I glanced one more time at the still-closed door. Clearly, Emerson didn’t want to talk right now. “Fine. We can talk, but not here,” I told Aster as I led her back over to my place.
It was almost comical seeing Aster pace my cluttered living room, so out of her element surrounded by second-hand furniture, surf gear, empty beer bottles, and discarded pizza boxes. She looked like a nervous kitten surrounded by hungry coyotes. I might have laughed if she hadn’t just chased Emerson away. “It’s a cry for help, I tell you. You need to talk to her,” she said as her hand slid over her hair, checking it again and again. “She’ll listen to you.”
Now, though, I didn’t bother to suppress my laugh. “Since when has my mother ever listened to me?”
Aster stopped pacing and shot me a smug look. “Ever since you told her you were marrying me, silly. Since she found out her grandchildren would be Lancaster heirs.” Then her lip stuck out in a pout that rivaled a toddler’s. “Seriously, Lukey Dukey. The gala is just over a month away. I can’t do this without you.”
Lukey Dukey. I didn’t know which was worse, the nickname Aster had so charmingly thrust upon me, or the fact Aster’s parents had given their daughter a name that rhymed with Lancaster. I’d asked her about it once, about whether they’d done it on purpose, and I honestly thought it was the first time she’d ever even considered it. As if no one had ever bothered to point out the obvious to her.
I guess when you’re the heir to the Lancaster fortune the kids in school instinctively knew not to flip you shit.
“Fine. I’ll do what I can with my mother, but can’t make any promises. And none of this means I’m coming back. Not yet anyway.” This mess was bad enough. I couldn’t give Aster the impression that just because I was lending a hand with my mother, that she and I still had a chance.
But Aster hardly ever heard the word no, least of all when it came to us. “Is this about her? Because you’re way too good for her, Lukey Dukey. Come home and I’ll make you forget all about your little beach . . . ,” she tipped her head toward the door, where Em had just fled, and lowered her voice to a whisper, “ . . . floozy.”
My fists tightened at my sides.
She was crossing into dangerous territory. It was one thing to come here because she couldn’t risk letting the gala fall apart after all the hard work she’d put into it . . . or even to think she still had a shot with me. Insulting Emerson McLean was another thing altogether. I couldn’t imagine anything Aster Lancaster could do that would erase Emerson from my mind.
It was hard to imagine forgetting Emerson at all.
“This is about a lot of things, Aster. Now go home. I’ll talk to my mother tomorrow and let you know how it goes.”
EMERSON
Thankfully, Lauren hadn’t been there to witness my walk of shame. I don’t mean the whole running from Lucas’s place to mine wrapped only in a sheet. I couldn’t give a shit about that part.
It was the part where I’d burst into tears before I’d even made it through the front door of the crappy beachside cottage. That part was humiliating.
To quote Not-Astra-Astrid-Aston: What in the Sam Hill was wrong with me?
I wasn’t a crier. Those were the girls I’d always looked down my nose at. The ones I swore I’d never let myself become.
I blew my nose into a soggy wad of toilet paper from the roll I grabbed from the bathroom as I tried to blame allergies for turning me into such a blubbery mess, because there was no way this was all about that finking bitch.
Except . . . who was I kidding? I hadn’t had allergies a day in my life.
And this wasn’t about the girl. Sure, I didn’t like her—she’d pretty much called me a beach slut. But I didn’t care what she thought about me. This was about Lucas. I was pissed at him.
Lucas, who I’d started to think of as more than just some fuck buddy to pass the time with. Lucas, who hadn’t bothered to tell me he had a whole other life somewhere else.
That he was off-limits . . .
. . . because he had a fiancée!
And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Aster was the polar opposite of me. Girls like her were the reason I’d decided to leave Dallas to go to college in Arizona in the first place. I’d spent too much of my life trying to separate myself from the uppity in-your-face Asters who wanted everyone to know they could wipe their asses with hundred dollar bills. Who thought they were better than everyone else.
I didn’t want to be like them.
And I couldn’t imagine how Lucas could ever want to fuck—yeah, that’s right, Aster, it’s fuck not fink—a stuck-up bitch like her.
I plopped onto the lumpy futon that served as our couch and tugged the sheet tighter as I blew my nose again. I’d allow myself one good cry. One, and that was it.
Then I’d get over it.
I didn’t need him. Had I forgotten the whole reason for this trip in the first place?
Tomorrow, I’d put on my big girl panties and put Lucas in my rearview mirror for good. I’d find a new guy . . . hell, I’d find lots of guys who could entertain me during my last few weeks in California.
By morning, Lucas Harper would be a distant memory.
By morning, Lucas Harper was all I could think about.
I’d barely slept, and when I finally did wake up, it was to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. The first thought that popped in my head was that I hoped it was Lucas. Until my head cleared and last night came crashing back, reminding me why I had Lucas on the brain.
I slapped my hand over my phone and dragged it to me.
Worse than Lucas, it was my mom calling.
I had a pounding headache. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for another go-round with her right now.
I hit one of the auto replies that shot her a pre-preprogrammed text: Can I call you later?
