All About the D

by Lex Martin

  The two women are all aflutter in each other’s company, and I feel like I’ve been dismissed. I reach for Nathan’s arm so we can slink away and let Gwen chat with her friend, but then she stops mid-sentence and motions toward us. “Have you met Evie and Nathan? They’re two of Malcolm’s brightest attorneys.”

  Mitzy—and seriously, what the hell kind of name is Mitzy?—steps back to include us in their conversation. “No, I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure.” She extends her slender hand. “I’m Marjorie Cartwright.”

  Holy shit. This is Josh’s mom.

  Nate practically bounds over me to shake her hand first. Really? Nice manners.

  When he’s done slobbering all over her, I smile and introduce myself. “It’s a delight to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright. I’m Evelyn Mills.”

  But she doesn’t respond because she’s distracted, glancing over our shoulders.

  Gwen turns her head too and claps. “The kids are here.”

  Mitzy leans toward her. “Spencer sends his regrets. He’s campaigning downstate tonight.”

  “That boy is going to be a senator someday. Can you believe it? Be sure his office contacts Malcolm for a contribution.”

  “There you are,” Mitzy calls out to someone behind us. I want to scoot out of the high-traffic zone, but then I hear his voice. It’s deep and smooth and sends chills up and down my arms.

  “Mother, we got here as soon as possible.”

  Josh.

  My heart races, and I compose my face so I don’t seem like an overeager puppy.

  He hugs his mom and mumbles something in her ear that makes her still, but then she whispers, “You’ll thank me later.”

  And then she leans up to kiss his cheek. Aww. The look of adoration on her face is too sweet. She obviously loves her son.

  Gwen returns her attention to me. “Nate and Evie, this is Josh Cartwright, Mitzy’s son. And—” She throws her arms up. “Tiffany! Darling! You made it!”

  As Josh turns to me, he has the strangest expression. I smile, but after a quick handshake, he glances away, his jaw tight.

  Huh.

  That’s not the reception I was hoping to get from him tonight.

  Disappointment settles in my gut like a lead weight. Is this the same guy who gave me the shirt off his back and bathed my dog and made me lunch last weekend? The same one who sent me a box of books and complimented my Pinterest boards on DIY renovations? The one who texted me all week?

  But as I’m introduced to his fiancée, I realize why he’s acting like a stranger.

  Because he’s a fucking liar.

  10

  Evie

  The bass drum in my temple beats louder the more I think about it. Josh Cartwright is here with the spectacularly beautiful Tiffany Dandridge, heir to the tech fortune, and I want to hide like a frog underneath one of those huge glass pond fronds until I can escape.

  Did I imagine what happened between Josh and me last week? Am I such a loser I can’t distinguish between someone being nice to me and someone flirting?

  For the rest of the evening, I make damn sure I’m on the opposite side of Mitzy’s clan as I chat with other guests. No matter what I do, I always seem to find Nate at my side, so when he asks to dance, it feels appropriate. He might not realize it, but having him keep me company helps me save face in front of Josh. Not that Josh gives two shits what I do.

  As Nate twirls me around unexpectedly, I laugh, and he smiles down at me. “You’re seriously so beautiful in that dress.”

  “Thanks.”

  Why couldn’t Nate have noticed me, oh, I don’t know, a few weeks ago? Had he showered me with this kind of attention then, I never would’ve given Josh a second thought beyond repping him. But now, Josh is all I can think about.

  I steal a glance in his direction and am surprised to find his eyes are locked on me. And he looks pissed. That’s… odd.

  His brother elbows him, hands him a tumbler, and Josh finally turns away.

  Yes, I had the pleasure of being introduced to every single one of the Cartwright clan, including Tiffany, who looped her arm through Josh’s and beamed the sweetest smile at him. Of course, she’s perfect. A blonde size two with flawless tanned skin and blindingly white teeth.

  I wasn’t sure if the rage coursing through me at that moment was because he’d omitted the very important detail he was engaged or because she’s obviously so head over heels for him when he’s probably hooking up with other girls.

