“Is this your work? Did you leak this?”
I guffaw. “Why would I do that?”
“To mess with me. Revenge. All the above.”
“Marrying you gives me my revenge and trust me I would rather this news came out later rather than sooner. My ducks aren’t in a row yet.” As I’m speaking to her, I open my laptop and google my name. She’s right. Three blogs have written about thenews. There’s a video of us attached to all the articles. Ivy and I kissing against the door of the suite before we enter the suite. The camera then zooms in and stops at the front door, which reads, “Monroe suite.” Below is an added cation that says, “The Grand Palazzo’s honeymoon suite.”
Ivy and I are kissing passionately in wedding clothes and from the vantage point of the camera, we can’t get enough of each other. Like a married couple.
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
“You’ve seen it? How can you say it’s not bad? What If Nolan finds out?”
“Nolan doesn’t read gossip blogs.” It’s been a while since Nolan and I have been friends, but he didn’t spend his time reading about celebrities and socialites, and I doubt he has changed.
“He doesn’t have to. All it takes is for his assistant to congratulate him. Fuck. My mother is calling.”
“Does she know?” While Nolan isn’t one for gossip, Ivy Jacqueline Hawthorne is.
“When I spoke to her, she didn’t.”
I recall the name that flashed on the screen when she received a call while we were having dinner during the reception. She had cut the call and sent a text, but I had seen enough. “And Lake? What does your totally not boyfriend think about this?”
She goes silent. After a beat, she says, “What about Lake?”
“Does he know?”
“I’m going to call you back. I need to take this call.” She ends it there and I feel a stab at my chest. I wonder what her not-at-all boyfriend thinks about her being married to another man. I know I wouldn’t be cool with it even if the relationship is purely platonic. Not when my girlfriend is a woman like Ivy. Not with a body that sinful. Her Barbie-like proportions are enough to drive a sane man wild. And as for that kiss, that’s now all over theInternet, I still wish even now we had done something with it. Several days later, I still can’t get the sensation of her lips against mine. I’ve dreamed about taking it further, laying her on the rose petal bed and sinking into her. Sometimes I fantasize about her taking her against the wall. We don’t leave the foyer. I just fuck her there like a madman. Her dress bunched up around the waist and her boobs bouncing as I thrust relentlessly into her.
She wanted me. If I hadn’t lied to her and told her it was a test, we could have fucked. Her boyfriend be damned. I was too proud and hated how much I still wanted her. Still do.
Reluctantly, I wash away the daydream and call Nicole in. My second assistant peers behind Nicole, who bobs her head in. “You need both of us or just me,” Nicole asks. I wave both of them in and she enters, Meg tracing her steps.
Nicole has been pensive ever since Vegas. She has been giving me looks that say, “Are you sure about what you’re doing?” as though she’s a judgmental convent school marm. Which is ironically the last description I would give of her. Nicole is the smartest and most professional assistant I’ve ever had. Some might describe her as sexy, even though I’ve never been attracted to her. And besides, I don’t shit where I eat. I learned that the hard way eight years ago.
“Please take a seat,” I say to Meg and Nicole. Nicole gracefully perches herself on the corner of her chair, tablet in hand, while Meg plops into hers and, while doing so, her phone clutters to the floor.
“Sorry,” she says, picking it up. If Meg wasn’t so good at her job, her clumsiness would have had her fired ages ago. She’s the opposite of Nicole in every way. Short. A little plump and is always looking harried, but she has a sweetness to her that is charming.
I turn to her. “I don’t know if you know this, Meg, but I got married.”
She jerks and says “Oh.” Her gaze darts between me and Nicole, who is sitting stone still. She frowns, saying, “Um, congratulations. Uh, when did it happen?”
“Last weekend.”
“Oh.”
“In Vegas.”
She sputters and quickly collects herself. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone. Not that it’s any of my business, of course. Who’s the uh, the lucky lady?”
“Ivy Hawthorne.”
Her eyes bulge and her phone slips from her lap to the floor again. I know how it looks. The cool, suave CEO of one of the biggest hedge funds in the world gets married in Vegas to a woman who’s been pestering him for weeks.
When Nicole told me Ivy wanted to set an appointment with me, I had been initially taken aback. It surprised me to discover that the wound she left was still raw. I wanted nothing to do with her. I told them to tell her I was busy. But the more she persisted, the more curious I got. I wanted to see where she would take things. And I did, didn’t I?
“I know. It’s a long story, one you don’t need to know right now, but our marriage is now out in the press. Well, not the press. A few gossip blogs are talking about it and they have irrefutable proof, so it will soon proliferate. I expect you’ll be getting calls soon.”
