Bea’s eyebrows are raised, and even though she tries to act casual I can see a faint flush beneath her freckles. “Well,” she says, brisk and businesslike. “Shall we find our seats?”
I mumble something incoherent, and Hugo smooths over the moment with that charm of his. “Two beautiful ladies. That’s what I usually have. Now, three.” He takes the toddler with a swift kiss on her forehead. “I’m a very lucky man. Come, lead the way.”
Beatrix takes my arm, and we head down the bustling aisle to find empty seats. An usher waves us forward. As we move sideways to our places, I see someone glance at me and away. Someone else whispers behind their hand. For a cold moment I think there’s actually a scarlet letter pinned to my dress, as if they know, they know, they know. That’s impossible. It’s not me they’re whispering about. The realization makes me even colder. It’s Sutton. They’re whispering and wondering about me because I came with Sutton.
I raise my chin, doing my best to appear worldly and well satisfied.
“That’s good,” Bea murmurs. “Let them wonder. They’re vultures, all of them.”
The wood of the pew is smooth, the program crumpled in my hand. This whole thing is too familiar. It might as well be Daddy sitting next to me. Bile rises in my throat. I force it back. The last thing I need is to spew vomit all over the people in front of us. They’re wearing Yves Saint Laurent and Versace, for God’s sake. “It doesn’t feel right that Sutton should be the best man.”
“He’s really his only friend. Oh, there’s Hugo and Blue, but they’re really more Sutton’s friend than Christopher’s. That’s what happens when you put ambition before everything.”
“It doesn’t seem to have hurt him any. Look at this place.” It’s filled to the brim with rich, beautiful people. They may not be close friends, but they’re here.
“They’re mostly here for the drama.”
“What do they think’s going to happen? Sutton won’t disrupt Harper’s wedding day.”
Bea gives a faint smile. “I know that. And you know that. They don’t.”
I’m not so foolish as to think Sutton’s a saint. I can still remember the feel of his cock in my mouth, his hands on my head, guiding me, teaching me. The memory of his mouth between my legs makes me blush. He made me come again and again.
He has his flaws, but he deserves better than to be the sideshow.
The hair on my neck prickles, and I glance up. Sutton’s watching me, that unfathomable ocean turbulent across this many pews. His golden beauty looks striking and sun-drenched, especially in contrast to the man he’s standing next to. Christopher Bardot, the developer who’s turning dilapidated buildings into luxury hotels, condominiums, and retail. He’s well known, even to the street trash like me. One of these days my sugar factory will probably turn into a Louis Vuitton store. He looks like a dark god, all black hair and slashes for brows. His tux is immaculate. Silk and wool wouldn’t dare be out of alignment on this man. Weren’t we good together, all three?
Imagining Sutton with Christopher makes my cheeks warm. I’ve never felt anything when I imagine Ky with one of his customers—not even his special customer. It’s only Sutton that makes the fantasy come alive. It’s impossible for him to do anything by half. He’s such a physical man, a fully feeling one, which is what makes the heartbreak so real.
And he’s so damned strong, so self-assured in his masculinity, that he wouldn’t give a damn what anyone thinks. Him and Harper and Christopher. Why did he turn them down? Why would he leave them and bring me home? There’s no way I could have satisfied him like they would have. Uncertainty makes knots in my stomach. Don’t break his heart again.
No. No, I couldn’t. Whatever he wants of me, it’s already his.
Until I leave. Because that part is inevitable. Just like Mr. Monopoly, he’ll drive me back to the west side and drop me off. Ky will make me instant noodles, the way I do for him.
“You know,” Bea murmurs beside me. “I’m good friends with Harper.”
“Oh.” Quickly I run through everything I said about her. Did I make her sound awful? I don’t actually think she’s awful, but no one can deny the pain Sutton’s felt.
Bea laughs. “I don’t blame her for following her heart. But I also wouldn’t blame you for being protective of Sutton. Someone needs to be.”