  Much to my heart’s utter annoyance, Gwen went on and on about how Josh and Tiffany have known each other since they were kids and everyone always knew they’d fall in love.

  That’s when I opened my big mouth. I couldn’t help it. I said, “Isn’t it great when you go back so far with someone that you feel like you know everything there is about the other person? That has to be the best kind of relationship.”

  Josh closed his eyes briefly, but when he opened them, I almost cringed at the fire behind them. Except something about the flames in his eyes pissed me off more. Yeah, buddy, well, fuck you too.

  Tiffany yammered on and on about how cute “Joshy” was when he finally asked her out in college, and how she was so nervous, the little princess couldn’t decide what to wear that night, Gucci or Prada or Versace. And even though I felt bad for her, even though I realized she’s probably the victim here, I still wanted to poke out her eye with a satay skewer.

  So then, the evil bitch that I am, I held up my glass to toast the happy couple. “Congrats, Josh. Sounds like you found yourself the perfect woman. Here’s to having someone know the real you.”

  Yes, I’m probably going to hell.

  Everyone ate it up, gushing over Tiffany and Josh like they’d discovered the cure for cancer. I managed not to roll my eyes or say what I really wanted, feats unto themselves. Then some prick elbowed me out of the way so he could interview the clan.

  Now, I’m twirling with Nate, a man I should be excited about. A man I’ve been pining over for months. Except all of the twirling and the rigorous way he dipped me a minute ago is making me nauseous.

  Across the room, Angela, decked out in a gorgeous blood-red cocktail dress, saunters up to the Cartwrights on the other end of the ballroom, but I don’t think I can stomach watching her schmooze them.

  The steady ache in my temple, which started when I saw Josh and Tiffany, only intensifies as the evening progresses. When the song ends, I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room. Locking myself in a stall, I close my eyes and try to relax, because the longer I’m at this party, the harder it is to breathe.

  I lean against the stall and try to reset my attitude because I should take advantage of the gala. This is my first WGA party, and I want to make the most of it. Except my headache is getting so bad, I want to curl up on the floor at this point.

  Why did I get my hopes up? Like Josh Cartwright would ever be interested in me.

  I glance down at my expensive dress and designer shoes, clothes I’d never typically wear, clothes I’ll likely never wear again.

  At least I won’t have to see Josh again after this event. He’s not a client, he’s not a friend, and he’ll certainly never be more than a friend. Now that I know he jogs in the mornings, I’ll stick to working out in the evenings.

  Resolved to keep my shit together just a little longer, I exit the stall and wash my hands.

  When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the dumb hope in my eyes that I’d had when I was getting ready with Kendall. But I also don’t see someone deluded by a sexy smile and nice abs.

  Being a realist is good. This might suck now, but it’s better to see someone’s true colors before you really get hurt.

  With a heavy sigh, I pull the door open only to come face to face with the asshole himself.

  “I need to talk to you,” Josh says brusquely, stepping toward me.

  With his close proximity, my brain short-circuits, and I blink, trying to get my bearings.

  But all I can think is how
much I had wanted to be the girl on his arm tonight. How much I had hoped our friendship had meant something to him like it did to me. How some small piece of me had thought last weekend might be the first of many times hanging out together.

  He runs his hands through his thick, black hair, sending pieces of it everywhere—over his hazel eyes and askew in the most haphazard way that only makes him look sexier.

  With a pained breath, I remind myself that he’s a liar and probably a cheater and that it doesn’t matter how good he looks in a tux, the man isn’t who I think he is.

  “Congrats on your engagement,” I say flatly and turn to walk away. I know we weren’t together, that we hadn’t spent much time together, but he definitely flirted with me all week, so for him to show up with his fucking fiancée hurts.

  He gently grabs my elbow and steers me back. My eyes narrow. I wish I could pretend like I’m not hurt, like I don’t care, but that’s not me. I care. I always care. Which means I’m always the one burned.

