Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  When the buzzer rings tonight, I almost ignore it. I don’t think I can take another gift from Tristan, another note that leaves me in tears, clinging to my resolve not to go running back to him.

  What stops me? I don’t trust Tristan anymore. Maybe this is just a game to him. Maybe I’m just a game to him.

  But tonight, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I push the call button that unlocks the front door, and then stand sentry in the hallway with my arms crossed over my chest, waiting to see what new torture Tristan will inflict on me.

  But it’s not a messenger from the delivery service Tristan favors, carrying a package for me in one hand and a bike helmet in the other.

  The person coming up my dingy stairwell is none other than Celeste Van Horne, looking radiant in tailored jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt, and wearing a butter-wouldn’t-dare-melt-in-my-mouth smile. We’ve never met before, but I would know her anywhere. “Wow,” she says when she gets to the top. “Who needs SoulCycle when you get a workout like that every day.”

  Celeste Van Horne. My sister. And the epitome of everything I’ve always wanted to be—not just beautiful, but confident and polished. It’s taken me years to craft a veneer that even slightly resembles hers.

  But right now, my guard is down. I changed out of my work clothes when I came home. I’m wearing sweats and fuzzy socks, my hair is in a ponytail and there’s not a speck of makeup on my freshly washed face.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. It takes some getting used to.” Not knowing what else to do, I stick my hand out. “Hi. I’m Reina.”

  Celeste laughs, opening her arms. “Never mind that. Come here, sis.”

  I return her embrace tentatively, half afraid that if I squeeze too hard she’ll vanish into thin air. It feels like I’m hugging a unicorn.

  “I’m really sorry to just show up here like this. But I’m in the middle of a semester abroad and couldn’t get back to the States until now.”

  I lead her into my tiny studio, which feels even tinier because of the garment racks full of clothes lining one of the walls (a necessity since my only closet is barely two feet wide).

  She sits down at the lopsided bistro table that serves as both my desk and dining table, dropping her bag on the floor and sighing dramatically. “Typical baby-of-the-family whining, I guess.” She gives me a curious look. “Wait a minute, are you older or younger than me? Am I a middle child now?”

  I sit down across from her. “You have me beat by a few weeks, I think. You’re still the youngest.”

  My mom told me yesterday that after she left, Gerald reconciled with his wife. Celeste was the result.

  He got the daughter he didn’t want anyway.

  “Phew.” She grins. “It’s my only claim to fame within the Van Horne clan. I didn’t enter the business, I’m not on TV, and I don’t play professional sports. Being the overlooked youngest is all I’ve got.”

  Sitting across from Celeste feels like an out-of-body experience. “Something tells me you don’t get overlooked very often.”

  “You’d be surprised. Although,” she wrinkles her nose, apparently realizing what our close birthdays actually mean. “I’m not sure what that says about our dad.”

  Oh, I know what it says. Gerald Van Horne is a two-timing piece of crap. “Yeah,” I agree. “It’s kind of gross.”

  She nods, then looks around. “So . . . This is weird, right?”

  I crack a smile. “So weird.”

  And then we laugh, so long and hard that I get up to grab a box of tissues to wipe at our eyes.

  Celeste gets a hold of herself first, but only because she blows her nose so loudly that I dissolve into another fit. I love that she isn’t as prim and proper and perfect as she looks, or as I imagined. None of my siblings are, really. Wendy is kind of a hard-ass, but I admire her for clashing with her father, and having no compunctions about using his influence if it works to her advantage. Bryce is unexpectedly cool, doesn’t take himself too seriously, and wants nothing to do with the world his father rules. And Celeste is vivacious and remarkably endearing.

  “So, how long have you known about us?” Celeste asks.

  Jeez, how to answer that? “You want the long boring version or the quick and easy answer?”

  She looks upward out of the corner of her eye, thinking. “Maybe something in between?”

