It’s not like he’s storing his things in his car. He doesn’t have one.
My phone vibrates from my back pocket and not a second later do I hear footsteps making their way up the stairs. Since the hall is a straight shot, it’s not like I can duck out of the room without being seen. My only option is to hide, and the hinges on the closet door are in desperate need of some WD-40, so unless I want to announce myself, that’s not an option either. Only once I’m on the floor, trying and failing to squeeze myself beneath the bed, do I process the sound of those footsteps.
Unless Jase has suddenly taken up wearing stilettos, the person coming down the hall isn’t him. Still hiding on the other side of the bed, I shimmy my phone out of my back pocket to see the message I just got isn’t from Maggie.
It’s from Wes.
I know there’s that whole 48-hours rule before I’m supposed to text, but I was hoping you might join me for dinner Friday night.
Even lying on the floor, hiding out from God only knows who, I’m smiling like an idiot. Unlike the jackass whose bed I’m partially wedged under, Wes isn’t allergic to messaging me. Despite Jase claiming to have called and texted last night when he was looking for a way in the house, my phone still shows zero evidence of him so much as butt dialing me. Honestly, how over inflated does his pride have to be not to ask me for a simple favor? In Jase’s case, he’d rather go down like the Hindenburg than fathom the horror of sending me a quick,“Can you unlock the deadlatch on the front door?”
Yet, here is a respectable, attractiveadultwho isn’t afraid to buck conventions and just ask me what he wants. Right about now, Wes is more than a breath of fresh air—he’s twenty lungfuls.
As if the text has summoned his name, I see my stepmom’s Gucci heeled sandals walk past the door, her voice still capable of making me cringe despite anticipating it. Thankfully, she’s alone, and by the sounds of it, she’s talking on her cell. To whom, I have no idea, but hearing Blythe say “that Holbrooke boy” raises my metaphorical hackles, especially since she sounds annoyed.
My stepmom obviously doesn’t realize I’m home, because she does nothing to lower her voice as she heads towards the master bedroom at the end of the hall. “He was at the country club earlier playing tennis, and of course, Candice just couldn’t resist blabbing about who his father is and that he’s interested in Ali.”
Again, this should give Blythe social currency, so the fact that she’s clearly pissed is more than telling.
Her voice trails off towards the master bedroom by the time I get to the door. I peer around the corner, praying she’s disappeared into the closet or bathroom so that I can make my escape. Instead, she’s standing right by the threshold, turned to the side, no doubt admiring herself in the mirror next to the door. She’s also holding a champagne flute filled with what I suspect to be more than just orange juice. By the loud voices and constant laughter downstairs, I suspect those ladies have been indulging in mimosas since returning from the country club. It would also explain why Blythe speaks so openly. The tipsier she gets, the louder her voice. Not that anyone downstairs is at risk of overhearing her. Even though they’re likely far off in the sunroom, I can still make out half a dozen distinct voices, and they all sound like a boisterous pack of hyenas.
“Seriously, they won’t shut up about him,” Blythe further complains, setting her glass down on the dresser in favor of a lipstick tube. Whoever is on the other end of the phone must say something, because she uses the beat of silence to reapply hermakeup. “No, he’s quite handsome, not to mention charming, which makes it all the more baffling as to why he’s interested in Ali.”
She laughs.
She fuckinglaughs!
And yet, she’s not done. “Kathleen introduced her daughter to Wesley this morning, so I’d say there’s a snowball’s chance in Hell that Ali will be hearing back from him anytime soon.” Another laugh.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Just. Fucking. Breathe.
I try to, but my lungs can’t seem to expand properly, and they’re heaving far too quickly. I want to scream and cry and go slap Blythe in the face—
But I just stand there, silently seething.
You’d think that after all this time, I’d have a decent backbone built by now. Yet Blythe always manages to rip it right out of me and snap it in half.
But she’s wrong.
Regardless of the fact that Kathleen’s daughter, Madison, is a hotel heiress and absolutely beautiful, Wes still messagedme. Not only that, but he did soafterhe had been introduced to her.
Apparently, that snowball is a bit more durable than you think there, Blythe.
Only once theStepmonster disappears into the bathroom do I make my escape downstairs, but I’m no longer tempted to run out the door. Not when I get a“S.O.S.”text from Maggie warning me that Jase just pulled up into the driveway.Hoping to avoid him at all costs, I take a detour down the back set of stairs that leads to the kitchen when I hear him enter the foyer. Unfortunately, that also puts me in direct view of the sunroom when I reach the ground floor. I anticipate the usual suspects to be in attendance at Blythe’s get-together, and sure enough, Courtney, Candice, and Cecilia are all there, along with my sister and a few other women from the country club I only know by face.
“Is that Ali?” Cecilia practically squeals at the sight of me when I head towards the refrigerator. “We’ve been hearing all about your illustrious new suitor. Spill the tea, girl!”
She must ask at least a dozen questions, none of which I want to answer, but seeing Jase saunter in from the foyer, I suddenly find my tongue loose enough to at least admit that I agreed to go on a date with Wes this Friday.
I know I’m an asshole, because a small part of me revels in watching Jase’s eyes narrow and his jaw tighten.
Yep, that’s right. Not only do I have a date, but it’s with the most eligible young man in town.
I’m almost tempted to smirk at him, but I manage to muzzle the impulse when Lauren comes in from the yard, lowering the phone from her ear.
