Connected, blue-blooded, well-bred women with pedigrees, because people in New England with old money breed their families like prized poodles.
None of them compare to her.
Magnolia Grantham is a bona fide Southern Belle with Louisiana manners and big city boldness, and I’ve yet to find another woman like her.
And fuck, I’ve looked. I spent an entire summer fucking any woman I could find with the winning combination of long legs, chestnut hair and a southern accent.
“Be safe, Mags.”
“Stop calling me Mags. Please.”
“Couldn’t if I tried.” I step into her space, brushing her hair away from her shimmering chocolate eyes. “You’ll always be Mags to me.”
We stand frozen for a moment, neither of us inhaling until she steps away and lunges for the door.
I wonder if she knows how hard it is to stand right fucking next to her and not lose my fingers in her hair, press her up against the wall, and smash her lips with mine.
One night.
For one whole night, Magnolia Grantham was mine. The next morning, after breakfast, she inexplicably wouldn’t speak two words to me. And when we got back to New York, she turned in her notice and joined the Van Cleef Agency.
All those years we’d worked together, I thought Magnolia was playing hard to get.
It turned out she was hard to get.
Correction—is still hard to get.
One of two things needs to happen this weekend: I need to fuck Magnolia Grantham one last time, or I need to fucking get her out of my system once and for all.
At the very least, I’m going to gift her with a punishing kiss, one to make her weak in the knees and filled with repentance. A man doesn’t pour his heart out to his best friend, declare his love for her, then watch her walk out of his life the next day without so much as an explanation.
She owes me. I’m going to make her sorry she was never mine.
Chapter 3
MAGNOLIA GRANTHAM
Where is he?
I scan the room for Nate Green, a former client of mine. His sandy blond hair and sky-scraping height should make him stand out in this crowded little restaurant, but I’m not spotting a single familiar face.
My phone reads eight twenty. Not so much as a text message saying he’s running late.
“Ma’am, may I get you another drink?” A young female server clasps her hands across her chest, clutching a pastel green notepad.
The martini glass before me is empty save for three stuffed olives resting on a toothpick. I love their taste, but not their texture.
“I’ll just have water, please. Thank you.” I can’t get too sloshed before Nate shows up. He’ll think I’m the kind of girl who can’t have a decent conversation until she’s had a couple of drinks, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.
My server returns with a tall glass of still water, and I give the room another glance. Multicolored strands of party lights hanging from the rafters give this place a warm feel. The white tablecloths make it seem like a scene from Lady and the Tramp.
I fire off a text to Nate, asking if everything is okay and telling him I have a table in the far corner.
Ten minutes pass without a response.
Either something catastrophic has happened to him or I’ve just been stood up.
Damn it.
It’s always the ones you least suspect. Nate chatted my ear off the entire Jitney ride, and though he’s not typically my type, I found myself warming up to him. He grew on me in those short three hours. As a client, he was mildly disinteresting and almost unmemorable. Benign and hardly picky. He placed an offer on the first condo I showed him and called it good.
Guess he’s choosier when it comes to his dating life.
I pick my flattened ego off the floor and leave a twenty on the table, slipping out with nothing but appreciation for the fact that I didn’t know a single person in there.
A smattering of Hamptons-style dance clubs line the street, and I’m drawn to the one with the cerulean blue awning and the marquee sign. It’s equal parts gaudy and vacation-y, and most Manhattanites wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that, but I’m in the mood for a change of scenery.
I pay my cover and step inside. Darkness fills the spaces between flashing disco lights, and I head toward the bar the second my eyes adjust and order my second dirty martini of the night.
Patrons shuffle in in small groups, save for the twenty-person bachelorette party that came in a few minutes after me.
If I hear one more “Whoo hoo!” from any of those girls, I’m packing up and heading to the club across the street.
“Alexa, look at that him! You should totally ask for his number.”
“No way. I can’t do that.”
“He’s so fucking hot. Do it. If you don’t do it, I’ll do it for you. I’ll ask him out for you.”
“This isn’t junior high.”
While the two plastered girls to my left squawk over some apparently handsome piece of ass, I toss my drink back and debate my next move. I wanted to hit up the farm stands tomorrow and maybe find a nice winery to tour before spending the afternoon combing the beach for sea glass and shells.
I take a final glance around the room, my eyes focusing on a man in the corner in navy khakis and a crisp, white button down shirt cuffed at the elbows. He’s nursing a beer with an orange slice floating on top and looking straight at me.
My cheeks redden. Maybe he was gazing at the sloshed girls? It’s hard to see in here. I could be wrong. I dare myself to look back once more. The intensity of his stare has only dialed up another notch, and he hasn’t so much as moved or flinched. Our gazes lock again, and his lips curl into a slow, apprehensive smile that my buzzed self interprets as absolutely charming in every way.
I return to my drink, finding it empty, and refuse to meet his gaze again. Aside from my leggy getup, I’m a refined southern lady with a very strict protocol when it comes to the opposite gender. I don’t approach them. They approach me. If he wants me, he can come my way.
“Excuse me,” a velvet voice buzzes into my ear, taking precedence over the pumping dance music that encircles us.
