I run my fingertips along the sides of my head, combing my hair into place. I’ve grown out my classic crew cut in favor of something a little more relaxed, something I can muss into place in the morning and go. Plus, the shorter hair was a reminder of the life I left behind, and the last thing I need is to be reminded of everything I lost five years ago …
My house. My job. My reputation. My career.
Her.
I’m not sure why Bristol’s wedding has me thinking of Halston, but today she’s particularly prominent in my thoughts. And sometimes those thoughts are so heavy, I can feel them. Physically feel them.
They’re heavy today.
“Arlo, you ready yet? We gotta go.” Nic yells toward the hotel bathroom. “God, he takes forever in there and he’s only ten. What’s it going to be like when he’s sixteen?!”
The lock on the door pops and Arlo steps out in slacks and a cashmere sweater, his blond curls combed straight and parted on the left.
“My baby.” Nicolette strides toward him, cupping his face in her hands. His eyes widen and he looks to me for help, but all I can do is fight a smirk. “You’re so grown up. Oh, my goodness. Stop growing. Stay little forever.”
Arlo tries to squirm away when my sister wraps him in her arms.
Checking my watch, I clear my throat. “We should head down. The mixer started a half hour ago.”
Only Aunt Cecily could extend an hour-long wedding into a five-day event. Tonight’s the mixer, tomorrow’s the clam bake, Friday’s the rehearsal dinner, Saturday’s the wedding and reception, and Sunday is the wedding brunch, which I didn’t even know was a thing.
Nic checks her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her hands down her sides before turning to check her ass.
Shameless.
“You trying to meet someone tonight?” I ask as we head toward the hallway.
“You never know who you’re going to meet at these things,” she says. “Five of my friends met their future spouses at other people’s weddings.”
We stand in front of an elevator bay, watching Arlo press the down button repeatedly.
“I didn’t know you were looking,” I say. My sister and I are close, but we seldom discuss her love life. I suppose I’ve always assumed she was content to be Arlo’s mom because she never alluded otherwise.
“I’m always looking, Ford,” she says as the elevator doors ding and slide open. “Isn’t everyone?”
I frown for a second before shaking my head. “I’m not.”
“That’s right. You have impossible standards,” she says, exhaling and staring up at the mirrored ceiling as we ride to the bottom floor. “Hate to break it to you, but the girl of your dreams? She doesn’t exist. I’ve yet to meet a feisty, opinionated blonde who reads Proust and swears like a sailor.”
The elevator slows to a gentle stop and the doors part. Nic and Arlo step off, making a beeline for a table covered in hor d’oeuvres.
Ahead stands none other than Mason Foster with a beautiful woman draped on his arm. Her curved body wears a slip dress that plunges low in the back and shimmers like diamond dust, and her hair, smooth as glass and the color of melted chocolate, hits just below her collarbone. A champagne glass rests lightly between her delicate fingertips, and she nods when Mason leans close and whispers in her ear.
But when she turns toward the elevator, her expression disappears the second her wild green gaze lands on mine.
It’s Halston. All grown up.
My heart thunders in my chest, but I walk past her. I don’t stop. I can’t.
I keep moving.
I may have loved that woman once, but that was a lifetime ago—before she destroyed me. And how she ended up with Mason is none of my fucking concern.
Removing my gaze from her womanly curves and her juicy mouth the color of ripe strawberries, I make my way to the end of the bar, order a double vodka, and lose myself in the crowded ballroom the rest of the night.
Chapter 46
Halston
It worked.
I found him.
I finally found him.
My skin is flushed, the room feverish. Mason won’t stop touching me. He pulls me from aunt to uncle to cousin to grandmother, introducing me as “My Halston” despite the fact that we’re not together.
I’m simply his wedding date, a work colleague he’s been chasing for the better part of a year.
“Uncle Roger,” Mason says, pulling me by the hand to a cozy corner of a giant ballroom. “Have you met my Halston?”
Roger is a tall man with slick, silver hair and a devious smirk. He takes my hand from Mason, lifting it to his mouth and depositing a kiss, like I’m some noblewoman.
“A pleasure to meet you, Halston,” he says. “We hope you’re enjoying yourself so far? I know my daughter, Bristol, was looking forward to meeting you. She’s around here somewhere.”
“This is a beautiful venue,” I say. “And I look forward to meeting her as well.”
Mason rests his hands on my hips. I brush them off without making a scene.
Every few seconds, I can’t help but to scan the room, looking for Kerouac again. I’m not entirely convinced I wasn’t daydreaming a little while ago.
He was there, stepping off the elevator in a navy suit, his hair slightly grown out. Our eyes locked for an endless second. And then he was gone.
My body’s acting like I just finished a marathon, heart racing, adrenaline pumping, mouth dry, so I take another sip of champagne to quell my nerves, but I’m going to need something stronger.
“Mason!” A girl with long auburn hair, dressed in head to toe Lilly Pulitzer, squeals before running toward us and wrapping her arms around him. “How have you been? Oh my gosh. Is this her?”
I lift a brow while maintaining a graceful smile.
