I did not drink a drop of alcohol through dinner and politely ignored Amber’s death stares. The stainless beauty of her, paired with the fact her husband thought I was subpar, rattled something I hadn’t known existed in me. Luckily, her daughter, Clementine, who looked to be around nine years old, turned out to be an unexpected delight. I hit it off with the little ginger thing immediately. We talked about which princess dresses were the best (Cinderella and Belle, hands down), then about our favorite superheroines. (That was where we agreed to disagree. Clementine exclaimed Wonder Woman was her first choice, while I thought the clear, obvious answer was Hermione Granger. Which led to another subargument about whether Hermione was a superheroine or not.)
(She definitely was.)
Clementine was fantastic. Open and bright and full of humor. It helped that she looked nothing like her grim father and gorgeous mother. A completely fresh entity, with different coloring, a constellation of freckles on her nose, and uneven teeth.
I got into bed early, avoiding all communication with my fake fiancé, and was delighted when I woke up in the morning and not only felt brand new but found Chase sleeping on the floor again. I took a moment to watch the frown between his eyebrows as he slept, the thick slash of his dark eyebrows pinched together. A pang of something warm and unwarranted unfurled in my chest.
Devilishly handsome.
I turned my back to him and slept through the morning, but not before writing him a note and leaving it exactly where he’d left his, on the nightstand.
C,
Thank you for brushing my teeth Friday night.
Next time don’t use all the hot water.
PS:
You’d look ridiculous on a horse.
—M
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE
I crumpled Madison’s last note while she was in the shower before slam-dunking it into the trash can. I scribbled another one before she came out.
M,
Can’t help but notice you failed to comment about the jasmines. No wonder we broke up. You’ve always been unappreciative (Xmas diamond earrings come to mind).
PS:
Re: me on a horse. Do I smell a bet?
—C
I had trouble wrapping my head around the fact my convenient, timid ex-girlfriend had turned into a feisty, take-no-bullshit warrior.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.” I put the pen down. I expected Dad. We hadn’t had time to talk one-on-one during the weekend, and I wondered if he’d picked up on the tension between Jul and me. We hadn’t had many weekend-long family gatherings with Julian in the past three years. Not since Dad had announced I’d be chief operating officer of Black & Co., the second-in-command to his CEO and chairman position. He’d given Julian the CIO position—chief information officer—and the message was clear: I was to inherit the CEO seat when it was time for Dad to retire.
Julian had been resentful since then. He thought, considering he was the elder “son,” that he would be the natural successor. Only he didn’t feel so much like a son anymore and opted out of most family gatherings these days. In fact, I was surprised he’d come to the Hamptons. But of course he had—he’d wanted to see Madison, find out what kind of woman I’d decided to marry.
I looked up at the open door. It wasn’t Dad. It was Amber.
Fucking Amber.
She wore a pair of leather pants tighter than a condom and a blouse she’d conveniently forgotten to button around her generous, surgically enhanced rack. Her dyed-blonde hair was freshly blown out, and her face was immaculately made up, including her painted-on eyebrows, which gave her a Bert-from-Sesame-Street edge. I jutted my chin out in hello but didn’t stop shoving Mad’s clothes into her suitcase. My fake fiancée’s unaccountability infuriated me. She had nonexistent organizational skills. I couldn’t trust her to be ready in time, and I wanted to be out of here before we hit traffic. Another prime reason we were a terrible fit.
And here was another one, in case I was tempted to dip into Madison’s jar ever again—she was a dreadful drunk. On a scale of one to Charlie Sheen, she was a solid Mel Gibson. Embarrassing to be associated with. Still, I applauded myself for being pleasant and supportive of her when she’d been about to pass out. Of course, I’d had to be. She was my fake fiancée, and tossing her to another room, letting her fend for herself, seemed cold, even by my arctic standards.
“Are you alone?” Amber pouted, crossing her arms over her chest to push her tits out. She was all class.
“Madison’s in the shower,” I supplied without looking up.
She took that as an invitation to waltz in and park her ass on the edge of the bed, on which the suitcase was open. I continued cramming burnable fabrics into the open jaw of the luggage, wondering who the fuck made the weird clothes Madison was purchasing with gusto. I tried to look at the labels, but there weren’t any. Very promising stuff.