by Vi Keeland
He pulled his head back and winked at me. “Hold on to that anger. We’ll make good use of it soon.”
***
By eight o’clock that evening, I really needed a drink. This had been the never-ending day.
“Can I order food here, or do I need to get a table?” I asked the bartender at the hotel restaurant.
“You can order at the bar. Let me get you a menu.”
He disappeared, and I settled onto a stool. Pulling a notepad out of my gigantic purse, I started to scribble down everything my father had said in the last twenty minutes. I used the word said loosely. Because what he’d actually done was scream at me from the minute I’d answered the phone. Not even a hello—he’d just started to rant, yelling question after question. Had I done this yet or done that yet, but never taking so much as a breath so I might actually get a few words in and answer.
My father hated that Grandfather had assigned me to look after The Countess. I’m sure he would have preferred my half-brother, Spencer, do it. Not because Spencer was competent in any way—make enough donations to an Ivy League school and they miraculously let anyone in—but because Spencer was his puppet.
So when my cell phone flashed Scarlett’s name, I put my pen down for a much-needed break.
“Isn’t it, like, one in the morning there?” I asked.
“Sure is, and I’m bloody knackered.”
I smiled. My best friend Scarlett was just so British, and I loved every knickers, knackered, and knob that came out of her mouth.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear your terrible accent right now.”
“Terrible? I speak the Queen’s English, my dear. You speak Queens English. Like, as in that dreadful borough stuck between Manhattan and Tall Island.”
“It’s Long Island. Not Tall Island.”
“Whatever.”
I laughed. “How are you doing?”
“Well, we hired a new woman at work, and I thought she might be a possible replacement for you as my only friend. But then we went to a movie last weekend, and she wore leggings with the outline of her thong showing through.”
I shook my head with a smile. “Oh boy. Not good.” Scarlett worked in fashion and made Anna Wintour look tolerant of a style faux pas. “Let’s face it. I’m just irreplaceable.”
“You are. So have you grown bored with New York and decided to return home to London yet?”
I chuckled. “It has been a trying twenty-six hours since I departed.”
“How’s the new job?”
“Well, on day one, I was late for a meeting with the hotel’s attorney because the representative of the family that now owns the other part of the hotel sent me on a wild goose chase.”
“And this is the family of the man who fifty years ago was boinking the woman who owned the hotel, at the same time your grandfather was boinking her?”
I laughed. “Yes.” While it was a bit more complicated than that, Scarlett wasn’t wrong. Fifty years ago my grandfather, August Sterling, opened a hotel with his two best friends—Oliver Lockwood and Grace Copeland. The story goes that my grandfather fell in love with Grace, and they became engaged to wed on New Year’s Eve. The day of the wedding, Grace stood at the altar and told my grandfather she couldn’t marry him, confessing she was also in love with Oliver Lockwood. She loved both men, and refused to marry either, because marriage was an act of dedicating your heart to one man, and hers was not available for only one.
The men fought over her for years, but ultimately, neither could steal half of her heart away from the other, and the three eventually went their separate ways. My grandfather and Oliver Lockwood became bitter rivals, spending their lives building hotel empires and trying to best each other, while Grace concentrated her efforts on building one luxury hotel, rather than a chain. All three were enormously successful in their own right. The Sterling and Lockwood families grew into the two biggest hotel owners in the United States. And though Grace only ever owned one hotel, the first that the three of them had started together, The Countess, with its sprawling views of Central Park, grew to become one of the most valuable single hotels in the world. It rivaled the Four Seasons and The Plaza.
Three weeks ago, when Grace died after a long battle with cancer, my family was shocked to find out she’d left forty-nine percent of The Countess to my grandfather and forty-nine percent to Oliver Lockwood. The other two percent went to a charity, one that was currently auctioning off their new ownership to the highest-bidding family—which would in turn give one of us a very important fifty-one percent controlling interest.
Grace Copeland had never married, and I saw her final act as a beautiful Greek tragedy—though, I guess to outsiders it seemed crazy to leave a hotel worth hundreds of millions of dollars to two men you hadn’t spoken to in fifty years.
“Your family is nuts,” Scarlett said. “You know that, right?”
I laughed. “I absolutely do.”
We talked for a little while about her last date and where she was thinking of going for holiday, and then she sighed.
“I actually called to tell you some news. Where are you right now?”
“In a hotel. Or rather in The Countess, the hotel my family now owns part of. Why?”
“Is there alcohol in your room?”
My brows knitted. “I’m sure there is. But I’m not in my room; I’m at the bar downstairs. Why?”
“Because you’re going to need it after I tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“It’s about Liam.”
Liam was my ex. A playwright from West London. We’d broken up a month ago. Even though I knew it was for the best, it still caused an ache in my chest to hear his name.
“What about him?”
“I saw him today.”
“Okay…”
“With his tongue down Marielle’s throat.”
“Marielle? Marielle who?”
“Pretty certain we both know only one.”
You’ve got to be joking. “You mean my cousin Marielle?”
“The one and only. Such a twat.”
I felt bile rise in my throat. How could she? We’d grown pretty close while I lived in London.