  I launch into the story of how I learned that her father was also my father, sharing only the relevant bits and leaving out things like being dumped by my own mother via Post-it. Some pieces of my story are too intimate to share with someone I’ve just met, even if we are related.

  “When my dad finally told us about you three weeks ago, I couldn’t believe it. I thought about calling you but decided it would be best to meet in person first.” She blinks a few times, running her hands through her hair. “I can’t believe you’ve known about us for so long. Didn’t you want to meet us?”

  To my surprise, disappointment edges Celeste’s voice. “I-I never thought of it like that,” I stammer. “Meeting you was never an option. I didn’t want to upset my dad— He was all I had once my mom left. And in the wedding photos, you all looked so happy. I guess I just didn’t want to intrude.”

  Celeste reaches out to take my hand. “It was all an act. The three of us were furious he left my mom to marry a woman we’d known for about five minutes. And we were pretty awful to your mom—I imagine she didn’t want to have you around us.”

  I attempt a half-smile, flustered that her guess so closely mirrors the reason my mom gave for not including me in her new life. I’m still skeptical, but I wish that I’d been able to see beyond my own feelings of abandonment to realize that my mom was struggling, too. Maybe if one of us had opened up about our feelings, had pushed the issue rather than pretending it didn’t exist, we wouldn’t have a decade of resentment to chip away at now. “Water under the bridge.”

  “Well, we’re in the boat together now. There’s no going back.”

  “I don’t think your dad is sailing anywhere with me.” He’s probably just biding his time until he can push me overboard.

  “Our dad,” Celeste says firmly. “And I told him that I was coming to meet you today. He was fine with it.”

  I snort. “Really?”

  “Well, he hung up on me, actually. But I’m sure he’ll come around.” She purses her lips for a moment, considering. “And if not, it’s his loss.”

  “Do Bryce and Wendy know you’re here?”

  “Wendy’s going through a tough time right now with her divorce. But Bryce does. He says hi, by the way. Now,” she squirms in her chair and puts her elbows down on the table top. “Tell me about Tristan.”

  I give a nervous laugh. “Haven’t you known him your whole life? You must know Tristan better than I do.”

  “Very funny.” She flashes an impish smile. “Tell me about you and Tristan.”

  I take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. Don’t cry. “What’s there to say? I’ve learned so much from him. He’s been an incredible mentor.”

  “Mentor? Bryce said you and Tristan were a couple.”

  “It felt that way, for a hot minute. But it doesn’t really matter now. Whatever we are, or were, is over.”

  She pauses, looking at me intently. “It doesn’t sound like it’s over.”

  I blink rapidly, a futile effort to keep the tears at bay. But one of them manages to escape, rolling down my cheek. I sniff, wiping it away with the back of my wrist. “Oh, but it is. One hundred percent.”

  Celeste’s gaze widens. “You love him.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t love Tristan.”

  But she sees right through me. “You do.”

  I sigh, relenting. “I did. But not anymore.”

  “You know, I’ve known Tristan all my life. I had the biggest crush on him when I was a teenager.” She giggles, rolling her eyes at herself. “Completely unrequited, by the way. He barely a
cknowledged my existence. But when I asked him about you . . .”

  My traitorous heart gives a lurch. “You talked to Tristan?”

  “I couldn’t help it. I just wanted to know more about you.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just that you were great. Really great. And that he thought we would be friends. But it wasn’t what he said about you. It was the way he said your name. His voice got all funny, and he sounded sad.”

  “Sad?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes make a sweep of my room, snagging on the pile of gifts tossed into one corner. The basket of DVDs, the tub of popcorn, the box of Bloody Mary mix. Several bouquets of flowers. My favorite coffee beans. The blouse, half visible through a sheet of folded tissue paper. A Birkin. “All that’s from him, isn’t it?”

  I nod glumly, another tear making a lonely trek down my face. Celeste continues with her visual tour, reading the quotes I hung in simple white frames on my walls. I’ve been meaning to take them down but I haven’t been able to yet.

  Your worth is immeasurable.