“Hi, I’m Bristol,” she says, hesitating before giving me a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Shooting Mason a look, I pretend to be amused. “And what exactly has he been saying?”
“Oh, Aunt Constance!” Bristol rises on her toes, waving to another guest across the room. “I’m so sorry. I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?”
With that, she’s gone, and I reach for Mason, pulling him close so I can whisper in his ear.
“Why the hell does everyone think I’m your girlfriend?” I ask. “I’m your wedding date, Mason.”
He wears a shit-eating grin, smoothing the lapels of his suit coat and straightening his shoulders.
“It’s not funny.” My brows narrow. The last thing I need is for Ford to hear through the grapevine that I’m a taken woman.
I’m not taken. At all.
I’ve been waiting for him all these years.
“It is funny,” Mason says, taking my hand and placing it on his chest. “And it’ll be even funnier fifty years from now when we’re telling our grandkids about it.”
Pulling in a sharp breath, I let it go and finish the rest of my drink. “You promised you wouldn’t do this. I agreed to come with you as your friend, your date. Had I known you were going to pull some stunts—”
“Forgive me.” He moves closer, placing his greedy hands on my waist and tucking his chin against his chest. His hooded eyes relax. “I am completely and utterly obsessed with you, and not being able to snap my fingers and get exactly what I want isn’t something I’m used to. I don’t mean to be aggressive, I just find it difficult to contain myself when I’m with you.”
If my sympathy is what he’s looking for, he’s not going to get it.
I don’t particularly have a soft spot for spoiled tech-y billionaires. And his Mexican beach house, his New York brownstone, his Silicon Valley estate, and his fleet of Italian sports cars might be enough to win over most women, but not me. I need more than good looks, a nice wardrobe, and a bottomless bank account.
Take all of that away, and Mason is mind-numbing, clichéd, and uninspiring at best.
He hasn’t read a book since college, and my
research on him has led me to conclude that he didn’t get to where he is because he’s gifted or inventive. He got there because he’s resourceful. And lucky.
There’s nothing sexy or extraordinary about a man whose mother gifts him ten million dollars in his early twenties, which he then uses to pay some of the world’s most in-demand software developers to whip up a bunch of apps and games for a flat fee, which he then goes on to sell and take all the credit for.
“I’m going to grab another drink.” I step away before I say something I’m going to regret. The weekend is too young to go there with him, and I’ve got more important things to worry about.
Like finding Ford.
A few minutes later, I walk away with a gin and tonic, heading into a sea of unfamiliar faces. Men stare when I walk past, old and young, single and married. Over the past five years, I’ve completely transformed myself, graduating at the top of my class at Welsh Academy, finishing my bachelor’s degree at the University of Illinois two semesters early, and starting a PR business with my best friend, Lila Mayfield.
And in the process, I traded in my wild blonde mane for something sleek and more refined. I learned how to do my makeup, dress for my body type, and walk in six-inch heels. I know how to eat lobster and oysters, how to prepare challenging French dishes with perfection, how to make the perfect pot of tea, and entertain guests with polish and poise.
I’m still me. I’m still Halston. I’m just older and wiser. More confident.
Unstoppable.
I grew into my skin. I reinvented myself. I became the girl that everyone wants instead of the one that everyone wants nothing to do with.
And for that, I’ll never apologize.
“There you are.” Mason takes me by the arm, catching me off guard and nearly spilling my drink. “Thought maybe you’d dodged back to your room.”
Stirring my drink with a little straw, I take a sip. “Not yet. But I will soon.”
“We’ve only been here an hour.” He pouts, because Mason Foster does that. He’s a thirty-three-year-old man who pouts when he doesn’t get what he wants.
“I’m exhausted and my head is pounding,” I say, scanning the room for the millionth time.
He’s here. I know it. I saw him.
I feel him …
… that electric charge in the air.
Mason exhales, lifting his hand to my cheek before smiling. “All right. You get your rest. Tomorrow’s the clam bake at Aunt Cecily’s. You’ll meet everyone else then.”
Before I get the chance to rebuff him, he presses his lips against my forehead.
Fucking jackass.
“Mason.” I say his name through gritted teeth, trying not to make a scene and keeping my hands gripped tight around my tumbler so I don’t accidentally wring his neck.
“It was an innocent peck,” he says, sweeping my hair over my shoulder and drinking me in like I’m a work of fucking art.
And I am.
“The more you push me away, the more I want you,” he says, head tilted as he studies me. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who hasn’t thrown herself at me.” Mason exhales. “You drive me crazy, Halston. I’d give you the world if you asked me to.”
“I know.”
He could give me the world and it still wouldn’t be enough.
It still wouldn’t be Kerouac.
Chapter 47
Ford
“You’re not eating. Why aren’t you eating?” Nicolette pushes my breakfast plate closer, as if that could possibly bring my appetite back. “You’re going to be starving later. The clam bake takes all day with all those stupid games and stuff they make us play. We won’t be eating until later.”
“I’ll live.”
Arlo digs at his soggy Frosted Flakes. The hotel boasts a five-star restaurant with a celebrity-chef prepared menu, but this kid wanted cereal.