“That’s not the worst part.”
“What’s worse?”
“I asked a mutual friend how long they’ve been shagging, and she told me close to six months.”
I felt like I might be physically sick. Three or four months ago, when things had started to go south with Liam, I’d found a red Burberry trench coat in the back seat of his car. He’d said it was his sister’s. At the time, I didn’t have reason to suspect anything. But Marielle definitely had a red trench.
I must’ve been quiet for a while.
“Are you still there?” Scarlett asked.
I blew out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, love. I thought you should know so you aren’t nice to that slag.”
I’d been meaning to call my cousin, too. Now I was glad I’d gotten so busy.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“You know I always have your back.”
I smiled sadly. “I do know that. Thanks, Scarlett.”
“But I have some good news, too.”
I didn’t think anything could perk me up after what she’d just told me. “What’s that?”
“I fired one of my senior editors. I found out she’d been avoiding covering certain designers based on their race.”
“And that’s your good news?”
“Well, not really. The good news is that she had a ton of things on her schedule, and I’m going to have to work a gazillion hours to cover them.”
“I’m thinking you don’t get the meaning of good news, Scarlett.”
“Did I mention that one of the gazillion things I’ll have to cover is a fashion show in New York in two weeks?”
I smiled. “You’re coming to New York!”
“That’s right. So book me a room at t
hat grossly overpriced hotel your granddaddy’s dick now owns half of. I’ll email you the dates.”
After we hung up, the bartender brought me a menu. “I’ll take a vodka cranberry, please.”
“You got it.”
When he came back to take my order, on autopilot I ordered a salad. But before he could walk away, I stopped him. “Wait! Can I change that, please?”
“Sure. What can I get you?”
Fuck the calories. “I’ll have a cheeseburger. With bacon, if you have it. And a side order of coleslaw. And French fries.”
He smiled. “Bad day?”
I nodded. “Keep the drinks coming, too.”
The vodka cranberry went down smooth. As I sat at the bar, looking at the notes my father had spewed at me and thinking about my cousin Marielle screwing Liam behind my back, I started to get angry. My immediate reaction had been to feel hurt when Scarlett told me, but somewhere between the first vodka and the second I ordered, that shifted to pissed off.
My father can go to hell.
I work for my grandfather. No different than he does.
And Marielle has bad hair extensions and a nasally, high-pitched voice.
Fuck her, too.
And Liam? Fuck him the most. I’d wasted a year and a half of my life on that cardigan-wearing Arthur Miller wannabe. You know what? His plays weren’t even that good. They were pretentious, just like him.
I gulped a quarter of my second vodka in one swallow. At least things couldn’t get much worse. I suppose that was the bright side.
Though I’d thought that a few seconds too soon.
They absolutely could get worse.
And they did.
When Weston Lockwood sidled up and planted his ass on the bar stool next to mine.
“Well, hello, Fifi.”
***
“So how have the last twelve years been treating you?”
Weston ordered a seltzer with lemon and sat looking at me, even though I stared straight ahead, completely ignoring his presence.
“Go away, Lockwood.”
“Mine have been pretty good. Thanks for asking. After high school, I went to Harvard, though I’m sure you know that. Got an MBA from Columbia and then went to work for the family business. I’m a vice president now.”
“Gee, should I be impressed that nepotism got you a fancy title?”
He smiled. “Nah. Plenty of other things to be impressed with. You remember what I look like naked, don’t you, Feef? I’ve filled in nicely since eighteen. Whenever you’re ready, we can go back to my room, and I’ll treat you to a little looksee.”
I turned and scowled. “I think you left out something important that happened over the last twelve years. You obviously had a severe head injury that left you living in a fantasy world and unable to read emotions on other humans.”
The asshole wouldn’t stop smiling. “Those who protest the hardest are usually trying to mask their true feelings.”
I let out a groan of frustration.
The bartender walked over and set down the food I’d ordered. “Anything else I can get you?”
“Bug repellent for the cockroaches around here.”
He looked around. “Bugs? Where?”
I waved him off. “Sorry. No. No bugs. I was just being funny.”
Weston looked at the bartender sympathetically. “We’re going to work on funny. She’s not quite there yet.”
The bartender seemed a bit confused, but left anyway. When I reached for the ketchup, Weston stole a French fry from my plate.
“Don’t touch my food.” I leveled him with a glare.
“That’s an awful lot of food. You sure you want to eat all that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just looks like a lot of meat for your little frame.” He grinned. “Then again, if I remember correctly, you like a lot of meat. You did twelve years ago, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes. Lifting my cheeseburger, I sank my teeth in, suddenly completely starving. The jackass next to me seemed to find my chewing riveting.
I covered my lips with my napkin and spoke with a full mouth. “Stop watching me eat.”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t. Over the next half hour, I finished off my food and guzzled another drink. Weston kept trying to make small talk, but I continued to shoot him down. Then my bladder was full, and I didn’t want to try to balance my oversized purse, laptop, and planner while I hovered over a public toilet. So I reluctantly asked the pain in the ass to keep an eye on my stuff.
