He Loves You Not (Serendipity Book 2)

by Tara Brown

  Our dad was lucky his sales position was still relevant, because a lot of sales jobs had suffered through the internet revolution and the recession. Our mom’s job in health care was always going to be relevant, but she had no desire for Martin or me to live like her, on our feet doing shift work for the rest of our lives.

  My parents might not have become billionaires, but they had set it up so maybe Martin and I could. Best schools. Tuition paid. Live at home for free. Work only in the summer. We had it made.

  “Guess who I saw yesterday?” Marcia muttered so no one else could hear us, interrupting my thoughts on how great her dad and my parents were.

  “Who?” I asked, not really caring.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” she whispered, making my stomach tighten a bit. Her sightings were always bad—something to do with scandal.

  I didn’t know a single person from Marcia’s world who hadn’t been involved in some kind of scandal, except her and me. Even her boyfriend, Monty, had a scandal. His parents, another rich family from the Upper East Side, recently sold their family’s dusty old historic mansion near Central Park when Monty’s grandpa died, and they bought a new penthouse in Tribeca. It was a travesty to the upper echelons of New York to see Midtown and Tribeca and SoHo become trendy, while the Upper East Side lost its sexy appeal.

  Gasp!

  The lives of the rich and famous.

  I rolled my eyes inwardly and realized I’d missed half of what Marcia had said. “What?” I said, cutting her off.

  “I know, right? So then his dad got in the limo with her, and they drove away. Maya is going to be pissed. Her mom swore it was over. But Mr. Sandu had a lot of ass in his hand for it being over.”

  “Gross.” I cringed, catching up fairly fast even though I’d missed most of the conversation.

  Maya Costa and Harry Sandu were friends of ours from high school. Learning that their parents were getting it on last year had been a massive outrage in our world. You couldn’t even have a dinner party for about a month after the news leaked without someone being accused of taking sides. And both families were smack in the middle of our groups. Well, not my group. My parents didn’t even know they existed.

  My parents were way too busy for that shit, or for scandal in general.

  “I wish I had another cookie.” She smacked her lips together. “And some almond milk.” She gave me a look. “You think if I sent Darren over to your house, Grandma would give him a bag of cookies for us?”

  “No,” I laughed. “Grandma is a spicy old lady who hates the fact that you have a driver. She’ll give him cookies all right, but they won’t be in a bag for us. They’ll be on a plate for him and come with a glass of real milk and be served in front of the TV while she lets him have a damn break.”

  “A break from what? He’s a driver. His entire life is a break. He sits and drives. That’s not even hard work.”

  “I know. He’s so lazy,” I mocked again.

  “Shut up.” She held her purse tighter to her chest. “I didn’t say he was lazy, but it’s not like he’s out digging ditches in the sun.”

  “No.” Not like you, I thought to myself. I loved her, sometimes to death. As in sometimes I got so annoyed I wanted to strangle her. Lovingly. Some of my favorite conversations between Martin and me, late at night over a plate of Grandma’s baking, were based on these moments of the ridiculous. And usually involved me laughing at him mocking everyone in our separate groups of friends, particularly Marcia, but always with love. She really was a handful. Although his friends were no better—rich and lacking a sense of reality because of it. “We’re almost there.”

  I chuckled at Marcia’s dislike of the subway, but then the very thing she always assumed would happen, did.

  “Hey.” A guy came and sat next to her, offering a cheeky grin and wandering eyes that took a stroll down the front of her top.

  “Fuck off.” She gave him her own version of a cheeky grin: resting bitch face and a whole lot of New York City sass.

  “Don’t be rude, baby. You can’t sit on the train all dolled up and not expect a guy to come over and give it a try.”

  “Why do you guys have to push it? Did I give you a hint that I was at all interested? Was it my breathing or the way I took up this space that did it? Do I have to start filming you as I try to explain how much I seriously don’t want to be hit on while you’re sexualizing me and threatening my peace because you think with your dick and feel entitled to all of this?” She waved a hand up her body. “Or will you go away?”