What does that mean? “I thought you said he had a lot of friends.”
“Well, he does. But he only lets them get so close. It’s always smiles and good times and easy charm. He keeps the hard stuff locked deep inside.”
The hard stuff? That wasn’t deep inside last night. It was hovering under the surface of his skin. It was control and force and sex. I give a nervous cough. Because this isn’t going to last. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression about me. We aren’t… serious.”
“No? That kiss he gave you looked pretty serious.”
“That’s what I mean. That’s all there is between us. The… physical stuff.”
It’s her turn to flush. “Sometimes it starts that way. That’s how it was with Hugo and me. But when you let someone in, I mean really let someone in, it can never be purely physical.”
Purely physical. Is that how I’d describe what happened between us? No. It felt soul-deep. Searing. I’m not sure that changes anything. “It will be over soon.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “Because he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”
The wedding song plays its familiar opening strands, and everyone stands. I stand up too, but I don’t turn to face the back of the room. Sutton’s staring at me, and I’m staring back. We’re both caught in this moment, even as a different story plays out in the aisle. A bride and a groom. Sacred vows. Those things have nothing to do with the fiery ice in Sutton’s gaze. He makes a thousand carnal promises to me as the people he loves stand before God. Yes, yes, yes. That’s my answer back. Because I don’t want him to hurt. At least that’s the story I tell myself. The truth is much more disturbing. The truth is I want to be hurt.
12
Sutton
I’m too busy watching Ashleigh remember what we did last night and blush to worry about the couple being married in front of me. Until I have to hand the fifteen-thousand-dollar ring over to Christopher from my jacket pocket. Until they kiss.
The chemistry is enough to singe me, standing only a few feet away. I have to watch as Christopher cups her beautiful face. I have to watch as Harper’s eyes turn damp. He lowers his head, and I’m jealous of her. She reaches to put her hand around his neck, and I’m jealous of him. It tears me up inside, a thousand different blades. I’m jealous of the goddamn air between them. Loving one person is bad enough. Loving two is pure hell.
Loving three would be enough to break me. I can’t let myself fall again. That’s the only thing I’m sure enough of as I watch Christopher bend Harper back for a deeper, more passionate kiss.
The audience stands and claps, a riot of joy. I feel numb.
There’s a cold hollow where my heart should be. It’s a relief, that empty space. Much better than the pain that I’d feel if it were full. I let Avery take my arm and guide me gently down the aisle after the happy couple. One foot in front of the other.
Limos idle outside the church, and I glance back to the crowd, looking for Ashleigh. I don’t see her. Avery tugs me inside the car. “You’ll see her at the reception,” she murmurs.
I glance at her, and it feels like I’m seeing her for the first time.
Avery Miller is something of Tanglewood royalty. She came from old blood, the St. James family, and married Gabriel Miller under a cloud of scandal. Her expression is soft with sympathy. “You did great in there.”
A harsh laugh. My amusement abruptly ends. “It wasn’t a particularly hard job.”
“Wasn’t it?” She smooths her satin dress, its royal blue a perfect complement to the flowers inside. Everything perfect for the wedding of the year. The ride seems to pass in a moment. It seems to tak
e an eternity, my eyes hungry for the sight of Ashleigh.
We arrive at the reception before the happy couple.
“Where’d they go?” Avery muses.
A quickie, my mind helpfully supplies. They’re probably tumbling about the back of a limo. Maybe even with a professional boudoir photographer to capture a few blessed shots.
I feel blank as I cross the room, search the room. There she is.
Ashleigh looks fresh and pretty. She leans against me. “Are you okay?” she murmurs.
“Of course.” Except I feel sick.
Everyone’s standing around watching me. Normally I don’t give a fuck what people think of me. That’s from growing up a Mayfair bastard. I’m used to sideways glances while I count out pennies at the grocery store. I’m not used to standing in front of five hundred of the most rich and powerful people in the city while they watch to see if I break down.
