at Wes and wonder if he’s going to point out to Tyler that this isn’t a date, but he doesn’t say anything, just smiles.
I glance down at the woman still sitting at the table. She’s turned to her phone now and is ignoring us completely. Her blonde hair hangs in her face, and I realize she’s much younger than I initially thought she was. Her purple eyeshadow shimmers in a way that only someone in their very early twenties can pull off.
“Hi,” I say, hoping I’m not interrupting anything. “I’m Rori.”
She glances up, appraises me, then looks back down at her phone without answering.
I shoot a side glance at Wes and he shrugs. Tyler looks slightly embarrassed.
“This is Amber,” he says. “Amber, this is Wes Lake and his date, Rori Holloway.”
At Wes’s name, she perks up. “Wes Lake. GoldLake, right? I’ve heard about you.”
“None of it’s true,” Wes says with an easy grin.
She smiles like she can’t tell if he’s joking or not, and then decides to go for broke and tosses her long blonde hair casually over her shoulder. “I’m sure some of it’s true,” she says. Her bottom lip sticks out just enough to make the flirtation in her voice unmistakable.
Tyler looks embarrassed, but Wes, to his credit, completely ignores the innuendo. He pulls out one of the empty chairs and gestures for me to sit, before tucking me neatly in to the table.
“Wine, Rori?” Tyler asks, waving a bottle of red.
“Sure. Thanks.” I suddenly feel incredibly nervous about being here with Wes’s friends. Apparently I didn’t really think this through when I agreed to be his date for the evening. A glass of wine should take the edge off.
“So Wes tells me you run a marketing firm?”
“Yes, just a small one. Marigold Marketing. We mostly work for charities and non-profits.”
“So it has to be a real switch to work for GoldLake,” he teases. “You must have given Wes quite the pitch.”
“Actually, it’s the opposite — Wes was the one pitching me.”
“Is that so?” Tyler raises his eyebrows, and glances at Wes. I look over too, but Wes is suddenly very focused on the cocktail menu. “Well, there must have been something about you that he liked.”