I swivel on my bar stool, crossing my legs and fighting the smile that threatens to dismount my poker face when I realize he’s a million times more gorgeous up close. He could tell me he’s one of those models riding a polo pony on a billboard in Times Square and I’d believe him.
This man is Hamptons Handsome.
“I’m Benedict,” he says, leaning in so I can hear him better.
“Like the traitor,” I yell over the music.
“Ah, you know my great-great-great-great-grandfather.” He’s good—quick on his feet. I like that.
His breath smells of peppermint and citrus, and his warm body permeates soap, suede, and sandalwood. He’s a foreign concoction of what no-strings vacation sex should feel like . . . if I were that kind of girl.
“Yes, I know him well.” I cringe on the inside at my corny response. It’s not funny. It’s something a drunk, nervous person says, and I’m neither of those.
At least I don’t think I am . . .
“You’re from the city.” He’s not asking.
“What gave it away?” I cock my head to the side, sweeping my hair over one shoulder.
“Because I own this place, and I’ve never seen you here before.”
“A local? Oh.”
“You have something against locals?”
“Should I have something against locals? Is there something I don’t know?”
“It’s the tourists you have to watch for. Maybe I should be wary of you?” He softens his retort with a sly smile, his eyes comfortably locked into mine.
Benedict pounds his fist on the bar two times to grab the bartender’s attention and points at my drink. Before I have a chance to protest, the poor sap with a sweat-glazed forehead mixes me another cocktail.
“Is this your first time in the Hamp
tons?” he asks. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like the space separating us has suddenly grown tighter.
I nod. “I’m staying at my boss’s place in Montauk.”
“What do you do for a living?” His brows furrow as his hand covers the side of my arm. Smooth. “What was your name again?”
“Magnolia! There you are,” another man’s voice cuts through our conversation. We turn toward the voice, only to see Xavier striding toward us.
“You know that guy?” Benedict turns back to me.
The bartender slides my fresh drink my way, and I waste no time taking a generous sip.
Xavier takes the spot next to me, his hand gripping me just above the elbow. “I’ve been looking all over for you. We need to get going.”
“Why?” My feet plant, my body stiffening. I vow to handle this situation with grace now. But tonight? Xavier will feel my wrath.
Did he follow me here?
“We’re going to be late.” Xavier lifts his brows, like I’m suddenly supposed to be able to read his mind.
“Really?” I shoot him a dirty look.
“We’re meeting the rest of the crew down at the Beachcomber Slip for Naomi’s birthday party.”
He must think he’s so clever, inventing places and people neither of us knows to be real.
“I’m sure Naomi can wait,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Is everything okay?” Benedict directs his attention solely to me. “If Xavier’s bothering you, I can have him escorted off the premises.”
Oh. Interesting. They’re not strangers.
Xavier’s hand leaves my arm and hooks around my waist, tugging me into him. “She’s fine, Ben.”
“Yes. I’m fine. Both of you.” I wriggle out from Xavier’s grasp and step away from both of them. Xavier’s gaze holds steady and Benedict stands frozen, his gaze darting between us. I place my drink on the bar. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
By the time I get outside, a line has formed behind the red rope. The two bouncers checking IDs are locked in an argument with a group of girls who are clearly under twenty-one but outfitted like forty-year-old Atlantic City strippers.
“Magnolia.” Xavier’s voice calls to me once I’m an entire block away from the dance club.
I keep going, scanning the busy street for my parked car. Its location escapes me right now.
His footsteps grow closer, louder, faster. “Magnolia, stop.”
“Did you follow me here tonight?” I whip around, my fingers digging into my clutch as I point it in his face. “Because if you did, that’s completely inappropriate, and it makes me uncomfortable, and you promised you’d leave me alone this weekend.”
Xavier Fox, at least the version I once knew, was never a stalker. Never once did he creep me out or make me uncomfortable. But this man standing before me is more of a stranger to me than I ever thought possible.
“Believe it or not, I didn’t follow you,” he says. “Everybody knows Benedict’s club is where you go when you want to find an easy lay in the Hamptons.”
Everyone but me, apparently.
“So that’s what you were doing there?” My arm falls.
“Not really.”
“Liar.” Wouldn’t be the first time . . .
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. I’m self-assured enough that I don’t need your validation.” He adjusts his starched white shirt collar. “I happened to be passing by on my way to Sea Bar when I saw you go in. I wasn’t sure it was you, you know, because you said you were meeting a friend. No friends I know would ever take a respectable lady there. I went in to be sure, then I saw Benedict chatting you up. Guy’s a tried and true manwhore.”
“Takes one to know one.” I hate, hate, hate that he brings out the most juvenile side of me. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I act.
“Right.” His eyes roll. “Anyway, you can thank me later. Or your doctor will thank me. One less prescription he’ll have to write when you find out Benedict sent you home with a little souvenir called chlamydia.”
“Way to be crass.”
“I’m honest.”
“I’d hardly say you’re honest.”