Nicolette clears her throat. Then again. Her eyes darted over my shoulder as if to point in that direction.
“Mason,” she says under her breath.
“So?” I shrug, trying to ignore the palpitations reverberating against my chest wall at the thought of seeing her again.
When I first saw her last night, I was angry. All those emotions I’d buried so long ago, the ones that had settled to the bottom in hopes they’d someday be forgotten, were stirred, rising to the surface to be experienced all over again.
A couple drinks later, my breathing had returned to normal, but I was still seeing red, still ensuring I kept my distance if only because I didn’t trust myself not to say something—or do something—I’d later regret.
There were things I wanted to say to her, things I’d harbored for years. Things I’d written a hundred times in letters that were eventually torn into a hundred pieces, burned in fireplaces and left in trash cans in hotels around the world.
“Ford. Nicolette.” Mason’s arrogant burr fills my ears. I don’t turn to face him. If he wants to speak to me, he can stand in front of me. I refuse to so much as crane my neck in his direction. He moves around the table, lowering himself to my nephew’s level. “And you must be Arlo.”
Arlo glances at his mom, silently asking who the hell this jackass is.
“How are things?” Mason wears an enormous smile, like he’s biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to rub his success in our faces. Growing up, he was always jealous of us, of our intelligence and our hardworking drive and ambition. Those things came natural to us, they were effortless. He hated us for it, but only because we made him look bad.
Guess he sure showed us.
“Did you need something?” I ask, refusing to make eye contact. I butter a slice of toast from my plate to make the simple point that a piece of warm bread is more deserving of my attention than he is.
“Just saying hi.” He shrugs, not getting the hint that he’s not wanted. “It’s been, what, ten years or so?”
“We’re not really keeping track …” Nicolette hides her smirk behind a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.
“I’ll have to introduce you to my girlfriend,” he says. “You’re going to love her. Smart as a fox. Beautiful too. Hoping she’s the one.”
My fist clenches around my fork, my jaw tightening.
Maybe I’ve moved on. Maybe I don’t want her anymore. But I sure as fuck don’t want him to have her. He deserves some vapid Brazilian supermodel, not the woman of my goddamned dreams.
“Best of luck to you, Mason.” Nicolette locks eyes with me. “See you around.”
Mason lingers, and I imagine he’s disappointed that he couldn’t stand around and brag a little more, but I don’t particularly give a shit.
“Heyyyy.” Nic kicks my leg under the table. “What was that about? I know we hate that bastard, but for a minute there I thought you were going to drive a butter knife through his carotid artery.”
Drawing in a long breath, I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Nic is my best friend. I’ve always told her everything.
But I never told her about Halston.
I was ashamed. Humiliated. A fucking disgrace to everything we’ve ever stood for.
All she knows is it didn’t work out.
She doesn’t know why.
Tossing my napkin over my plate, I excuse myself. I need a run, a cold shower, and a whole lot of self-restraint before we head to Aunt Cecily’s.
Chapter 48
Halston
“Almost ready?” Mason knocks on my hotel room door. I rise from the vanity and let him in, saying nothing as he takes a seat on the edge of my bed. Facing the mirror, I slick a coat of ruby red stain across my lips. I’ve found that if you want someone to listen to you, to pay attention to what you say and find you irresistible, you draw attention to your mouth.
It also makes you look fearless, brazen.
People respect you more when you’re not afraid to stand out.
Bright red lips say, “I have something important to say, and I’m m
aking damn sure you’re going to hear me.”
When I’m finished, I dab perfume behind my ears—one with notes of peach, lilac, and geranium—and across each wrist, before giving myself a final glance in the mirror, tugging my sea spray peplum blouse into place and ensuring my linen shorts aren’t too revealing for a family gathering. I’ve never attended a clam bake, but it’s almost ninety degrees out and we’re going to be by the shore, so I wanted to dress light.
“You look amazing. Car’s waiting. Let’s go.” Mason watches me with an owning smirk on his mouth, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. I can almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he fantasizes about wearing me on his arm, showing me off to his family.
If Mason were an intelligent man, he’d realize he only wants me because he can’t have me, but he’s too fixated, too obsessed with wanting the one thing he can’t have that he neglects to see that.
This world is full of beautiful women who would suck his dick for a ride in his McLaren, women who would give their firstborn child for a chance to spend a luxurious evening with a Silicon Valley billionaire.
I’m not one of them.
Slipping my bag over my shoulder, I follow Mason to the elevator. When the doors part, we step inside, squeezing in with a handful of other hotel guests. His hand finds mine, his fingers interlacing.
I follow the path of the light as it moves from the five to the four to the three and eventually to the ground level. Harboring a breath, I brace myself for the moment the doors open.
Kerouac is staying at this hotel. He could be anywhere.
But he isn’t in the lobby.
Exhaling, I follow Mason to the porte cochere and climb into the back of a chauffeured Mercedes.
“How long until we’re there?” I ask Mason once we merge onto the highway.
“About thirty minutes,” he says. “Shouldn’t be long.”
I face away, smiling, keeping the reason to myself.
Thirty minutes is nothing, especially when I’ve been waiting five years for this moment.
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