  “What?”

  “Go sit over there and think about what you’ve done!” She pointed.

  “Damn, girl.” He got up and moved, going even farther than where she’d pointed.

  The girl across from us laughed, nodding with approval.

  “God, I love you,” I muttered, always stunned by how far some people would go and Marcia’s ability to put them in their place. That kind of thing never happened to me on the subway. It was like Marcia invited trouble, but even for having a privileged upbringing, she sure could pull the street side out. And that was from me. She learned to talk a certain way when she needed to. Mostly it was in Brooklyn while riding the subway, which did explain her fears. But since she was the only person it ever happened to, I tried to make her seem irrational for having them. That’s what being a sibling was all about—rounding off those edges. And Martin and I were as close as she was going to get to siblings, so we took our work seriously.

  “Finally.” As the train halted Marcia jumped up and grabbed the pole, closing her eyes momentarily and making peace with the fact that she would have to wait a minute before using her hand sanitizer. She was way past the guy hitting on her. In her mind, the germs of the filthy subway were worse than being sexualized by a stranger.

  She was the epitome for nature versus nurture as far as obsessing over cleanliness went. She had grown up in such clean conditions, she wasn’t accustomed to filth. Now she was on her own in the real world, or as alone as she could be with her dad’s credit card as support, and it was both crazy and amusing to watch her shirk from exposure.

  We jumped off the train at the Twenty-Third Street station and hurried along the dirty platform to the stairs.

  “Ahhhhhh,” she sighed as we surfaced. “Fresh air!”

  “Thank you.” I smiled brightly, nudging her as I acknowledged her version of hardship in this friendship.

  “You’re welcome.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you can’t just ride in the car like a normal person.”

  “Normal New Yorkers don’t have drivers! My dad even leaves his work car at the office in Jersey because it’s faster to take public transport.”

  “It’s not much faster.”

  “On a good day, at midnight, driving’s more efficient. But on a bad day, which is almost every day, taking the subway makes a huge difference. I’ve gotten out of the car when Darren’s been driving me somewhere, because some accident happened or the roads were so backed up that I gave in and walked to your house. I’ve had to take my shoes off partway and walk barefoot if I was wearing heels.” I folded my arms.

  “Gross.” She shuddered. “Barefoot in New York is like rolling around on a field of used needles.” She linked her arm in mine and started the short walk to her place at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Twenty-Sixth.

  When we arrived, West, the doorman, beamed at us both. “Ladies, how is the first weekend of summer break treating you?” His knowledge of our comings and goings always surprised me. His memory and skills at observation were sorely misused working here. He should have been in the FBI or CIA. Sometimes I wondered if he was and this was an undercover gig for him, watching the rich and famous come and go.

  “Excellent, thank you, West. And how is your day going?” And there was the thing I loved, absolutely loved, about Marcia. She might have talked a good game as a snob, but she legitimately cared about her people. And they knew it. She meant it when she asked
and paid attention when they answered.

  “Not too bad, Miss Marcia. Weather’s fine, streets aren’t too busy, traffic’s been all right all day, which for a Friday is some kind of miracle.” He chuckled. “And my wife messaged me that she’s making my favorite pot roast and Yorkshires for dinner. I love her homemade gravy, the way it sinks into the pudding.”

  “That sounds great! You have a good weekend. Tell her I said hello.” Marcia smiled wide and entered the building.

  “Will do. You both have a lovely day.”

  “You too,” we said at the same time.

  In the elevator, Marcia leaned back, losing that charm. She didn’t waste it on me anymore. I was like family. “What do you want for dinner?” She rubbed her stomach. “Those Yorkshires sound good. I wonder if the gravy is homemade or from a packet.”

  “Don’t even think about asking him to have his wife send some over.” I bumped her, teasingly but half seriously. She didn’t have normal boundaries.

  “I wouldn’t,” she hissed.

