“Hardly.” I paint on a flirty smile. “And I get it, you’re here more than you’re not.”
His hand still holding mine, he lowers us into the chairs. “Will that be a problem?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being hardworking.” I shake my head.
“I don’t want you to see me as neglectful.” He gauges my reaction, but I’m trained in the art of ‘smile now, pout later.’ Not that I will.
“I lived with not one, but two career-driven parents. I’m used to late-night dinners and canceled family vacations.” I push my long brown hair over my shoulders, and his ocean eyes fall to my neck.
I know why I have to marry this man.
I know his business will boom once my name is tied to his.
My parents hinted at a second location for Filano Law, which would mean Admiral Law would be no more; they’re already ruling over the East Coast, which is why we moved in the first place, and it seems Anthony will soon lead the way on the West.
I wonder if his business partner is aware of this?
Regardless, it would be negligent of me to pretend far more risqué reasons don’t exist—arm candy goes a long way in the world of benefit dinners and government balls.
Slowly, he brings his gaze back to mine, a smile on his salmon-colored lips. “On that note, we won’t be making it to the yacht today. I took the liberty of ordering in for us.”
Right as he shares the news, a light tap sounds on the outside of the door and he calls for them to enter.
Four people usher in a cart swiftly pushed by one as the others make quick work of setting up a station for us to eat.
I’m not surprised when a bleeding steak with fresh roasted vegetables is placed in front of Anthony. It’s exactly what I’d order for him if he were ever to run late and require my doing so, as it’s the exact meal he’s chosen every time we’ve gone out.
I expect a pile of sauce-drowned pasta or fresh risotto to be lowered onto my setting, but what I get is a pile of greens lacking any sort of dressing, not to mention the best part of a dreaded salad—fresh baked croutons! I’m convinced it’s simply a starter, but as the group swiftly grabs their things and prepares to exit, I’m reminded that false hope sucks, just as this lunch is about to.
The woman who placed it before me sneaks an apologetic smile, begging me not to question the meal, so this time, I won’t.
The rest of the meal is spent with me savoring cherry tomatoes while burying leaves of kale in the napkins, and Anthony stuck on his phone.
My cheek is kissed as I exit, and I rush out so my stomach doesn’t decide to growl and give me away in his presence.
As I step inside the house, my sister is just emerging from her room.
“Hey.” She lights a cigarette—her meal for the afternoon—and falls back on the couch, pointing a mocking grin at my outfit.
“Don’t.”
I quickly tear the itchy blazer from my body, tossing it to the floor, only to pick it back up, knowing if I don’t, Gennie will be forced to when she gets here later.
“I was only going to ask how tea with the queen went?”
I flip her off and she giggles, stretching her legs along the cushions.
“A package came for you.” She blows smoke rings into the air. “I put it on your bed.”
With a huff, I tear a piece of French bread from the loaf I hid in the oven last night and make my way to my room.
On my comforter, a large rectangular box with a blinging silver bow sits.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I pull on the silken ribbon.
I slip it from the ends and remove the lid.
My brows snap together when the item is revealed.
It’s not a pastel or pallid.
It’s a slinky, long-sleeved plunge neck dress that’s ruched throughout. And red.
A deep, valiant red.
“Your favorite color, and a mighty contrast from the First Lady shit a certain fiancé-to-be sends over.” Monti steps inside, lowering herself on the chaise at the foot of my bed.
I scoff, running my fingers over the delicate, daring piece. Gently lifting it from the box, I spin toward the mirror to hold it up in front of my body.
Without trying it on, I already know it will be a perfect fit, tight in all the right places and teasingly flashy. The fold-over dip that runs high on the left thigh is provocative and tempting on its own, and creates a flare of excitement within me, one that has me pulling in a long, full breath and holding it.
Monti comes up beside me, her eyes on the dress through the mirror as she whispers in a dreary tone, “It’s not from him, is it?”
It takes me several seconds, but I meet her gaze.
“Who else would it be from?”
Walking into school is far less exciting than the start of senior year should be.
Maybe it’s because the year of possibilities and wonder that helps pave the path that follows is pointless for an eighteen-year-old girl who has the next decade fully mapped out for her.
As an honor student, like a solid eighty-seven percent of this school as well as my last, I have only three required classes, so the rest of my time is filled with pointless extracurriculars to help fluff my portfolio—again, pointless.
It does, however, help pass the time, and with the way summer got old fast, it’s better this than that. Or at least that’s the speech I give myself throughout the day, each and every time the desire to chop my own head off seeps in.
“Cali, what happened at your last party?” Amy asks, a bit of an edge to her voice.
My eyes snap to her.
“You were there, were you not?” Cali glances up from her phone briefly.
“I left early,” she snaps.
Cali only shrugs, setting her phone beside her on the tabletop.
“People said there was a blackout,” Amy pushes further. “And guess who has been staring over here for the last twenty minutes?” She seems as equally annoyed as she does pleased. “I wonder why that would be?”
Cali’s fork hovers over a slice of cucumber, her head jerking in the direction Amy indicated, and most of us around the table, including myself, follow.
Sure enough, there they are, tucked in the corner near the door.
Ransom is leaning back against the table, his legs lazily stretched in front of him, knees bent; Beretta straddles the bench seat at his side, and Arsen sits on the opposite side.
All three wear a frown of some sort, all three pointed this way.
Are there others around them? Sure, but they aren’t the focus right now.
Beretta’s eyes meet mine. While the frown stays strong, he delivers a quick wink, and I turn back to find Amy staring.
She quickly flicks her dull brown eyes away, but I don’t. I wait her out, and her attention comes right back, this time with a frigid smile curling her bright pink lips.
The thing about Amy is... well, she’s a bitch. She likes to state the obvious to make people uncomfortable, pretends her conversations are all random, so she can make sure others are aware of whatever it is she chooses to share, the kick her while she’s down type. She likes gossip, loves attention, and loathes competition, not that she sees me as hers.
She’s the kind of girl I make a point to avoid.
Pretty little pretenders’ stakes are always razor sharp, within reach, and more often than not, shooting for the spine.