I’m done. I don’t need to waste this beautiful Friday night in the Hamptons arguing on the sidewalk with Xavier over nothing. The black hood and silver emblem of the Volvo I drove catch my eye, and I fish my keys out of my bag.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Back to the house.”
“How much have you had to drink?”
“I don’t know. Two? Two and a half?”
“In the last hour?”
Who is he, my keeper?
“I don’t know?” I stopped tracking the time the second I left Nick and Toni’s.
He moves toward me, capturing my wrist and retrieving the keys from my clenched fist. “You’re not driving. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“For one, you’re buzzing, which means you’re probably over the legal limit, and second, it’s barely past nine and you’re going home like some lame ass.”
I dig the toe of my right heel into the pavement, my arms folded across my chest.
“I know you, Magnolia, and I know you didn’t get all dolled up just to call it an early night. Let’s have fun tonight. Like old times.”
He slips my keys into his pocket, a clear declaration that he’s not about to take “no” for an answer.
“Give me one night. If you don’t have fun, I’ll take the first seaplane back to Manhattan in the morning. You’ll have the Van Cleef house all to yourself, just like you wanted.”
Pieces of my heart still ache, burning back to life under a summer night’s sky peppered with tragically romantic stars. Two years have passed, and I still haven’t fully healed from the moment I realized everything about Xavier Fox was an illusion.
I told myself to forgive him. I convinced myself that ignoring him was the best chance I had at closing that chapter for good.
Funny how life brought me right back to him, as if the last several years of attempting to move on were spent in vain.
“We’ll have fun.” Xavier’s palms slide down my arms, running their length as my gaze finds his. His blue eyes glimmer against the marquee above us. Must be another club. “If at any point you’re not having fun, I’ll take you home, pack my bags, and be gone before you wake up in the morning.”
“Is that a promise?” Not that his promises mean much, but I’m not about to jump all over his offer like some giddy puppy dog.
“I promise.”
I groan. “Fine. Let’s go.”
The idea that I may possibly be able to enjoy myself tonight with him is as far fetched as they come.
He’s lucky I have nothing better to do tonight.
Chapter 4
XAVIER FOX
“Dance with me!”
Four hours. Three martinis. Two tequila shots.
Old Mags is back, smiling, laughing, dancing, and twirling.
Who needs fairy godmothers when alcohol does the trick?
“Come on!” Her full lips spread wide into a smile that takes up most of her pretty face. Her glassy eyes tell me she’s way past drunk, but I already knew that. We passed drunk a couple of hours ago.
“We should go,” I say, taking a sip of my water. I haven’t touched a drop of the good stuff all night. Someone’s got to take care of her, and I don’t mind because clearly, she needed this more than me. “Bars are closing in an hour.”
And she’s going to feel like shit in the morning if she doesn’t slow down.
Her body shimmies, and she cracks another wide smile. I love this girl. And I don’t mean it in the way people say when they talk about baseball or craft beer or the best man at their wedding.
I love Magnolia Grantham.
A handful of years ago, the world was ours for the taking. She was my best friend. My number one. She called me out on my shit, and I gave everything to her straight. Friday nights were ours. The Chinese ta
keout spot on her block knew us by name, and everyone who knew of us assumed we were some married powerhouse couple. Our inseparability grew from an organic place, transforming somewhere along the line into a simmering codependence that never truly went away.
Functioning these last two years without Magnolia has been the emotional equivalent of losing a limb.
She takes my hand and threads our fingers, leading me out to the middle of the crowded dance floor where some pseudo-famous DJ spins handcrafted remixes of Top 40 hits. She lifts my hand above her, doing a spin, and then takes my other hand in hers, placing my hands on her hips as she sways to the beat.
Magnolia’s arms rise above her head, and her face turns side to side, her long, dark waves falling around her shoulders. She’s a sweaty, exhilarated bundle of energy who’s showing no signs of slowing down.
The southern beauty queen dances in time, but it’s all slow motion to me. I savor this like it’s all going to be gone the second I wake up tomorrow, because that’s the reality of the situation. I step to the beat, gripping her hips and pulling her into me inch by inch. It’s nice not having her hate me, even if it’s only because she’s temporarily too drunk to remember to do so.
The song ends, and Magnolia pulls sticky strands of hair from her face. I always liked her better with her hair down. Disheveled. Carefree. But I liked her boardroom persona too. She’s a fucking shark when it comes to cutting deals.
It’s why we were perfect together. It’s why we were this close to owning the Manhattan real estate world before we fell apart for reasons unknown.
“Let’s go.” The song ends, and I lead her by the arm toward the side of the dance floor as the next number begins.
She pouts, and I neglect to inform her that I don’t want this night to end either—though I’m sure our reasons differ.
I lead her outside to the shiny red Corvette parked down the street between a platinum Porsche and a snow-white Audi coupe, both with New York plates. The flashing marquee signs and the warm glow of the street lamps paint her in vibrant shades of gold and amber.
I could kiss her right now—a punishing kiss—one that injects years of all-consuming regret from my lips to hers without saying a word. I need to feel her gorgeous smile against my mouth, and I want to press her against me, feeling how my body fills the parts of her that curve and bend.
The Perfect Illusion Page 22