  “Liar.” I grinned as the elevator took us directly to her family’s penthouse.

  “Shut up.” She huffed and stepped off, smiling wide again when she saw Girt, her maid. “Hello, Girt.”

  “Miss Marcia, Miss Lacey. How are you?”

  “Excellent, thank you. TGIF, Girt. What are your plans for the weekend?” Marcia asked.

  All the house staff got weekends off, even though they lived with the La Croixes. It was another cool thing about Mr. La Croix. He forced Marcia and her mom to take care of themselves at least a couple of days of the week. No cook or butler on Saturdays or Sundays.

  “Oh, not much. I was thinking about hitting the farmers market and possibly taking a trip out to Sleepy Hollow with my sister. She’s in the city for the week and really wants to see it. Tourists.” Girt offered me a knowing smile. “And you must be starting your summer job soon?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Monday. I’m pumped.” I was beaming at the prospect.

  “Good luck.” She winked at me. “Though we know you won’t need it.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I followed the sound of Marcia’s clicking heels across the foyer, which was the size of the entire main floor of my house.

  Her two-story penthouse was off the charts, thousands of square feet.

  Walls of windows overlooking Madison Square Park and Manhattan.

  Marble floors that gleamed so brightly I could check my makeup in them.

  Glitzy light fixtures that sparkled like they were made of diamonds. They probably were, now that I thought of it.

  Modern decor and custom everything surrounded us at all times.

  Marcia had four closets in her room. The maid, Girt, had two, one and a half more than I had at home.

  Marcia’s parents had his and hers master bedrooms; they didn’t even share a room. I didn’t ask questions about that since I didn’t need answers that would scar me for life.

  Even her dog had his own room, and his was bigger than my bedroom. His door had a custom sign with his name, Floof. Senor Floof. He was a Chihuahua. His name made no sense to me for a dog with short hair, so I just called him Senor.

  The butler, a man named Moser, was a proper British butler, and he had some résumé. He’d worked for royals and huge icons in his day. He was older now and felt a nice, calm job here would be a great semiretirement. I didn’t see how tending to the needs of American royalty was preparing for retirement, but I also hadn’t worked for true royals, so I didn’t know how it could get any worse than this.

  “Lacey!” Mr. La Croix welcomed me first, always.

  “Mr. La Croix! How are you?” I let him embrace me and kiss my cheek.

  “For the millionth time, call me Frederick or Dad, for God’s sake. We’re not at the office, where I also insist you call me Dad.” He winked when he pulled back.

  “No,” I said with a laugh, refusing to call him Dad. What if I slipped up at the office by accident?

  “Marcia, what are you girls doing home?” He kissed her as well. “I figured you’d be out causing a scene; it’s the first Friday of summer break.”

  “All in good time, Daddy. We’re going on a cruise of the harbor later. End-of-year parties are in full effect. We just need to prep. This thing here would wear jean shorts if I left it up to her.” She pointed a thumb at me.

  “As I suspected.” His eyes darted from Marcia’s to mine. “Grades?” He held his hand out.

  “Oh, right.” I pulled my phone out and logged on to NYU’s dashboard, showing off my grades for the final semester.

  “Holy Moses, kid!” He beamed. “Excellent work! Were your parents excited?” His eyebrows rose.

  “Oh, uh.” I took my phone back. “They weren’t home when I got there. Mom’s been taking extra shifts and forcing Martin to the doctor for imaginary diseases, and Dad was away all week.” I nodded, pretending it was cool.

  “I’m certain they’ll be thrilled when you give them the good news.”

  “Yeah.” I let him think that. My parents hadn’t seen a report card of mine since junior year of high school. Which was fine with me. They trusted me to get my grades and attain goals on my own.

  “Well, you must be excited to be starting work again on Monday.” He beamed with fatherly pride. “Back at the old sweatshop.”

  “More than excited.” I ate it up. “Is Hennie coming back too? I emailed her, but she’s terrible at responding.” She was the other summer temp whom I’d worked with for four years, and I adored her. Together, we adored La Croix Industries. It was like having a second family—a second family that I saw more than my own.