“Come on,” Ashleigh says, tugging me towards a parquet floor.
A band plays a lively tune, which everyone in the room seems determined to ignore. They’re hugging the sides of the grand hotel ballroom, whispering and generally looking like they’re at a middle school dance. With more expensive clothes.
With Dom Perignon instead of fruit punch.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the bride and groom?”
A slow shake of her head. “You and me. Let’s dance, Mayfair.”
Her hand is warm and real. Enough to bring me back to the world. A step and a twirl. And a smile quirks my lips. “Thank you.”
Her brown eyes look bottomless. “I have some experience with people staring at me.”
Guilt fills me. “Hell.”
“I’m used to it.”
“I want to kick anyone’s ass who saw you there.”
She gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Everyone goes window shopping.”
My hands tighten. The thought of her on the streets will never be palatable to me. Wet. Cold. Jesus. “Don’t go back.”
“Should we move in together?” Her tone is mocking. “I’m not sure we know each other well enough for that. What if I don’t like the way you load the dishwasher? What if you have morning breath?”
“I wash dishes by hand. And I definitely get morning breath.”
“This is how Ky feels.”
“What?”
“With Mr. Monopoly. He convinces Ky to stay for days at a time. It’s harder for him to come back every time, the longer he’s away. He gets attached.”
I’m getting attached. “Don’t go back. Ever.”
She laughs suddenly. “Is this like men who say I love you after sex? You’re at a wedding, and now you want to get married. Such a romantic.”
It isn’t a compliment. I just look at her, because I’m not romantic. This isn’t a marriage proposal, and she knows that. I want her for one thing. I can’t pretend to be a good man, but I’m safer than the assholes driving through the west side.
“Everyone will make fun of you.”
“No one will know.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to laugh at me?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have to get my revenge somehow.” I lean down to brush my lips across her cheek. And then lower, across the shadow of her neck. Butter soft. Sweet. “I won’t have any mercy on you, Ashleigh. But you don’t want mercy, do you?”
13
Ashleigh
Three dances later we end up tucked into the corner of the ballroom, claiming an entire ten-seat table to ourselves while everyone mills around the center, finally deigning to dance. Two gold-plated appetizer plates are piled high with asparagus and prosciutto and crab puffs. We’re seated right outside the kitchen, and we’ve been using the waiters who leave as our personal buffet.
A meatball and pale liquid look rather plain in an elaborate soup spoon. I tilt my head back and pour it into my mouth. Spices and savory flavor explode on my tongue. There’s cumin and pepper—and God, that broth. Definitely fresh ginger.
Immediately I eye the soup spoon that Sutton snagged, and he laughs, handing it over to me. I eat it ravenously, as if I haven’t eaten in days, instead of just a few hours. It seems incomprehensible that I lived on two-day-old hot dogs for so long.
Guilt makes my cheeks heat. “I feel bad about all this food. Shouldn’t we save some for the other people? Surely they didn’t expect us to eat this much.”
He nods his head toward the door, where a woman stands holding a miniature, glossy Yorkie. As I watch she feeds him one of the duck lollipops. And another. Another. “Don’t be. At least we’re people. I don’t even think Mopsie was invited.”
That makes me giggle. “Maybe I should bring something back for Sugar.”
A raised eyebrow. “Sugar?”
“My cat. Well, she’s not mine. She lives on the street. Like me.”
Another waiter glides through the swinging doors, and Sutton lifts a hand in gentle but inescapable command. “What do you have, good man?”
“Cast iron-seared Wagyu beef with truffle miso,” the server says, lowering the silver tray.
“Ah, contraband. Excellent. We’ll take six.”
The server must be well trained because he doesn’t try to protest that we’re taking half his platter. Instead he produces a cocktail napkin as we transfer the pieces to my small mountain.
