I make a few mental adjustments to the build, adding masculine shades of blue, green, and gray that perfectly offset Nathan’s mahogany hair and thornbush eyes. There’s a billiard room and a bar and I’ll probably keep the deck and library because something tells me he might like them. Considering his villain era vibes, I add an office with an imposing desk, a hulking leather chair, and a secret passageway lurking behind enormous bookshelves.
“Wow,” I whisper. “This is really gonna be something.”
When I look back to my companions, Nathan is staring at me with open disdain, and I don’t know what I’ve done to earn it.
I promised myself I’d make the best of this situation, but we’re twenty minutes in and one thing’s for sure:
I don’t like Nathan West.
TWO
Nathan
It’s a gorgeous day. A handful of clouds float through an azure sky. Sunlight glimmers over the ocean that’s soon to be my backyard and a breeze dances through the air.
I’m too hungover to appreciate any of it.
Damn Dominick Taylor and his ability to short circuit my common sense by dangling wealthy donors in front of me. I court them while he scandalizes their daughters, nieces, and mistresses. It’s a mutually beneficial deal…unless I have an early meeting.
I pull up to the site of my future home and curse. Not one, but two cars are parked and waiting, morning light slicing off their windows like knives into my brain.
Any other day I would have gotten here first, but my head was throbbing and the world was spinning and funny thing about that, it tends to slow a person down. I’m better with a chance to process my surroundings before other people arrive. A chance to plan what I want to say, and, most importantly, a chance to plan my escape for when conversation inevitably turns to how cool it must have been to grow up with Collin and Harlow West as parents.
And it was cool, just not for the reasons people expect. They want stories of fame and fortune, of drunken parties with celebrities and gallivanting around the globe in private jets, not solid parenting, a stable home, and the knowledge that our wealth doesn’t make us inherently better than anyone.
I kill the engine with a sigh.
I am so not in the mood for this.
The meeting hasn’t even started and I’m ready for it to be over, which is a shame because, thanks to Dom and his coaching, I’m actually excited about having this house built. It’ll be nothing like my current home, one that suits my needs and nothing more. Nothing extravagant. Everything practical. My old place basically begs the world to see me as normal.
I’ve been afraid of my money. Afraid to enjoy the finer things in life.
No more. This new house will be an ode to things I never knew I wanted. To the lifestyle the rest of the world thinks I already lead. It’s like Dom says, “People love a good show. Why not put on the costume and play the role they expect?”
I park beside an older Honda. Well cared for but limping close to the finish line of usefulness. A woman leans on the hood, nodding emphatically as she talks to herself, a sleek black ponytail bouncing as she bobs her head. Fair skin. A cute nose, pretty smile, luscious curves wrapped in black slacks and a filmy white blouse. Perky gestures punctuate her sentences. She’s really giving herself a talking to. Probably about her choice of shoes. Who wears heels to a build site?
I laugh and it feels good, though foreign.
I need to remember to do that more.
Turning that thought into a promise, I swing open my car door, stretching my back and turning my face to the sky before slipping a pair of sunglasses into place. I’d hoped my headache would be better by now. No luck there. A bolt of shame twists in my belly. Nathan West doesn’t get sloppy drunk and he sure as hell doesn’t show up to meetings hungover.
But that was before my girlfriend cheated on me.
Before I realized people see me as a resource rather than a person.
Before I decided it was time to do whatever it takes to expand the foundation.
So, I drink more than I used to. And I don’t trust people to be who they say they are. And I work so much my family worries, especially now that I’ve caught the attention of Fallon fucking Mae, the gossip and entertainment blogger from hell.
I don’t know what I did to that woman, but she hates me.
And after weeks of being her favorite punching bag, the feeling is mutual.
I run a hand over my jaw, inwardly willing away the icepick in my temple as the hint of stubble scritch-scratch against my palm. I’m done drinking like that. I’m done feeling like this.
It’s time to stop acting like an asshole and start acting like myself again.
Whatever that means.
The woman leaning on the car beside me is still talking to herself. Her personal pep talk is endearing, though she’d probably die of embarrassment if she caught me staring. Which she does, meeting my eyes as if she can hear my thoughts. She laughs lightly—a quick toss of her head makes that ponytail dance—then smiles and waves like she isn’t embarrassed at all.
I used to respect confidence like that. It was one of the things that attracted me to my ex, Blossom. But now, brazen confidence makes me instantly question a person’s true motivations. No one’s that assured without a hint of narcissism, a dash of sociopathy, or a streak of ulterior motive running through everything they do.
My phone pings.
I give the woman a quick wave, then check my notification as a distraction. There’s a message from the architect in the group chat, quickly followed by one from Dom. I dismiss the first—better to talk face to face since we’re all here—and open the second.
Dom
Fallon fucking Mae strikes again.
She just posted a new article with pics from last night
You look good
I look better