  Don’t let anyone relegate you to the corners of their life.

  You deserve to be center stage, top billing.

  She purses her lips and gives a low, plaintive whistle. “Those are from him, too?”

  Another sober, solemn nod.

  “He must have really fucked up, huh?”

  “Yeah. He really did.” We both did.

  For a long while, neither of us says anything. But eventually, Celeste reaches across the table to take my hand. “The reason I never warmed up to your mom was because my mom never got over my father’s betrayal. Oh, I think she knew he had affairs. But the divorce embarrassed her, made her bitter. And I carried her grudge, blaming your mom and being pretty stubborn about wanting nothing to do with her. But maybe if I’d given her a chance, if I looked at the bigger picture instead of just my small square, maybe things would have been different. Maybe we would have grown up together. As sisters.”

  My heart clenches painfully. “You don’t understand. He really hurt me. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

  “I’m no expert at love. But I do know that forgiveness isn’t something you do for other people. It’s something you do for yourself. So you can move on. So you can stop hurting.”

  I look at her suspiciously, keenly understanding the wisdom of her statement but resisting it nonetheless. “And how do you know that?”

  She grins wickedly. “Oh, girl. My Pinterest game is stellar. I have a board for every mood.”

  “You’re giving me advice you read in a meme?”

  “Why not? I sure as hell wouldn’t take advice from either of my parents,” she says with a shrug then reaches into her bag for her phone. “Get dressed, we’re meeting Bryce for dinner.”

  The lump in my throat appears out of nowhere. “We are?”

  “Well, he doesn’t know that yet but yes. Our first sibling dinner together,” she says brightly. “We’ll have to FaceTime Wendy, too.”

  “I don’t think she’s a big fan of me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Wendy doesn’t really like anyone. She’s grumpy like that, but you’ll get used to it. You’re stuck with us now.” She waves in the direction of my garment racks. “Is that vintage Halston or are my eyes lying?”

  “They’re not lying,” I say, feeling a swell of excitement as I recognize the reverent expression on Celeste’s face. A fellow vintage lover. “I have a few of his pieces from the late seventies. Do you want to try them on?”

  Her eyes land on me again, calculating for a moment before jumping to her feet and hugging me. Celeste is a little thinner than I am, but we’re around the same height. “Bryce had better watch out. You are my new favorite sibling.”

  Tristan

  “Hey, did you catch the Page Six retraction last week?” Bryce asks as I slide into the seat across from him at a pub not far from my office, giving a mock shiver of revulsion. “Your girl is gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but the thought of fooling around with her skeeves me out now.”

  I eventually returned his calls after learning what an idiot I’d been for thinking that photo of him and Reina meant something it didn’t. Jealousy and suspicion had clouded my judgement, getting the best of me. But this is the first time I’ve seen Bryce since that night at Cielo.

  A night I’ve regretted ever since.

  It’s also the first time I’ve seen him since his father came clean about Reina being a part of their family.

  I grunt an acknowledgement, hating that she’s not my girl anymore.

  “Did you know about Reina? About her background?”

  “When I introduced you two? No. I didn’t find out until after.”

  He eyes me skeptically. “And how long has she known? Is she working some kind of angle?”

  “I know how it looks. But believe me, Reina never intended on elbowing her way into your family. She didn’t ask for this.”

  “God, I hope not. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “You haven’t exactly lived a life of hardship.” If Bryce is about to tell me his poor little rich kid tale of woe, he’ll need to find a new audience.

  “What,” he says with a scoff. “Like you have?”

  “No. But Reina’s definitely caught more than her fair share of tough breaks, so be nice to your new sibling.”

  “Got it. No hazing the new sis.” Bryce grunts. “Another sister. I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised. Good old Gerald’s never been good at keeping his dick in his pants.” He reaches for his pint glass, taking a long swallow of Guinness. “Maybe tomorrow a bastard brother will show up.”

  I give Bryce a sharp look. “Hey.”

