Up until now, I’ve had this man up on a fantasy pedestal. Good looking, shrouded in mystery, and a prickly, complicated personality. I’ve made him out to be some mystical being, the man who could prove that some men are givers not takers.
That bubble is about to burst.
I can feel it.
And I’m not sure I want it to.
I check my mirrors and pull into traffic.
Chapter Sixteen
“Thanks for taking the weekend off, Ginnie. I’ve been dying to do a girl’s spa day. Can’t wait for tomorrow.” Olivia lets out a little squee! and hands me a flute of freshly poured champagne from the bar beside us. Supposedly, this is one of her favorite Manhattan hangouts, but I think she likes the fact it’s a block from her apartment. The dark wood paneling and photos of Supreme Court justices on the wall make it feel like a cave of justice and doom. And the crowd seems a little too stuffy, even for her, Miss Preppy, who’s currently dressed in a black pantsuit. I’m definitely feeling out of place in my jeans and white sweater with hummingbirds.
“Why does everyone look like they just came from court?” I whisper.
“Uh, because they’re all attorneys. Like me.” She smiles at some silver-haired man walking by. “Hey, Carl.”
“Nice to see you, Olivia. Congrats on that big cat you bagged.” He keeps going.
She turns her attention back to me.
“Big cat?” I ask.
“Oh, he means some kitty litter, patent-infringement thing I was working on. We got a huge settlement today.”
“Congratulations.” I reach over and pat her leg.
“It was nothing.” She swipes her hand through the air, grinning from ear to ear. “But it might be big enough to score me a place as partner.”
“Wow. So soon?”
She shrugs bashfully.
“Don’t downplay this.” I wag a finger at her. “I know how hard you work.”
“I don’t want to come across as bragging,” she says.
“Vi, you’re my best friend. Brag away.” I sip my champagne, but it’s not hitting the spot, so I set it back on the bar.
“I’d rather talk about what happened with Mr. Wish.”
“No thanks.” It’s been five days, and I still haven’t called that woman. I haven’t Googled Mason McMillan either. Every time I’ve been tempted, it’s made me feel sick.
“Did he really give you five mil?” she says in a low voice, not to be overheard by a group of three guys in pin-striped suits next to us.
“I’m not keeping it,” I reply.
“Why not?”
“Since when have you known me to accept charity from anyone?”
“This is different.” Vi leans back on her barstool. “It’s like winning the lotto. Yes, from a crazy person. But still—”
“Don’t call him crazy.”
“Whoa. Sorry. Have I missed something? Did you two become BFFs while I wasn’t looking?”
“Not exactly.” I grind my teeth, feeling my frustration percolate. Not with her, but with myself. Why am I dragging this out?
“Then why are you defending him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” What I need to do is search that name. Maybe I should do it tonight while I’m here with Vi. That way if it’s truly horrible, she can be there for moral support.
“Can I get you ladies another round?” asks the bartender, a tall woman with short brown hair and a tiny gold bottle charm on her necklace. It reminds me of what thrift store woman said.
“I’d like a scotch. Neat,” I add.
“Sure. Any distillery in particular?” She nods toward the shelf behind her.
“I’m not a regular drinker, so whatever’s good.”
“Give her the expensive stuff. On me.” Vi points to a bottle on the tippy-top shelf, sitting all alone.
“Coming right up.” The bartender goes for the bottle.
“Scotch, huh?” says Vi. “You are having a rough week. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
I know Moose already told her what went down at my house, but no one knows about the horse ranch, the lady in the thrift store, or that kiss. God, that kiss. Still gives me tingles just thinking about it. It was magical.
“Nah. Maybe later,” I reply.
The bartender places a square glass tumbler in front of me and pours two fingers of amber liquid.
I take the glass and give it a whiff. The aroma reminds me of a campfire in the forest—smoky and woodsy. “Thanks.”
“Enjoy.” As she pulls the bottle away, the label catches my eye. McMillan.
My heart does a little skip. No. It has to be a coincidence. Then again, that woman at the thrift store specifically said I should have a good scotch.
Shit. I knew it! He’s some sleezy rich playboy, involved in some horrible scandal and probably knocked up a bunch of hot models, and now he’s being forced to do community service by some Scottish court under some four-hundred-year-old Highlander law.
“You okay?” Vi asks.
With a shaky hand, I dig out my phone and type the name Mason McMillan into my browser. Wait. What? My eyes see the words, but my brain can’t wrap around them. “I’m going to be sick.”