This time, however, I’m not ignored like the misfit wallflower I was from summer’s past.
I’m a suspectedhussy.
I kid you not.
In the last forty minutes alone, half a dozen women have come up, eyed me from head to foot, and asked if I’m “lost?”
Clearly, nobody recognizes me, because when I manage to break free from the herd and make my way to the door, I catch the tail end of a less-than-discreet conversation suggesting I’m Mr. Harding’s latest mistress from the city.
I’m about as welcomed here as ten-day-old roadkill.
The only upside is the rather tasty dish of a man in a three-piece suit, who I’ve caught smiling my way a couple of times. I’d be tempted to approach him if not for the fact he's talking to the latest congressional candidate. Considering what I know about the politicians in this town, the last thing I want to do is make his acquaintance, regardless of the hot guy standing next to him.
Blythe and Dad would kill me if I outright left, and I’m not enough of an asshole to ditch my own brother’s engagement party, but I can’t take it anymore. I need a breather, even if only for a few minutes.
Usually, I’d just hang out in the hallways anytime a party here got too loud, but the place is packed tonight.
Not really surprising, given the signs out front. According to the country club’s directory, a wedding, an anniversary dinner, and a bridal shower are also being held here this evening. Making my way through the crowds, I wander aimlessly around the hallways until finally coming upon an empty banquet room. By the looks of it, a reception of some kind had been held earlier, its remnants still littering the space. Everything from the balloons, ribbons, napkins, and even leftover cupcakes is either pink or blue, and based on the mound of baby blue confetti all over the floor beneath a giant banner exclaiming, “IT’S A BOY!” I’ll make the safe assumption this was a gender reveal party. I kick the nearest balloon on the floor, watching it carry through the room as it catches the breeze coming in through the opened glass doors. They lead out to the back patio overlooking the waterfront, and I’m all too happy to walk through them.
The A/C in the entire building is cranked so high that the humid summer air is a welcomed relief as it licks away the frost forming over my skin. I stroll to the vacant terrace and make my way down the side stairway to an ivy-covered stone dock that stretches out across the side of the river. Despite the opulence in the rest of the country club, this spot is my favorite. It’s the only part of the building still in its original state, all stone and statues, looking more like the exterior of an old church than a swanky lodge. Dartmoor Falls rests to the right, the sunset dousing the water in beautiful gold beams across the top of the cliff as it cascades over the rock face to the river below. It’s breathtaking this time of day, yet my stomach still drops at the sight.
Thankfully, with a quick look around, I don’t spot anyone and, therefore, won’t have any witnesses to my outburst. I’m storming across the walkway, probably looking fit for a straitjacket as I huff and puff and curse and yank the heels clear off my feet. Seeing as how I’d borrowed them from Maggie, they’d been half a size too small, but it’s not until they’re off that the pain hits in full force. Blood rushes back into my toes, and the outsides of my feet are no doubt chafed. It takes everything in me not to go to the stone banister, hurl my body over the damn thing, flop into the water, and let the river carry me downstream, away from this wretched place.
Seriously, if not for the undercurrent and the high probability of drowning, I’d already be in the water.
I settle for sitting on the banister, sweeping my legs over the side. The stone is slightly damp, so I grip it tight enough that I don’t lose my hold and fall into the water as I climb over to the other side of the railing. I’m extending my foot down towards the surface of the water, letting the lapping waves splash up high enough that they spritz me just above my ankle. The cool, rushing water feels nothing short of heavenly.
“Hey, are you okay?” The voice comes out of nowhere, sounding way, way, waaaay too close for comfort.
I can’t suppress the shriek that tears from my lungs, and sure enough, like a dumbass, I try whirling around to see who the hell is standing behind me. The action in itself isn’t stupid, but not ensuring my grip on the wet railing most definitely qualifies, because I find my hands grappling at…air.
There’s nothing for me to grab hold of at the awkward angle I find myself in, and let’s just say the laws of physics kick my ass. I only have one foot underneath me, and my body is plummeting sideways—right for the water.
It happens all in the span of maybe three seconds, but it’s enough to grant me a few parting words before I’m inevitably dragged under the surface and drowned.
Like the elegant, philosophical lady that I am, I cry out,“Holy fucking shit!”
But the fall never comes.
I’m still waiting to meet the water, to have it rush over my head and fill my airways, when a strong pair of hands catches me around the waist, yanking me back against the banister. The accompanying arms that wrap around me feel like the world’s firmest hug as I’m turned around to face the terrace. Mint and sandalwood hit my nose before my eyes can process the man standing in front of me—
May I repeat:
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit!!
Did one of the statues out here come to life? Because I’m pretty sure I’m looking at something that only Michelangelo himself could have sculpted: chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and a body that could rival Adonis himself.
He easily towers over my five-foot-five frame by at least seven or eight inches. An expertly tailored black suit hugs his body in all the right places, but unlike all the country club dullards here, it’s pretty obvious he isn’t part of their in-crowd. While every other male within a twenty-mile radius sports the same Gordon Gekko slicked-back cut, this guy’s hair is the definition of bedhead, rumpled and tousled in all the right ways. It’s a little shorter on the sides and long enough on the top that the front strands can fall into his eyes. Even though it’s still dark, there’s a surfer quality to its coloring that I suspect is wholly natural. Not only does his hair showcase sun-bleached highlights, but his skin is a rich tan that doesn’t look like it came from a bottle or heritage.
And like the idiot I am, I just stand here, ogling the brightest pair of blue eyes that would make even Paul Newman envious.
Then there are the finer details.
If you shake hands with any of the men here, you’ll likely find their skin softer than your own. That happens when you’ve never had to do manual labor a day in your life. No one on Ravenswood’s Upper East Side has ever worked construction, been under the hood of a car, or even cleaned dishes in hot water.
