Chloe: You don’t HAVE to find a job. You know you can work at Frost Industries anytime you want. Besides, maybe Ethan can find a job up here for you!!!!
Me: Ethan is not finding me a job!!!
Chloe: Why not?
Me: Because I have some pride
I graduated a couple of weeks ago, at the end of August, ready to take on the world. Hence the whole clean-up-my-act shtick that I’ve got going on. Too bad the world—and the job market—has been singularly underwhelmed by my presence in it.
Chloe: :(
Chloe: I miss you
Me: I miss you, too
There’s nothing else to say, so I slide my phone back in my bag. Rest my head against the back of the seat. Close my eyes. I know the Frosts need to be in San Francisco right now—Chloe can’t go to Stanford Law and live in San Diego full-time, after all—but I miss my best friend. And I miss her little girl, Violet, who is the absolute sweetest baby ever. It’s September, so they’ve only been gone a few weeks—and they’ve even been back to San Diego twice in that time, including for my graduation—but it’s not the same. We used to see each other every day, and texting doesn’t feel the same. Not to mention I missed Violet sitting up on her own for the very first time yesterday. Of course Ethan’s baby is doing everything a little early…
Thank God the Uber pulls up in front of my complex before I can get a full brood going. I shove a few crumpled dollar bills into the driver’s hand for a tip before making my way toward my condo. I know what I should do. I should go upstairs, should pour myself that glass of wine and take a nice, long bubble bath. But my neighbor—and longtime friend, Kathy Styffe—is having her engagement party tonight and I told her I’d stop by if I made it back in time.
And since my night was a total bust, I am definitely back in time. Which is why, when the elevator opens, I punch the button for the roof instead of my floor. I helped plan the thing, after all. It’s pretty much required that I at least make an appearance. Besides, the bride is an absolute doll. And so, so excited about this party that the last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings by not showing up.
One drink, I promise myself as I step out onto the rooftop terrace. One drink, a little mingling, and then downstairs to my comfy pajamas and 10 Things I Hate About You, my total go-to movie on nights when nothing works out the way I want it to. It’s hard to be sad—or annoyed or anything but happy—when a young, beautiful Heath Ledger is charming the pants off the very cantankerous Julia Stiles.
As I begin weaving my way slowly through the young and beautiful trust fund crowd, I glance around. Get the lay of the land. No doubt about it—the whole roof has been transformed into a darkly elegant wonderland. It looks even better than Kathy and I imagined it would when we were planning it.
The wrought-iron railings are bedecked with garlands of wine-colored roses twisted through with twinkle lights.
Each black-linen-covered table has a gorgeous elevated rose centerpiece surrounded by flickering candles in jeweled holders.
More wine-colored roses crowd the surface of the water, the pool light shining from beneath them and giving them an otherworldly glow.
Even the cabanas have been given a makeover—their normally heavy canvas curtains replaced by diaphanous ones, tied back with more floral garlands dripping with lights.
The whole place looks ethereal but sexy—exactly what Kathy wanted for the party.
Different food stations are set up throughout the roof, with the two bars catty-corner to each other, just as we’d planned. It’s a good design—it keeps the foot traffic flowing and the people mingling—so that there’s a happy buzz in the air as I head toward the closest bar.
Party etiquette 101: It’s always easier to work a room with a drink in your hand. It loosens you up, makes you more willing to talk, and refreshing it gives you an excuse to get away once the conversation turns boring—which it inevitably will. Especially in this crowd.
Unfortunately for me, I never make it to the bar. I keep getting stopped by people who want to catch up—I’ve known a lot of the party guests since I was in diapers, so the fact that I’ve pulled a disappearing act for much of the last couple of months hasn’t exactly gone unnoticed. And since the last thing I want to do is explain that I’ve spent the last weeks deliberately avoiding them as I try to clean up my life, the conversations get awkward fast. And since I hate awkward silences more than just about anything, I feel a lot like I’ve hit the first circle of Dante’s hell.
Maybe that’s why I take the first drink a waiter offers without paying too much attention to what it is. Then the second. Then the third. Because I can’t stand the way everybody is staring me, can’t stand the speculative looks about my private life or the searching looks as they try to figure out what’s wrong with me. These looks—the way they’re studying me—is why I always have a different hairstyle, a different tattoo, a flamboyant outfit or pair of shoes. Give them something on the outside to talk about and they’ll leave what’s happening on the inside alone.
But tonight, even my hot-pink dress and oil-slick hair with its shades of pink and purple and turquoise on black can’t keep people from digging a little. I deflect as best I can, but when someone takes the fourth drink out of my hand and steers me toward the makeshift dance floor at the end of the terrace, I don’t say no. Not even when I realize that the person guiding me through the crowd is none other than Chloe’s brother and my archnemesis, Miles freaking Girard.
Chapter 2
Miles
Tori’s a mess. A gorgeous mess, with her short, multicolored hair sticking up in all directions and her hot-pink bandage dress hugging her gentle curves, but a mess nonetheless. Her brown eyes are blurry, her cheeks flushed, and she’s trembling a little as I pull her onto the dance floor and into my arms.
Most nights she’d never allow me to touch her—understandable considering she pretty much hates my guts—but tonight she comes along without protest. The fact that she’s so pliable is in and of itself a cause for concern, but the way she’s trembling, the way she lets me mold her body against my own, the way she tossed back three glasses of champagne in under half an hour—yes, I’ve been watching her since she stepped off the elevator—tells me that something’s wrong.
Not that she’s going to tell me what it is, and not that I’m going to ask. But I’m not going to let my little sister’s best friend get totally trashed, either—not when half the guys here look like they’re just waiting to move in for the kill.
The second clue I get that something’s not quite right is the fact that she doesn’t say anything to me at all, even after I’ve got her wrapped up in my arms. On a normal day Tori’s a mouthy little thing—one who has no trouble letting me know just how much she despises me—and the fact that she’s keeping her mouth shut right now does more than tell me something’s wrong. It makes me worry.
The song ends on a whisper and the DJ switches things up, taking us from slow and sexy to fast and hot with the swipe of a finger across his screen. I spin her around a little, move us across the dance floor. Then as the chorus hits, I spin her all the way out before pulling her back in with a sharp tug that has her body slamming into me in the best possible way.