Not surprisingly, her response was immediate: Just making sure we’re still on for the party!
The three smiley faces that followed were overkill. My mom had a thing for emojis.
The party—as if I’d forgotten. She’d been leaving me voicemails, text messages, and sending me emails every day since she’d decided to throw the big surprise party for my dad’s sixtieth birthday. Of course, I’d be there. I sent her back the thumbs-up, letting her know we were still a go and thinking I’d gotten off easily this time, not having to have a major conversation about it.
At least until her next message popped up on my screen. The one that turned the thrum of my headache into a dull roar:
Don’t forget to call Bitsy.
It didn’t matter that I’d already landed a new job—a good one—my mom refused to leave well enough alone.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I threw my phone on the other side of the bed and stared up at my ceiling. I couldn’t stay here all day, trapped with my own thoughts, which had already kept me up most the night. I needed to get out, to clear my head.
Today was the perfect day for the beach. I’d gorge myself on Double Stuf Oreos, reading trashy magazines and pretending the last eight weeks with Lucas Harper had never happened.
But when I opened my door, I found Lucas Harper standing smack dab on my doorstep. He looked like a million bucks, dressed like some sort of GQ cover model, which only added to my overall sense of suckiness.
Asshole.
I glanced at the shitty bouquet he held out to me, and my damn traitorous heart sprang to life. Since when did a guy showing up with flowers make me all weak in the knees? Especially a bunch of wilted looking daisies from the corner mini mart.
Never, I reminded myself. “Beat it,” I grumbled. “Give those to Aston-what’s-her-name.”
Lucas’s wide shoulders slumped. “Aster. Her name is Aster.”
I cocked my hip and rolled my eyes. As if I’d forgotten. “Really? Does this seem like the time to be correcting me?” I shoved him out of my way. “You’re a dick, in case you were wondering.”
Sighing, he reached for my arm. “Em. Please. Ju
st talk to me.” He at least had the good sense to look pitiful, his mahogany eyes murky with regret.
“About what? About the part where you’re engaged to someone else?” I scoured him from head to toe, noting his Armani knockoff—and a good one at that. “And now, what? I suppose you’re taking her someplace fancy for brunch so you can beg her to forgive you for finking someone else?”
My accusation hit home, and he looked dumbfounded. “Shit. No, I have . . . somewhere else I have to be.” He grinned then, and I guessed he thought he was being charming. “And please . . . don’t say that.”
I exhaled, because, damn, he sort of was. It was that stupid smile of his. Charming as fuck. “Say what? Fink? Or that you have a fiancée?”
I hated the effect he had on me, standing there looking superfine, even holding his crappy, cellophane-wrapped bouquet. Habit, I told myself, because it definitely had nothing to do with that hot bod of his. Or the things he could do with his hands . . . and his mouth.
Dammit, no man should be hotter than the girl they were banging—it was practically the law, and one I’d never broken.
Almost never.
Except . . . on occasion.
When someone was super, superfine.
Like Lucas Harper.
“Both,” he stated.
It wasn’t the answer I’d wanted. I’d hoped he would tell me it was nothing . . . that she was nothing. That this whole situation was one big misunderstanding. She was just some crazy stalker-y ex who refused to back the hell off.
My heart rate quadrupled and my mouth dried up. I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. It was killing me. He was killing me. “So, is it true? Is she your fiancée?”
His brow creased, and even that . . . that simple gesture made my stomach flip. “Yes. Not really.” The cellophane crinkled in his grip. “I mean, sort of. I guess.”
My blood pulsed in my ears until I could hardly hear my own thoughts. That was it then. Engaged. Lucas Harper was engaged. And he had been this entire time. He must’ve thought he’d had it made—he had one girl waiting for him at . . . wherever he called home before this, and one who’d been more than willing to fall into bed with him at the drop of a hat.
Well, screw him. He could find himself some other side action. I had too much self-respect for that shit.
“Wow. Sort of . . . I guess. That Aston’s one lucky girl. That must’ve been some magical proposal. Thanks for stopping by to clear things up. Now, fuck off.” The word hung satisfyingly in the air. “How was that? Better?”
This time he didn’t bother to correct me on her name. “Shit, Em. Yes, Aster was my fiancée. But technically, you and I were never actually dating.”
I flinched. Low blow.
He wasn’t lying though. He and I, we were never Facebook official or anything. In fact, I was the one who’d made it more than clear I didn’t want to be tied down, since I was never planning to stick around past summer.
It didn’t sting any less to hear him say it out loud.
“Aster and me . . . ,” he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, letting his peace offering fall to his side with the other, “we’re . . . it’s . . . complicated. I told her it was over. More than once. But she . . . well, you met her. She refuses to take me seriously. She fed me this whole take the summer to find yourself bullshit.” Now he was the one rolling his eyes. “To her, this is only on a break. I was supposed to come here and have a little fun. Do some exploring with other girls, then, in her mind, I’d come crawling back to her.”
“So?” I hedged, not sure why I was even torturing myself. Why I even cared about my next question at all. I licked my lips, a lump forming in my throat. “How many other girls have you . . . ‘explored’ with?”
