“No,” I rush out, swiping at another tear. “Just cut my dress up and did their best to ruin me.”
He scowls and lifts a thumb to my lip, brushing over the cut Scout gave me when he kissed me. “They hurt you.”
“Scout did that, but don’t worry, it’s the worst of it.”
His eyes penetrate me as he attempts to read past the surface. Of course there’s more to it. He may be the nice Constantine, but he’s still a Constantine—able to smell bullshit from a mile away. But, unlike Winston, he doesn’t demand answers or do everything in his power to extract them. It’s better that Perry came to my rescue rather than Winston. There’s no telling what Winston would do if he saw me in a wrecked state he had no part in.
Why?
Because he cares.
Right?
My self-doubt wars with logic.
As much as he would like to deny it, I know deep down he does. We wouldn’t have gotten ourselves in this mess to begin with if he didn’t. But I often wonder if it’s enough. Could someone like Winston Constantine—intense, handsome, incredibly successful—tie himself to a woman of not only another class entirely, but someone half his age? I’d like to think we have more in common than what appears on the surface. Only time will tell, I guess. Time. How much do we have? I push away the nagging memory of his words, of how I’m only his entertainment for this year, and next year it’ll be a yacht or a car.
“You can’t go to the party looking like that,” Perry utters, frustration evident in his tone. “You know that, right?” He sighs and pulls out his phone, sending a tremor of apprehension skittering through me. “Hold on. I know what to do.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Reinforcements.”
He starts talking on the phone, barking out orders in a way that reminds me of his older brother. I follow him out of the room and down the stairs. Once outside, my eyebrows lift at his car. He ends the call, pocketing the phone and chuckling.
“Sweet ride, am I right?”
I try not to grimace. “It’s so . . . orange.”
“It’s a 1969 Chevy Chevelle. Custom exterior and interior. Seventeen-inch wheels. A 454 big-block engine.” He flashes me a boyish grin. “Total chick magnet.”
That smile of his is the chick magnet, not the bright orange beast of a car.
“It looks like a pumpkin,” I blurt out, laughing.
“A pumpkin with badass white racing stripes and white leather interior.” He flips me off as he opens the passenger side door. “Your carriage to the ball, princess. Get in or walk. Your choice.”
I pretend to consider his ultimatum, tapping my chin with my finger. “Kidding.” Quickly, I hug him again. “Thank you.”
“You’re my brother’s girl. There’s nothing to thank me for.”
His brother’s girl.
A girl can certainly wish.
I’m stunned speechless as we make our way up the driveway to what Perry calls “the Constantine compound.” It’s bigger than any mansion I’ve ever seen. Maybe a few mansions shoved together. People are milling about everywhere, dressed in fancy gowns and tuxedos, reminding me that I have to get my ass into gear and quickly.
“I’m going to park in the garage. We’ll sneak in that way,” Perry assures me, flashing me a comforting smile.
I swipe my sweaty palms over the denim of my jeans. I’m thankful for Perry. There’s no way I could consider doing this without his help. If I’m Cinderelliott, then Perry is most definitely my fairy godmother, which means this story is completely, irretrievably fucked up.
Perry pulls into a garage bay, the loud engine echoing against the walls and rattling my bones. After he kills the engine, we climb out, rushing into the stately home. Rather than heading toward the sounds of piano and voices, Perry ushers me down a series of hallways. I’m practically running to keep up with him.
“This way is Tinsley’s room,” he says, grabbing my wrist.
“Tinsley?”
“Little sister.” He flashes me a grin over his shoulder. “Reinforcements.”
My heart does a little flutter that Winston’s siblings are helping me. I’ve felt so alone ever since Dad started dating Manda and then more so after they were married. I’d been delusional to be excited, at first, to have three stepbrothers. Being an only child, I always craved having siblings. Seeing how the Constantines stick together, it warms my heart, especially now that I feel like I’m a part of it.
“In here,” he says, pushing into a bedroom that’s bigger than the entire first floor of our brownstone. “Ash, meet Tinsley. Tins, meet Winston’s . . .”
“Assistant,” I throw out. “I’m his personal assistant. Ash Elliott.”
Tinsley, dressed in white denim shorts and a pale yellow halter top, turns to look my way. Her bright blue eyes are curious, though a bit apprehensive. All the Constantine kids look alike. Perfect, golden-haired, beautiful people who could easily be models or celebrities. Tinsley, though she seems younger than Perry and me, is every bit as gorgeous as the rest of them.