Swallowing, I hold his gaze as I ask, “Oliver?” Can one word, said like a question, be a lie? Because this feels like one. Acting like I don’t know who Oliver is feels unforgivably misleading.
Irritation colors Alec’s features. Not irritation with me, but with— “My brother. Half-brother.”
“And why wouldn’t he want to be in the same room as your mom?”
“Because he’s fucking ungrateful. My mother opened her home to him when his mom died, and in return, he treats her like a pariah.” He shakes his head as if to shed any ill will he has toward Oliver. “It doesn’t matter. He won’t be here. Thank God for small mercies.”
I focus all my energy on keeping the relief off my face. Maybe if Oliver won’t be around . . . “What about Portentia? Will she be coming?”
“Not if I have a girlfriend. My mother won’t invite her if I have a date. It would be too embarrassing.” He rocks back on his heels. “I know it’s all so petty and ridiculous, and I don’t expect you to understand the politics of my family. In fact, I couldn’t blame you if you saw me differently after all this, but I hope you won’t. I want to do this for my sister. Rose deserves her day to be about her—not about my mother’s plans to see me married off to someone she deems suitable.”
“Can I think about it?” I ask softly.
“Of course.” He studies my face before dropping his eyes to my mouth.
My skin heats at the memories his hot gaze evokes. Hot lips skimming over my bare shoulder, rough hands gripping my hips. I take a half step back, not fully trusting myself. “This can’t be real, Alec.” I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t make that clear. If he ended up hurt.
“I know where you stand,” he says.
I blow out a heavy breath. “Then I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Iwant to do this favor for Alec—and God knows it would probably benefit me more than him—but I’m a coward, and I don’t want him knowing my secrets.
I like to go to bed early so I can be up by five, but tonight I’ve been tossing and turning.
After an hour, I give up and grab my phone. Screens are the worst thing for my insomnia, but sometimes I just need to stop thinking about how I can’t sleep.
I scroll through Instagram, tapping like on kind and encouraging comments on my posts and ignoring the more suggestive and straight-up repulsive ones. I show my body on my Instagram because it’s good business. What it can do, how it makes me feel, and—whether I like it or not—how it looks. It’s all part of my brand, and I make the best of it. Unfortunately, there are men who think that because I post pictures of myself in sports bras and workout shorts, they’re entitled to me. I delete and block the worst of them and ignore the others.
I screenshot a couple of posts that are getting the best traction to send to my sponsors and then turn to my messages and message requests. The second is the place where messages go if I’m not otherwise connected to the person on Instagram. I used to ignore that space entirely, since it’s mostly home to notes and disturbing requests from weirdos, pervs, and creeps, but more and more companies have started reaching out to influencers through DMs rather than email. This little, hellish corner of social media sometimes hides opportunities I can’t afford to miss.
Because I’m procrastinating my second attempt at sleep, I scroll down farther than I have since I started checking over here. There are dozens of unread messages. Most are innocuous, in the vein of “How many crunches do I need to do each day to see my abs?” and “No matter how much weight I lose, the cellulite won’t budge. Help?” Many are sales pitches for magic pills and shit I’d never suggest to my clients, and some are straight-up vile. I’m about to close out the rest of the unread messages before a familiar name catches my eye. Oliver Rhett.
The message was sent over two years ago—not too long after our ill-fated reunion in L.A.
My hands shake as I tap it open.
Oliver_Rhett: I always said you could be strong, and fucking look at you now. I won’t pretend I’m not proud. Been thinking about you since you showed up at my sister’s place. Don’t be a stranger.
Butterflies make my stomach flip-flop. They’ve apparently forgotten that Oliver broke my heart.
For years, I’ve forbidden myself from looking him up. Cyberstalking an ex might be harmless for some, but I was always afraid of what keeping up with him would do to me. Afraid I might turn pathetic and forget how he used me. But now, when I need to decide if I can do this favor for Alec? Now I need to know for sure what he’s doing and where he is. I need to make sure saying yes won’t end up hurting Alec.
I click through to Oliver’s profile, relieved when I see it’s public.
His bio says he’s an agent and lists a couple of big-name UFC fighters he represents, along with some other athletes I don’t recognize. I had no idea that he’d gotten to pursue his dream career after all—but of course I didn’t. He skipped town and never came back.
I scroll down. The most recent post went up yesterday, and it’s a picture of him and some Formula One driver in Monte Carlo. Beautiful morning for breakfast in my favorite city! Two months until race day!
I’m relieved that I don’t have to worry Oliver might show up this weekend, but on the tail end of that relief is . . . something else. A bittersweet ache. How is it possible to miss someone so desperately when they hurt you so much?
Part Two
EIGHT YEARS AGO
CHAPTER THREE
SAVVY
Idon’t completely trust my judgment in this moment, but I’m ninety percent sure that rooms aren’t supposed to tilt to the side like this when you walk. And the little spinning thing that happens when I move my eyes too fast doesn’t seem normal either.
Five minutes ago, drunkenness was fun. It was the solution to all that ailed me.
Classes start on Monday? Bring it on!
My boyfriend’s an asshole? Who cares?
Can’t break up with him because I can’t risk messing with his head before the big fight? Tomorrow’s problem!
My brother has some guys with face tattoos looking for him, saying he owes them money? Hey, they might be nice guys when you get to know them.
But happy, don’t-give-a-shit drunk faded to feel-sick drunk way too fast once my friend Julie cut me off, and now I just want to leave. The party is crowded and too damn loud, and this floor keeps shifting beneath my feet like this is a carnival fun house.
“Not-so-fun house,” I mutter, catching myself on the wall as I stumble down the hall.
I couldn’t find Julie anywhere downstairs, but someone said they saw her and a guy come up here.
Lucky Julie, hooking up with her boyfriend in the middle of a party. But not me. Noooo. I make bad decisions and have shit taste in men, so I’m just gonna be celibate as a freaking nun until after Chuck’s fight. And even then . . . I shudder slightly and my stomach heaves, reminding me why schnapps is always a bad idea. And, yeah, when you’re this hard up but the idea of sex with your boyfriend makes you shudder, it might be time to move on.
“Just as soon as he wins that fight,” I mumble, leaning my shoulder into the wall as I move down the hall. “Julie? Where are you?”