  Letting go with a sigh, he pushes up his black-rimmed glasses. Damn it. Does he have to look so beautiful?

  “I need to explain,” he says quietly. “This, tonight, Tiffany—it’s not what you think.”

  Doesn’t every cheater say that?

  With a huff, I whisper, “If you’re worried about me spilling your secrets to your betrothed, don’t. When I told you our meetings were confidential, I meant that. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Evie, that’s not what—”

  He pauses to look down the hall, and a moment later Nathan fills my peripheral vision.

  I’m grateful for the reprieve because I really shouldn’t knee Josh in the balls at Gwen’s birthday gala.

  And in the name of doing what’s right—for the sake of my career, Josh’s manhood, and this fine event—I take Nathan’s arm, muster a smile and try to keep my shit together.

  “I have a terrible headache. I think I’m going to head out.”

  “Sorry about that, gorgeous,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let me get my car. I’ll drive you.”

  I nod, relieved I won’t have to stand outside and wait for an Uber.

  Even though this isn’t the man I want to be with, even though it’s killing me to walk away from Josh, leaving seems like the right thing to do.

  And maybe on some small level, Nate’s kindness gives me hope that chivalry isn’t dead after all.

  11

  Josh

  I bang on Evie’s heavy, wooden door with my fist like I’m an invading conqueror about to bash it down off its hinges. Jesus fucking Christ, she needs to talk to me.

  Her dog barks, but no one comes to the door.

  It’s a drizzly night as usual, and I pull off my glasses, dry them off on my shirt hem, and put them back on, waiting for her to answer. Raindrops run down my face and into my eyes, and I slick my hair back.

  I step back from the door, trying to catch my breath, because I literally ran to her house after Tiffany’s limo dropped me off. Since I wanted to talk to her so badly, I hadn’t bothered to go up to my place or change out of my tux. Leaning over, I rest my hands on my knees and regroup.

  Truthfully, I’m not completely sure why I’m here now, except that I have to explain what happened, and she wouldn’t let me at the party.

  Which was a clusterfuck from beginning to end, starting when Tiffany morphed from my ride to my fiancée once we arrived at the museum. She was clearly full of shit with the “we’ll go as friends” crap she fed me because when I helped her out of her coat, I noticed she was sporting an engagement ring.

  Before I could open my mouth, flash went the cameras, and Tiffany and Josh were back together again.

  Almost like the press knew the narrative, knew to pounce on this story.

  Standing there, I felt like a fucking fool. Especially since I never actually gave her a ring.

  Of course we weren’t engaged, but that ring seemed to be the only evidence anyone needed to celebrate our pending nuptials. It thrilled my mother, and I couldn’t do anything to stop the extremely public slow-motion train wreck from happening. My parents have the Cartwright offspring trained well. We don’t argue or correct one another in public, and we certainly don’t correct people like Gwen Waller.

  But during the car ride home, I had it out with Tiffany and made it clear we were over.

  I knew the next thing I had to do was come straight to Evie and explain.

  But now that I’m standing here on her doorstep at midnight, I’m reconsidering.

  I’m really hoping that douche she was with isn’t here.

  What if he is?

  I take a step back and debate whether I should pound on the door again or just leave.

  Watching her dance with him made me crazy. Waves of possessiveness and jealousy—emotions I never felt with my ex—shot through me all night. But worse was seeing the hurt in her eyes when she met my so-called fiancée.

  Fuck.

  I knock again, hard. Chauncey barks louder.

  Damn it, answer the door.

  I hear the deadbolt unlock, and the heavy wooden door swings open, revealing Evelyn corralling her dog behind her.

  My God, she’s stunning. Dark hair loose and down around her shoulders. Pouty lips and sex-kitten eye makeup. Barefoot now, but still wearing that sexy-as-fuck gold dress, she looks like a screen siren, all full curves and flawless skin, except for those light freckles on her cheekbones.

  And she’s glaring at me with those piercing gray eyes like I’ve maimed her dog.

