He sips his coffee. “Umm-hmm.”
Something about his tone tells me that he’s not really listening. “You remembered the party…”
He looks up, lost. “What?”
“Georgia and Robert’s prewedding party. On his yacht. Tonight at six,” I say and watch confusion, and then panic, shift over his face. “Don’t tell me you scheduled—”
“I remembered.” He flips angrily to the next page—the comics section, which he never reads. “Still don’t understand why they can’t have a bachelor and bachelorette party like normal people.”
“Because she’s been married before.”
“Back to back,” he says, giving me side-eye.
“You can’t blame Georgia for that.”
“That’s debatable.” He folds his paper noisily. “Just don’t understand why it’s on a workday. They could’ve at least picked a weekend, so those of us who still have jobs could properly enjoy ourselves.”
“It’s only a sunset cruise under the Golden Gate.” I brush my hands over the bulge of his shoulder and down his back. “You’ll work a full day, come home and change, and then we’ll head out. You’ll be in bed by midnight.”
“And up again at four.”
“It means a lot to Georgia that I’m there. She needs me.” I shrug, only one shoulder in a way that should be cute as hell, and tuck another strand of hair behind my ear. “She’s my best friend.”
“You need to stop that.”
I frown. “What?”
“Fussing with your hair. It’s annoying.”
“Oh.” I move the hair from behind my ear and let it fall limply to my shoulder. “I didn’t even realize I’d done it,” I lie.
His jaw clenches. “It’s become one of your nervous tics.”
“One of my tics? I have others?”
He fusses with the paper as if it’s wet and he’s shaking the droplets off. “Why don’t you get things going for your day so you can leave me to my morning paper.”
I stare in disbelief as he flips a page so hard he tears the paper. Tension balloons through the space between us as he continues reading. It’s as if I’m not sitting right next to him, waiting expectantly for him to apologize for being so callous. This is not the way I’d wanted my first morning as a trophy wife to go, and I wonder if Brooke has these kinds of days, when her reality doesn’t live up to her fantasy. I’m sure she doesn’t. I’m sure her mornings are smooth and perfect, just like her hair. My phone pings with another like, confirming that my life is the one everyone wants to be living.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” I don’t know what else to say, and I don’t want him to be mad. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” he says, though he pushes out the words as if they’re a burden. As if he’s frustrated with something I’ve said or done.
Darting up the stairs and blinking back ridiculous tears, I run into the closet and, on instinct, reach for a long-sleeve, straight-leg jumpsuit with a plunging neckline. I take a step back with a jolt. Nearly my entire side is filled with business attire. Pants and pencil skirts. Blazers and tailored suit jackets. Tie-neck and button keyhole pleated blouses. I love every single outfit. They’re power colors on the spectrum from black to gray and back again. No weird patterns or polka dots or splashes of color. Against the back wall, meticulously organized racks of stilettos stare at me. If I quit my job permanently, I wouldn’t have to wear any of these ever again. I always put my professional foot forward, unless Georgia and I are on one of our walks. Even then, I stick to my power colors, just in case. I never know when I’m going to run into someone who recognizes me from the show. Keeping viewers interested in me is crucial, which means I always have to be on point. I’m the reason they tune in, after all.
Why haven’t they called?
I check my phone again for messages. Still nothing.
I’ll probably be getting calls from the station manager by noon, begging me to return. I can almost hear Monique now.
They can’t do this without you, she’ll say, and I’ll be able to hear her smile over the phone. They’re paralyzed with fear. They know ratings will plummet without you. You have to come back.
Who knows what might happen? I could ask for more money for my return, for putting up with Ted all these years. My impulsive decision might just be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Feeling a surge of pride, I slip into black leggings, a matching sports bra, and a billowy red tank. Snapping a quick picture of my reflection, I post it to all of my social media accounts and then shove the phone into the side pocket of my leggings. I’m in my shoes and out the door before Mason finishes reading whatever article has captured his attention.
The morning air is crisp and cool as the foggy marine layer rolls in from the bay, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. I’d started to become stifled in the house, as if the air was too sticky to breathe. As fresh air fills my lungs, I push down Mason’s sour morning attitude. It’s a blip on the radar. Nothing to dwell on. Georgia has lost two of her husbands, yet she manages to remain cheery, even though her insides must be rotting with grief.
As I’m striding across the street, Brooke pulls into her driveway. I wave enthusiastically when I reach the sidewalk, but she must not have seen because she doesn’t return the gesture. I stare at the majestic, White House–like pillars on Robert and Georgia’s entry as I knock on the door. One of the things I love about this neighborhood is the ideal spacing between the homes. Far enough apart for beautifully landscaped yards to create a peaceful and somewhat isolated atmosphere, yet close enough that if I’m standing in my driveway, I can almost hear conversations drifting over from the yard next door. The street is smooth, newly paved, and much wider than in a usual neighborhood. Six cars could probably line up across without brushing against one another. Feeling like I have eyes on my back, I turn around in time to see Brooke pop the trunk of her car. She is sunshine incarnate, with a canary-yellow dress cinched at the waist with a blue ribbon and polka-dot heels.