  “Sorry.”

  I signal to the bartender for a glass of my own.

  “It’s not that I don’t like Reina. I do, she’s great. But I liked her as your girlfriend, not as a third sister.”

  My father’s second marriage resulted in twin sisters, now nineteen years old. One sister would have been nice, two is plenty. Three is . . . a lot. “She’s not my girlfriend,” I mumble, the words dissolving into soot on my tongue.

  He drains his glass. Another appears, along with the one for me. “You sure could have fooled me.”

  “Yeah, well. Things took a turn.”

  Bryce’s phone lights up and he scans the screen. “Celeste’s with Reina now. Apparently I’m meeting them for dinner in an hour.”

  I glare into the lager, swiping at the beads of condensation sliding down the glass. “Lucky you.”

  “Why don’t you join us?”

  I shake my head. I’ve mounted a one-man campaign to get Reina back, but I’m not about to ambush her when she’s making up for lost time with her family.

  “Turn that frown upside down, X. There’s no shortage of pussy in this city. You’ll have another gorgeous chick hanging off you in no time.”

  “I don’t want anyone else,” I say through gritted teeth, tension rolling down my spine like a frozen river.

  He shakes his head at me, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What day?”

  “You’re well and truly whipped.”

  “Fuck off,” I snap.

  “Hey, hey. Thought you two had kissed and made up.” Nash’s deep voice cuts into our conversation, his heavy hands reaching around us to slap our backs.

  Bryce’s face whitens slightly, and he hides his wince by lifting his pint to his face.

  But not fast enough. “Ah, shit,” Nash says, pulling up a chair to the end of the table. “I forgot about your damn shoulder.”

  “What did the doctor say?” The only reason Bryce is back in New York is for another consultation.

  “Same as the last one. Surgery. I’m going for a third opinion tomorrow.”

  “What does this mean for your career?” Nash asks as the bartender slides a pint glass in front of him, foam spilling over the edges.

  “I’ll
be out the rest of this season, for sure. I should be able to play next season, though. But there’s always going to be that next hit. And that’s the one I’m worried about.”

  “Then you hit back, man,” Nash says, his eyes dark and flashing, his voice hard as rough as churned gravel. “Twice as fucking hard. You hit until they can’t get up, until they’re afraid to hit back.”

  Bryce smirks. “Yeah, have you seen those guys dressed in black and white stripes on the ice, the ones with whistles in their mouths making all kinds of hand gestures? They’re called referees, and their entire job is to prevent exactly that. And coach would have my ass if I got kicked out of the game. Plus, you know, between our helmets and padding—”

  “Padding is for pussies,” Nash practically growls. Despite his five thousand dollar suits and the swagger that comes from knowing he has enough fuck you money in his bank account to put the screws to just about anyone, hard, he’s a fighter through and through. “You hockey players think you’re so tough. Jesus Christ, it’s like watching the goddamn Ice Capades. Might as well put you all in tutus and call it a day.”

  Bryce scowls at him for a second before breaking into a hearty chuckle. He’s too good-natured to let Nash’s ribbing get the best of him. And Nash is definitely the curmudgeon of our trio. We’re used to it.

  Although Nash didn’t grow up with Bryce and I, and never hesitates to remind us that he didn’t have two dimes to run together when he started working on Wall Street, we’ve been friends for years. Nash and I because we’ve both achieved “rainmaker” status in finance circles and bump into each other all over Manhattan. Separately, Bryce and Nash struck up a friendship by working out at the same gym. Apparently getting into fights on the ice isn’t enough. Whenever he’s in New York, Bryce likes to keep his skills sharp by sparring with Nash. Normally Tripp would be here with us too, but he definitely has his hands full these days.

  We all lift our glasses and take long swallows of the bitter beer. As far as I’m concerned, they’re both right.

  Bryce has to adhere to the constraints of the rink, the rules of the game, and his contract. And when Nash gets into the ring, savagery reigns over sportsmanship.