  “Can I come in?”

  She stiffens and puts a hand on her hip. “No. What are you doing here?”

  Her dog escapes and comes outside on the porch, prancing around me and wagging his tail. He’s old but enthusiastic. I crouch down to pet him, and I think I see her mouth the word “traitor” to him.

  I straighten back up. “I need to talk to you.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “What it seemed like tonight—it wasn’t what you think.” I take a step forward and lean on the door frame.

  Chauncey goes back in the house, but Evie stays put. While the dress covers her and drapes around her curves, from this position I have full view of her ample cleavage.

  Eyes up, dude. Because, yes, I like her for more than her exquisite body. She’s brilliant and quirky and so fucking sweet. Just being around her makes me smile.

  But she’s not smiling now.

  Her eyes harden, and her voice gets even lower and more alluring—probably because she’s so pissed.

  “Oh, no?” She laughs mirthlessly. “You mean you’re not engaged and your families aren’t planning the wedding of the century? Wow, I must have misheard that entire conversation.” A deep sigh leaves her. “Go home to your fiancée, Josh. It’s midnight. You have no business seeking out another woman’s company right now.”

  I stare into her eyes. “I swear I’m not engaged. God’s honest truth. Please let me explain.”

  She stares at me as the anger in her expression dissipates, becoming something sadder. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I think I heard enough tonight. You should go.”

  Fuck.

  My stomach sinks. This can’t be it. I want to get to know her more. Hell, I want to date her. Want to spend every minute listening to her talk, helping her restore her house, washing her damn dog.

  Getting to know that banging body.

  I can’t have her shut the door on me. Not now, not like this.

  Inspiration strikes. It’s probably stupid, and it’s possible she might laugh in my face, but I’m batting for the fences anyway. “Can I at least get my shirt back?”

  Thinking of my shirt reminds me of the way she wore it, braless in the park.

  Control your thoughts, man.

  Letting out another sigh, she finally relents. “Fine.” She turns on her heel in a huff, leaving the door open, and strides towards her bedroom. I close the door behind me, then double-step it
to catch up. Chauncey prances between us.

  I follow her down the hall, watching the way the fabric moves over her body, and I just start talking. At this point I have nothing to lose.

  “You must think I’m a real asshole.”

  She doesn’t turn around to respond. “I do.”

  “Tiffany isn’t my fiancée.”

  “That’s not how she acted. That’s not what everyone said. In fact, I’m pretty sure I had a front-row seat for the introductions. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be invited to the wedding! Chauncey, sit, buddy.”

  As we pass a dog bed in the hall, she points. He ignores her and wags his tail. I give him a look and motion toward his pillow, and he dutifully sits with a creaky-old-man sigh. Good boy. At least someone listens to me.

  I try again. “We were together so long, people just assume—”

  We get to her bedroom, and I walk right in, ignoring her annoyed expression when she glances back at me. Unlike the rest of the house, which looks like she’s been here a week, her bedroom is set up. It’s untidy, though, with clothes hanging out of her dresser and shoes scattered on the floor. Her bed, a classic oak Stickley style, is unmade with papers on the comforter—looks like law work and plans for her house.

  She snatches my shirt off the top of a dresser and shoves it into my chest, eyes blazing. “Here it is. You should go.” With her other hand, she makes a little twirly movement, like I should hightail it on out.

  Without thinking about it, I grab her wrist and pull it to my chest. A small gasp escapes her. “You need to listen,” I growl.

  This close, I notice that her breath is coming in pants and her cheeks are flushed. What I thought was anger in her eyes might also be unshed tears. She’s trembling slightly, but then seems to gather herself, the anger winning over.

  She’s just so goddamn real. She has no idea how utterly refreshing she is, so unlike everyone I know in my family’s social circle.

  Yanking her arm away, she hisses, “I don’t need to do anything. You left out a major detail in your life. That’s all I need to know. I’d like you to leave so I can put this”—she waves between us—“behind me.”