“I’d love to keep an eye on your stuff.”
I rolled my eyes yet again. As I stood, I wobbled a little. Apparently the alcohol had given me more of a buzz than I thought.
“Hey, be careful there.” Weston grabbed my arm and held on tight. His hand was warm and strong and—oh my God, I’m definitely tipsy thinking this.
I tugged my elbow from his grip. “I slipped on my heel. I’m fine. Just watch my things.”
In the bathroom, I relieved myself and washed my hands. Catching a look at my reflection, I noticed I had mascara smeared under my eye. So I wiped it off and ran my fingers through my hair—out of habit, not because I gave a shit what I looked like for Weston Lockwood.
When I returned to the bar, my nemesis was at least preoccupied with something other than me for a change. I took my seat and noticed my drink had been refreshed.
“Sugar waxing, huh?” Weston said without looking over at me. “How is that different from regular waxing?”
My face wrinkled. “Huh?”
He tapped his finger at whatever he was looking at on the bar in front of him. “Is the sugar edible? Like, after you get all buffed out, you’re ready for some action? Or are there chemicals mixed in?”
I leaned in and squinted at what he was reading. My eyes widened.
“Give me that! You’re such an asshole!”
The jerk had taken my daily planner, which had been sitting on the bar to my left, and helped himself. I grabbed for the book, and Weston held up his hands in surrender.
“No wonder you’re so cranky. Your period is due in a few days. Have you ever tried Midol? Those commercials crack me up.”
I shoved my planner into my bag and waved for the bartender as I yelled, “Can I please get my check?”
The bartender came over. “You want to sign it to your room?”
I lifted the strap of my bulky bag to my shoulder and stood. “Actually, no. Sign it to this asshole’s room.” I thumbed toward Weston. “And give yourself a hundred-dollar tip from me.”
The bartender looked at Weston, then shrugged. “No problem.”
With a huff, I took off toward the elevator bank, not waiting or giving a shit if Mr. Wonderful wasn’t happy about paying the bill. Impatiently, I jabbed my finger against the button to call the elevator a half-dozen times. Whatever the alcohol had done to ease my anger, it now came roaring back with a vengeance. I felt like throwing something.
First at Liam.
Then at my father.
And twice at that asshole Weston.
Thankfully, the elevator doors slid open before I took my anger out on some unsuspecting hotel guest. I hit the button for the eighth floor and wondered if the minibar would have some wine.
“What the hell?” I pressed the button on the panel a second time. It illuminated, yet the car continued to sit there. So I jabbed my finger at it a third time. Finally, the doors started to glide closed. Just as they were about to shut completely, a shoe blocked them from closing.
A wingtip shoe.
Weston’s smiling face was there to greet me when the doors bounced open.
My blood was near boiling. “So help me, Lockwood, if you try to get in this car, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you. I’m not in the mood anymore.”
He entered the elevator anyway. “Come on, Fifi. What’s wrong? I’m just playing around. You’re taking things way too seriously.”
I counted to ten in my
head, but it didn’t help. Fuck it. He wanted to get a rise out of me? He was going to get one. The doors slid shut again, and I turned and backed him into a corner. Seeing my face, he at least had the decency to look a little nervous.
“You wanna know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong! My father thinks I’m inept because I don’t have an appendage dangling between my legs. The man I spent the last eighteen months with was cheating on me with one of my cousins. Again. I hate New York City. I despise the Lockwood family. And you think you can get away with anything you want just because you have a big dick.” I jabbed my finger into his chest and punctuated each staccato word with another stab.
“I’m
Tired.
Of.
Men.
My father.
Liam.
You.
Every single fucking one of you. So leave me the hell alone!”
Frazzled, I turned back around and waited for the door to open, only to realize we hadn’t started to move yet. Great. Just fucking great. I jabbed the button a few more times, closed my eyes, and took deep, cleansing breaths as we started to move. Halfway through breath three, I felt the heat of Weston’s body behind me. He had to have moved closer. I continued to try to ignore him.
But the fucker still smelled good.
How the hell could that be? Whose cologne lasted for—what had it been now?—twelve hours? After the gauntlet run he’d sent me on across town this morning, I probably smelled like BO. It pissed me off that the asshole smelled...fucking delicious.
He moved closer, and I felt his breath tickle my neck.
“So,” he whispered in a gravelly voice. “You think my dick’s big.”
I turned and scowled at him. While this morning he’d been clean-shaven, he now had a five o’clock shadow all along his chiseled jaw. It gave him a sinister look. The suit that hugged his broad shoulders probably cost more than Liam’s entire sweater wardrobe. Weston Lockwood was everything I hated in a man—wealthy, good looking, cocky, arrogant, and fearless. Liam would hate him. My father already hated him. And at the moment, those were actually Weston’s strong points.
While I struggled with my body reacting to his scent and how much I liked the stubble on his face, Weston slowly reached out and put a hand on my hip. At first, I assumed he thought he needed to steady me, as he had when I’d wobbled in the bar. Had I wobbled again? I didn’t think I had. But I must’ve.