He reached over and lifted my chin up, forcing me to make eye contact. “You really want to hear about my hookups?”
Did I? Not especially.
His brown eyes grew serious. “Since you? No one. Not that it matters to Aster. She still doesn’t get that this was more than just a break.”
Her words from last night floated through my head: I guess he really was slumming it. I pictured her, all immaculate in her designer clothes, holding her Gucci bag to her chest, shielding it like she was afraid it might accidentally brush against something in Lucas’s place—something like me, for example—and then it would be permanently contaminated. I could’ve corrected her. Made it clear she was no better than me, but would that make me any better than her? To throw my upbringing in her face to prove I’m the same as her? As good as her?
And now Lucas was standing here, looking like all those guys I used to know. Wearing a suit, with “somewhere” he had to be, and I couldn’t stop myself from wondering about this other life he’d left behind.
Truth be told, Lucas was a stranger. I didn’t really know him. I’d never taken the time to know him.
“You know what?” I said, plastering on a smile. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter. We were just having fun, right?”
Lucas’s forehead puckered as if he wasn’t sure what to make of my sudden mood swing. “Were we?”
I shrugged, but my stomach clenched. “You knew I couldn’t stay.”
He hesitated, caught somewhere between wanting to believe me and fearing a trap. Smart guy. “Really? So, you’re . . . okay with all this? We’re okay?”
I fixed on the kind of smile any pageant girl would envy. “Yeah, really. I shouldn’t have gotten so bent. I don’t own you. You’re allowed to have a life, right?” I gave him a playful push, harder maybe than a nudge. Closer to a shove.
“So . . . ,” he started, still looking baffled by the shift and watching me apprehensively, “we’re still friends?”
Friends. Is that what we were calling it?
Friends who fucked each other’s brains out?
Friends who’d gone down on each other and given each other mind-blowing orgasms?
“Sure.” I half nodded, half shrugged, a frenzied bobblehead version of myself. “Whatever you say . . . friend.”
He grinned then, his eyes wandering down to my boobs, which suddenly felt far too exposed in one of the same bikinis he’d been ogling, and stripping me out of, all summer. “So does that mean we can still . . . ?” He let the question dangle there, in case I didn’t catch his drift.
I’d have been an idiot not to get where his mind was.
Well, I might not care for Little Miss Stick Up Her Ass, but that didn’t change the fact I felt betrayed by Lucas for not telling me about her. And it definitely didn’t mean he could have his cake and eat it too.
“No. No, it doesn’t.” I lifted my magazines, hugging them to my chest the way Aster had held her designer purse like a shield, blocking his view entirely. Then I spun on my heel and marched right back inside my house, forgetting all about my plans to loiter at the beach all day. I slammed the door so it rattled, letting it have the last word for me. I leaned against the door. When I finally exhaled, I banged the back of my head against the door as I squeezed my eyes shut. “Friends,” I repeated to myself, the word bitter on my tongue. “How’s that for messed up?”
LUCAS
“The prodigal son returns. To what do we owe this pleasure?” Even when I was a kid, my mother had never been one to bake cookies, or hug you when you fell off your bike and skinned your knee.
Mine was more the cannibalize-her-young type. Like a tiger shark.
But she was still my mother. We were still connected. And even though I might not always like her, I would probably always love her.
Plus, she’d already seen me . . . there was no going back now.
Even before I could open my mouth to greet her, she was drawing first blood. “Burn through your allowance already? Come running home to Mommy to bail you out?” As if she’d ever bailed me out in my life.
Her heels clicked loudly on each marble step, a staccato punctuation as she descended the wide staircase. Even though I hadn’t warned her I was coming, she was dressed to th
e nines. Mother wouldn’t be caught dead in yoga pants, or, God forbid, pajamas. I used to wonder if she slept like that too, wearing high heels and sequins.
Not that I would have known what she looked like at night—the nannies had been under strict orders to clear me and my brother away as efficiently as the dinner dishes, leaving my parents to their endless strings of cocktail parties and premieres and concerts. What Aster’s parents were in financial circles, my parents had been to LA society.
When she reached the bottom step, she presented her Botoxed cheek for a kiss. “The way Aster made it sound, I assumed you’d be expecting me,” I said, giving her the usual warm-and-fuzzy peck.
She glided past me. “Aster.” She said her name dismissively, waving off any unspoken accusation I might be making.
I lifted an eyebrow at her, trying to be diplomatic. No point pissing her off already. “Come on, you love Aster. You’ve been pushing us together for as long as I can remember. So why can’t I leave you two alone for two minutes? The way I hear it, you’re not playing nice.”
“Me?” She didn’t bother to look offended. “I always play nice. Sure, Aster’s sweet, but she’s in over her head with the gala.”
“Aster’s doing fine—” I started.
“Did you hear she almost lost the caterers?” she parried, cutting me off.
“Because you tried to cancel them.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “She doesn’t have the experience to oversee something like this on her own.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked, trying to force her to reveal her angle, because with her there was always an angle.
She lifted a shoulder in a demure shrug, as if she hadn’t really considered it before now. “I just think you should come back. You should be here, managing things.”
Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2) Page 3