CHAPTER ONE
Lemon
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Winchester.” The art dealer shakes my hand, and I can barely keep the smile from my face.
“You too. Thank you so much again.”
He nods and straightens his tie as he walks toward the door in his sharp Gucci suit.
“Bye now.” I wave and cringe at the extra southerness in my voice. I’ve been in New York for twelve years, and no matter how I try, I still can’t drop this Texan accent. It’s ingrained in me, just like wild in the Winchester blood.
Mr. Garcia leaves, and I run over and close the gallery doors, squealing like a slapped pig.
“Honey, are you okay? Couldn’t help but notice you screaming like the South had risen again,” Ambrose—my employee of two years—calls from my office. I may pay his salary, but we have more of a casual working relationship based on the fact that we both love fine art, champagne, and everything fabulous.
“Oh my God! Ambrose, get your butt out here.”
He hurries down the staircase in that casual, I-give-zero-fucks attitude that all New Yorkers have mastered—well, all New Yorkers except me. I run to him and grab his hands, jumping up and down. He humors me, bouncing on the balls of his feet as excitedly as I am, though he has no idea why yet. “What are we so happy about, my little southern belle?”
“That man who just left?”
“Yeah. He’s a dealer, right? Garcia someone? He charges a huge commission on behalf of his clients. What the hell was he doing here?”
“He just bought every single one of my paintings.”
Ambrose’s jaw drops, which—come to think of it—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do. “Get the fuck out!”
“No, I’m serious. He did.”
“Who’s the buyer?”
“I have no idea. They wished to remain anonymous.”
“Holy shit. We need to go out and celebrate.”
“Actually, I was hoping maybe you could close up for me and I could go celebrate with my very handsome and very busy fiancé?”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But you owe me. Drinks tomorrow night, on you.”
“It’s a done deal.”
He smooshes my cheeks. “I just love it when your inner Betty-Lou Sue comes out.”
“Oh, hush.” I bat him away and put on my sternest boss face. I’ve been running this gallery for two years. It was a long, hard road to get here through art school and waiting tables, and then when I met Stavros, my life finally felt like it was coming together. I opened the gallery, he proposed, and I’ve never looked back since. “Are you sure you don’t mind closing up for me?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re an angel.” I kiss his cheek.
“I’m an angel who loves McQueen, just FYI.”
I laugh and gather my purse and keys, making a mental note to pick up something special for him. Then I head outside and climb into my Ferrari 812 GTS that Stavros bought me for my thirtieth birthday.
Stopping by a liquor store on my way to our Manhattan apartment, I pick up a bottle of Dom Pérignon. When I enter the building and wave to our doorman, he gives me an odd look. I’ve never quite won him over, sadly, which just gets my goat because I win everyone over, eventually.
I hit the button for my floor and bounce on the balls of my feet as the elevator climbs all the way to the penthouse. When I open the front door of our apartment, the scent of Chinese food and freesias fills my nostrils. My best friend, Brooklyn, must be here.
“Stavros? Brook?” I walk through the lounge, and sure enough my best friend is here—facedown on my couch with my piece-of-shit fiancé pile-driving her naked ass. The bottle of expensive champagne falls from my hands and shatters, spilling all over the Grecian tiles.
Their stunned faces turn toward me, and Stavros jerks away from my best friend as if he’s actually surprised to find me here. Brook’s face is beet red as she covers herself with one of my throw cushions.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
“Lemon,” Stavros says, pulling on his pants. “This isn’t how it looks.”
“Really? Because it looks like the two people I love the most are fucking one another on the couch I picked out.”
Brooklyn finds her voice, and I really wish she hadn’t. “Lem, it’s … I’m really sorry. You know Stavros and I have history.”
Being lifelong family friends and ex-lovers, they have history alright. I guess I’m just the only one who thought it was ancient.
“Oh, I know all about history, because we are it.”
“It was a mistake.” Brooklyn slips on her dress and heels. God only knows where her bra and panties got to. “I … thought I’d come keep Stav company because I know you’re always working so late, and then one thing led to another.”
“Well bless your heart, Brooklyn. You did this for me? Get the fuck out of my apartment.” I turn to Stavros with a sneer. “And you?”
“Baby—”
“Don’t you dare baby me. This engagement is off.”
“Lemon, don’t be like that.” Stav’s expression is contrite and one hundred percent bullshit. His lies stink worse than the cow pats my brothers used to push me into as a kid.
I head into our bedroom and start opening drawers. I can’t be in the same room as him, and I’m suddenly regretting that bottle of expensive champagne. Stavros comes from money—big oil money handed down through generations of the Anagnos family. These past three years, I’ve been living a dream—expensive cars, designer clothes, and fancy restaurants this Texas farm girl had no right to be setting foot in—but my whole world just came to a crashing halt because not only is my fiancé cheating on me with my best friend, but I’m now homeless too. I can’t afford a shoebox in New York, with everything I earn going back into the gallery. I start pulling out drawers and tossing clothing, shoes, and jewelry on the bed.
“Baby, let’s talk about this.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you.”
“You know when you’re mad, that cute southern accent comes out. It makes me so fucking hard.” He leans down and kisses me on the neck. I cringe, because Lord only knows where that mouth has been. I turn in his arms, look him dead in the eye, and knee him in the balls. Stavros bends double and falls to the plush Persian carpet, rolling into a fetal position as he gasps for breath. “Jesus.”
“If you ever touch me again, I will castrate you. And I grew up on the finest ranch in all of Texas, so trust me when I say, I know exactly how.” A pang of longing bolts right to my heart when I think of home, when I think of him. And how my brothers would kill Stavros if they too had witnessed the horrors in that living room.
I grab the duffle bag containing my clothing and essentials. I don’t bother with my purses or heels, but I do head to the bathroom and grab my makeup and skincare, because wrinkles are real, y’all.
My phone rings as I leave the apartment. I glance at Wyatt’s face on my screen. My baby brother doesn’t call me all that often, but when he does, it’s important. I close my eyes and contemplate not answering. But I can’t do that—not if Wyatt needs me—so I take a deep breath and hit the button to take his call.