  “She sure is. Asked me about you yesterday.”

  “Awesome! I can’t wait. Do we have any major sales coming up?” I risked Marcia’s annoyance by talking shop at the house.

  “We might. I have something I’m really excited to talk to you about, actually, but I’ll give you the weekend off.” He chuckled. “And how about you?” He turned his attentions to his daughter, who was wrinkling her nose, something she did right before lying. Worst poker player ever. “How are your grades?”

  “I passed. I’m sure I did.” She didn’t sound sure.

  “I expect those grades emailed to me.” He pointed his finger in her face but then softened and leaned in to kiss the side of her head again. “Be good. If you need Darren to pick you up at some ungodly hour, let him know ahead of time. He doesn’t like getting out of bed to come traipsing after you, and he has Saturday off,” he said, before lifting his phone and going back to work.

  “We will,” Marcia said, laughing.

  “We’ll take a taxi like normal people and let him sleep.” I scoffed and glanced back at her, lowering my voice. “Did you pass everything?” I worried about her.

  “I think so.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet.”

  I slumped my shoulders and covered my eyes with my hand.

  “You promised not to bring it up.”

  “I know, I’m counting backward from ten.” I stopped when I got to minus four and the annoyance lifted. “Let’s celebrate!” I forced a smile on my face. Because even if she was super irresponsible and some days I wanted to say “not my circus, not my monkey,” the truth was, she was my monkey. And I would always be there for her.

  Especially if her dad was going to kick her out when he saw this latest set of grades.

  I needed to be patient with her.

  Very, very patient.

  And successful so I could afford her.

  “Let’s get dressed. You can’t wear that.” She plucked at my shirt. “We only have two hours before we have to be there.”

  She dragged me down the hall.

  Her house was so weird.

  There was no grandma to offer cookies and snacks, and no one to make sure we did things like eat or drink or sleep. It was like adulting, only not.

  “Can we get something to eat? I don’t want to party on nothing but my breakfast burr
ito from seven hours ago and that cookie Grandma gave me.” I rubbed my belly.

  “No, it’ll make you look bloated. There’ll be appies on the boat.” She said it like that was normal. For food to be an afterthought.

  The rumbling in my stomach was my own version of disagreeing. “So all that talk of roast and Yorkshires was a lie?”

  “Yes,” she said as she forced me to her room and pushed me toward the back of the chair as she sat at her vanity filled with all the best makeup from around the world. “We are going to be so hot tonight, even Monty won’t recognize us!” she gushed. “Do my makeup that way you did it for the glitzy ball we went to. Where I looked like a fairy with all the shimmer and unicorn magic. And my hair was like—” She lifted her blonde mane and poofed it out like a bad eighties hairdo for some glam-metal rock video and gave me a horrifyingly sexy model glare. Her description and the weird pucker she was making while holding her hair was worth the entire effort it took to give her the silver and purplish hue to her eyes and cheekbones while also offering a subtle pink baby-doll pucker with extra gloss. I added a slight gray tone to her eyebrows and started blending her cheeks.

  “I think you should do yours like an Egyptian princess. I have the perfect dress for it,” she remarked.

  “Egyptian?” I chuckled, a little scared of what that entailed and what level of sexy she was considering. Or should I say scandalous?

  Thanks to Marcia, this summer was already shaping up to be a thrilling ride away from reality, and it had barely begun.

  Chapter Two

  THE NOT SO PRODIGAL SON

  Jordan

  I sat on my bed and stared out at the harbor. My parents’ place in the city did have a magical view. It was a shame that coming home from Harvard wasn’t the warm experience normal kids had when they got back. I’d been here for three days, and everything felt off.

  My dad was grumpier than usual, but he put on a happy face whenever he saw me.

  Mom was going out of her way to be overaccommodating.

  And my brother had that weird glint in his eyes that suggested he knew something that I didn’t.