She must wake up gaggingly perfect.
Has she had a chance to read the homeowners association handbook yet? I wonder. Surely the real estate agent gave it to her. Brooke must know about the five-minute rule for the garage door. How unseemly would it be if everyone kept their garages open whenever they wanted? I glance at my watch and note the time.
Georgia swings the door open wide and slams her heel into her left tennis shoe. “I’m nearly ready. Two minutes?”
“Sure,” I say, following as she hops inside. “No problem.”
Shoving on her right shoe, Georgia dashes up the winding staircase and disappears into the last door I can see from the entry. Somewhere upstairs, Robert whistles. It’s a tune I don’t recognize. High-pitched and erratic. He emerges from the door nearest the staircase wearing nothing but a towel. From my angle far below him, I can see everything.
“Oh my God.” I shield my eyes with my hand, but it’s too late. I’ve already glimpsed all that tan, wet skin. Bare chest. Thick legs. A generous shape outlined in the darkness beneath his towel. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t know—I didn’t mean…”
“Erin, what a surprise.” He stomps down the stairs. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
My nerves bundle into chills at the base of my spine as the image of his muscular chest spins on a hyperloop through my brain. He’s lean around the middle, even for his age. Glistening gray hair slicked back on his head. If I caught a glimpse of him in the window at Saks, I’d easily mistake him for a younger version of Robert Redford. They even share the same name.
“I swear I didn’t see it—anything,” I stammer.
He stands close, evaporating all personal space. He’s not trying to be creepy or sleazy, I’ve learned. He’s simply one of those people who likes to taste the breakfast on a person’s breath.
&n
bsp; “You here to see Georgia?” he asks.
Versus the alternative that I’d be here to see…him?
“Yeah, uh-huh, yup.” I tuck my hair behind both ears nervously. And then drop my arms when I remember Mason’s comment about it becoming a tic. “She said she’ll be right back.”
“Shouldn’t you be locked away in your office?” he asks. “Isn’t that where you usually are at this hour?”
“How would you know my schedule?” I mock defiance. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”
Light flickers in his light eyes. “No, why? Do you want me to?”
There’s no denying his eyes are beautiful, piercing in their intensity. He must be Italian or Greek, though I’ve never asked. Even without his multimillion-dollar bankroll, I’d say he has undeniable sex appeal. Why he’s never been married is anyone’s guess.
And believe me, we’ve been guessing.
When Georgia started dating Robert last year, she thought he might’ve been a little small beneath the belt. But after she sealed the deal, she was quick to announce that that wasn’t the reason he’d remained single after all. Crazy mother? Nope. She visited from Oregon last Christmas and is kind as can be. Mental issues? He either doesn’t have them or hasn’t let his crazy flag fly yet.
For now, at least, it appears Georgia has finally found herself the perfect guy.
All I know is he better mind himself. Men who cross Georgia get the ax.
Literally.
“Did Georgia tell you the scoop?” I fish my phone out of the leggings’ pocket and begin skimming Instagram simply so I don’t have to look him in the eye. “I walked out on my job yesterday. So until they call, begging me to come back, my insanely busy mornings are a thing of the past.”
I lower my gaze to the floor so I don’t get sucked into his eyes again.
“Interesting. That is news.” Thick droplets of water run down his legs and pool at his feet. “Bet Mason will love having you home all the time.”
The way he said the word “love” has the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. There was a hint of sarcasm to it. As if Mason wouldn’t like me to quit my job.
“He does, actually,” I say smugly, and scroll through my messages. Surely Monique’s called by now. “We had coffee together this morning. We read the paper. Talked about a book I’m reading. It was good.”
“You and Mason talked about your book.” He nods slowly, disbelieving. “Sounds lovely. So what are you and my wife plotting, other than my imminent demise?”
I laugh nervously because most people in Presidio Terrace already think Georgia is plotting how to kill Robert and inherit every penny in his Swiss bank account. She and Robert hadn’t dated long before he proposed. She’d moved him into her Presidio Terrace home—the one she’s owned since marrying her first husband, Eli—faster than Robert could say “prenup.” Weeks later, wedding invitations went out to everyone in the homeowners association. Two hundred of the most notorious, wealthiest people in California will be gathered in the Julia Morgan Ballroom, watching Georgia marry her next victim. Gossip circles her all the time, as one could imagine. It’s not every day that a woman has two husbands die strangely, back to back.
“You’ve got such a dark sense of humor, Robert.” I resist the urge to smack him on the shoulder playfully. “Your wife and I will be hanging out today. Probably grab a bite to eat. Thought I could help her with some last-minute wedding planning. Can you believe you’ll be off the market in less than a week?”
“Guess I should make sure I’ve taken care of everything I need to.” He leans in as he whispers, “And everyone.”
Did he mean—could he have meant…no he couldn’t have. “Wha—what about you? Plans today?”