Only when he’s gone do I pop a piece into my mouth. The beef is still hot. It falls apart on my tongue, juicy and subtly spiced. My eyes fall closed. A low moan surrounds me, and I realize that it’s mine. God. “It’s so good,” I say, my mouth still full. I swallow and sigh. “Forget an open bar. This is what weddings should have. Food that feels like a religious experience.”
Sutton gives me an arrested expression, those blue eyes turning dark.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing too slow that a reference to the wedding would make him sad.
“No, I—” He shakes his head, as if breaking a trance. “The way you look when you ate that is the same as you look when you come. Have another one. Have three.”
My cheeks heat. I’m suddenly self-conscious. “What? No?”
He lifts a piece to my mouth, insistent. “Another one.”
It already smells like heaven. It feels warm against my lips. I open, and he presses the piece inside, the rough tip of his finger brushing against my tongue. I can’t help the loud moan.
Shouting. Clapping. A disruption from the entrance catches my attention. The bride and groom enter to a round of fierce applause. They look like glamorous movie stars. Harper’s hair is down in resplendent honey-brown curls. Christopher seems more disheveled than in the church in some slight, unnamable way—as if his hair’s been ruffled and then reordered. They are the perfect picture of newly married couple.
Like everyone else in the room I clap, but I turn a worried glance to Sutton—and find him looking at me. He meets my eyes and then drops his gaze to my mouth.
The couple begins their first dance, and the audience settles slightly to watch them. I sit down without an ounce of grace. Now people are standing between me and the dance floor, making it so I can’t see; that’s fine, though. I can’t stand another second of Sutton’s intense scrutiny. God, he makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the room.
Sutton sits down more leisurely beside me.
I take a bite of the persimmons with goat cheese and honey, careful not to look at Sutton when I do, certain that I won’t make another sexual sound while eating. Ever again.
“I had a cat once,” he says, as casual as anything.
That makes me glance at him. “Did you? What was her name?”
“He was a boy. And I called him Tom.”
“For tomcat?”
“For Tom and Jerry.”
A shadow falls over his handsome face. “He disappeared one day. I wanted to think it was just one of those things. Maybe he fought a cat who was stronger.” A harsh laugh. The grooves around his mouth make him seem suddenly older. Harder. “No one
likes to think their dad would kill their pet.”
A soft gasp. “Did he?”
“I don’t know. Probably. He never liked Tom much. And… he shot my dog right in front of me. Lucy was barking. It was late at night. Dad was drunk as shit.”
My chest tightens. “I'm so sorry.”
“I sat with her until she was gone.”
There are no words, so I lean against him, offering him the warmth of my body. He seems so cold. So alone, for a man who has so many friends.
“I think you might know something about shitty dads,” he says softly.
A fist clamps around my throat. “How do you know that?”
His voice becomes wry. “A guess. You don’t end up on the streets because you’re well cared for. And you don’t trust men very much. I’m guessing that started early.”
I swallow hard. “It wasn’t like that at home. No drinking or shooting my pets. I had food and clothes and… a lot of things. Some people would say I’m crazy for leaving.”
“Fuck them. They don’t know what it was like.”
I look at him sideways. “You don’t know what it was like either. I might be crazy.”
“No one chooses the street corner unless you have no other option.”
“I couldn’t stay.” My breath catches, remembering. He’s right about something—I learned not to trust men early in life. My experience on the streets reinforced that, but it didn’t start there.
“What did he do?” The question is so offhand that I can almost answer.
“He—” The words won’t come out. I look down, ashamed.
“Should I kill him for you? I might enjoy it.”
I face him then, my eyes burning. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Thank you for being—”
“Kind?” A harsh laugh. He runs two fingers across my cheek, capturing a tear on his skin. “God, you’re tempting like this. Crying. Except I want to be the one to make you cry. Only me. Cry and beg and scream. Don’t mistake me for a good guy, Ashleigh. I’m a bastard. No one knows that better than you.”
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