“I’ll be at the dock.” He plants his hands on his hips as if he wants my attention to drift to the bulge in his towel. “Need to make sure she’s ready for her showing tonight.”
“Her,” I parrot, holding back a laugh. “You’re still calling it ‘her.’ ”
He doesn’t flinch. “Boats are women.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Maxine.”
“Oh, Maxine. Classy.” I can’t help but grin at the ridiculousness of it all. “So Maxine is getting a wax. Don’t you have someone you can pay to do that for you?”
He laughs, and his abs twitch. “How would you feel if your husband hired someone to sleep with you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Mason,” he repeats, water dripping from his chin. “How would you feel if he neglected your needs so bad that he had to hire someone—me, let’s say—to sleep with you?”
“I—I don’t know. Angry? Betrayed?”
But it was a knee-jerk answer. As his question roots in my mind, something about the implication has set my insides tingling. Mason and I have been together fifteen years, since Stanford. Sex has always been good between us, but lately when we’re in bed at night, he doesn’t reach for me the way he used to. If I really think about it, our encounters in the bedroom are occurring less and less. Before last night, the previous time we slept together has to have been three weeks ago. I don’t want to sleep with Robert—and not just because I wouldn’t do that to Georgia—but I’m a sexual creature. Are my needs really being met if I’m sleeping with Mason only once every three weeks? Are his?
“That’s exactly how my boat would feel,” Robert says darkly. “Betrayed.”
“Your boat has feelings now?” Georgia jogs down the stairs with confidence, her raven-black hair fanning behind her. Only she’s not wearing black—she’s wearing nearly every color of the rainbow: pink-and-purple striped tank, blue swirly leggings, and highlighter-green shoes. Nothing matches, but somehow, as always, Georgia pulls it off with finesse. “Great. The hunk of metal has evolved into a sentient being.”
“She’ll never replace you, my love.” He lifts her hand and plants a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles. Her ring catches the rays of morning sun and sends a glint of blinding light shooting into my eyes. “You’re my number one.”
“I better be.” Tilting her head lovingly, she flicks his bare stomach. “Did you have a good swim this morning?”
He drops her hand. “Would’ve been better if you’d joined me.”
“I told you I had plans.” She gestures at me. “Robert, meet Plans.”
I nod as Robert winks at me, a flash that’s so quick, if I hadn’t been staring directly into his eyes, I might’ve missed it. “You’re still coming tonight, aren’t you?” he asks. “Bringing Mason?”
I smile tightly, remembering the terseness of our earlier conversation. “Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.”
And then he’s gone, tightening the towel around his waist as he struts upstairs. I’m sure Georgia hadn’t heard what he said. She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t be smiling as brightly if she’d heard the way Robert came on to me.
“I love that man to death,” Georgia says, jerking open the front door, “but I’ll never understand his obsession with that boat.”
As I step onto the front porch, I see Brooke has left her car in the driveway. And her garage door is still open, gaping like a gutted fish.
“Have a few minutes to run next door so I can introduce you to our new neighbor?” I ask, fighting the urge to fiddle with the hair draped over my shoulder. Inside, my veins rattle with irritation. “I saw her unloading groceries earlier. Seems she forgot a few in the trunk. Come on. You’ll love her.”
“Will I?”
“She said something about buying you champagne as an early wedding present. Let’s see if it made her grocery list.” I loop my arm in Georgia’s as if we’re Thelma and Louise, off to do something naughty. “While we’re there, you can judge the hell out of her décor. I know how much you enjoy that.”
“And you can nag her about leaving the garage door op
en.” As Georgia spots the malevolent twinkle in my eye, she pats my arm. “I’m glad you’re on my side, Erin. Shall we?”
Just like that, all thoughts of Robert and his innuendos evaporate from my mind.
CHAPTER FIVE
BROOKE
Please leave me alone.
One quick glance at Erin’s face when I pulled into the driveway earlier, and I know she’s itching to barge in on what would’ve been a peaceful morning. But Jack’s limo left for his company’s headquarters only an hour ago, and I simply want time to write, and work on my book. It’s due in a week, and while I’m nearly finished, something isn’t right. It’s like a puzzle with all the edges complete, but a few pieces in the middle don’t seem to fit into the overall picture. I haven’t fleshed out my lead character’s motivation either. That might be the problem. Usually, I wouldn’t be worried about the deadline—a week is more than enough time for me to get the words down—but with the chaos of the move, I feel as if I haven’t had a moment to spend in my characters’ heads. My fingers are itching to get back to the keyboard.
After the success of my first mystery, my editor, Lisa Maestretti, has been nudging me to finish this book, and finish it fast. The tone in her monthly check-ins has shifted from enthusiastic to worried. I can hear the doubt in her words. She doesn’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can do this.
The words aren’t flowing like the first time.
It’s as if someone’s robbed me of them completely.
No matter what it takes, I need to devote a couple hours each day to new pages. Routines get the work done, and that’s how I’m going to make this deadline. Later, after I’ve slopped words onto the page, I’ll have time to schmooze with the neighbors.
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 4