by Monroe, Max
“Wes, I think it’s about time you realize this book club is the equivalent of standing in line at the DMV. It’s never going to end, and all you can do is wait it out until you die or the people running the place decide it’s time to go home.”
“This book club is really starting to feel like a fucking cult,” Wes mutters. “No doubt, someone has brainwashed me into attending these meetings.”
I laugh, and Cap turns narrowed eyes toward me. “Something funny, Theo?”
“Don’t mind me,” I say with a smirk. “I’m just sitting here waiting for us to discuss the book you all but forced me to read while I was on a fucking business trip.”
“From what I hear, you’re waiting on more than just that,” Thatch says with a little wink. “Did Twitter help you find your mystery woman yet?”
Oh, here we go…
Cap’s smile is bigger than his damn head. “Yeah, bud. How goes the search?”
“What search?” Milo asks, and I roll my eyes.
“There’s no search.”
“Oh, there’s a search,” Cap jumps in. “A pathetic search, but a search.”
“Can we just get back to—” I glance down at the book in front of me “—You’ve Got Fate?”
Fuck me. The books these bastards pick.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Cap smirks. “You’d love for us to forget about your crazy tweets about some woman you met in Italy and just…get straight to the books, huh?”
Wes raises one hand. “Personally, I’m a fan of this plan.”
“You met someone?” Milo asks, his question genuine, and I sigh.
“I did. Sort of. But it’s in the past.”
“In the past?” Thatch hops right back in. “Those tweets didn’t seem like it was in the past.”
“Tweets? It was two, dude.”
“What tweets?” Trent asks, and before I know it, Harrison is looking down at his phone and reading my words out loud.
“Say you hypothetically met someone, but you don’t know their last name (or where they live or basically anything personal about them), and you decide you want to see them again. How do you go about…finding them?”
He grins at me—like a fucking dickhead—and proceeds to read the second one to the group. “To the wild, beautiful woman I met in Italy with the extensive knowledge of “Almost-Midnight Swimming Rules,” I think it’s time you tell me your last name so I can buy you a drink in the city and bar of your choice.”
Goddamn, these tweets are going to end up on my fucking gravestone with the way they’ve been haunting me.
“Oh, man…” Trent’s eyes meet mine. “So, you like her?”
What can I say to that? Yes, I fucking like her and I can’t stop fucking thinking about it and I’m about one bad decision away from calling her friend Pippa and tracking her down.
Yeah, no way. Not with this group of gossip queens.
So, I settle on, “Yeah, I mean, I guess I did.” Liar. Liar. Liar.
“Is there a reason you can’t find her?”
“We kept things simple. I don’t know her last name. She doesn’t know mine. No personal shit. That sort of thing.
“But what’s her first name?” Thatch waggles his brows.
I shake my head. “Nice try. There is no fucking way I’m telling you her name.”
“Why the fluff not?”
“Because the whole lot of you will take it upon yourselves to try to find her,” I retort.
“And why would that be so bad?” Cap questions. “I’m damn good at tracking people down. It’s those skills that helped me land Ruby.”
“Just drop it, you bastards.”
There is no way I’m letting anyone, especially Caplin Hawkins, help me find Lena.
“Fine.” Cap raises both hands in the air. “Be a stubborn asshole who doesn’t let us help him find some hot chick from Italy.”
“Thank you.”
My response annoys him. “When you’re, like, ninety and lonely and having to hang out with Harrison because he’s the only single friend we have left, and Lord knows that’s never going to change, you’re going to regret not letting us help you.”
“No…” I shake my head. “Pretty sure I’m not.”
“Oh hey, Cap, how’s your sister, by the way?” Harrison claps back. “Didn’t you say she was coming home from fashion school soon?”
“You shut your fucking mouth, Whore-i-son.” Cap points a finger at him, and Harrison just chuckles.
“She’s going to be at Milo and Maybe’s wedding in a few weeks, right?” He winks. “Man, it’ll be really good to finally meet her.”
“I will murder you.”
“All right, you two. No homicides at book club, for fuck’s sake.” Kline decides it’s high time to play mediator. “Georgie would be pissed if I came home with blood on her favorite tie.”
“Yeah. Are we going to talk about this book, or can I go home?” Wes asks, and Thatch turns his focus to him.
“Whitney, your attitude is a real fluffing killjoy, you know that?”
And just like that, all of the scrutiny is removed from me and placed right back on to Wes.
Thank fuck this group has the attention span of children.
The last thing I want to do is think about her any more than I already am.
Theo
It’s the official opening day for New York Fashion Week, and I have been all but kidnapped and forced into attending.
Fucking Cap. He is the most persistent asshole I’ve ever met.
“It’s show time.” He flashes a grin at me as his driver pulls up to Spring Studios in Tribeca, and the instant we open the back doors of the SUV, we’re hit with madness.
A red carpet with what feels like a million fucking journalists is an eyesore in front of the entrance.
Cameras flash.
The crowd behind the red ropes shouts their excitement.
And designers and models and celebrities and so-called influencers give their best smiles and pouty-faces toward the attention.
This is exactly why I didn’t want to come here today.
I take a deep inhale and try like hell to prepare myself.
Being in the public eye has never been something I enjoy when it comes to the career path I chose. Sure, I’m not in Hollywood, and I’m sure as fuck not walking runways, but Cruz Nightlife has become a staple throughout the world, and that success has apparently made me important enough for journalists to ask stupid questions about what I’m wearing and who I’m dating.
I’m wearing pants. And I don’t fucking date.
At least, that’s what I’d like to tell them.
Which, besides the pants, is a lie, my subconscious chimes in. You would date, but the woman you’d date left you hanging in Positano.
I shake off that thought and focus on my reality—getting down this red carpet as quickly as fucking possible.
Of course, the man who dragged me here doesn’t mind being the center of attention, and the instant his shiny dress shoes hit the red carpet, he goes into his all-too-familiar schmooze mode.
“Caplin Hawkins!” one female journalist shouts toward him. “What brought you here today?”
He flashes a big grin toward the cameras. “I’m excited to see Loro Gianni’s new line.”
“Theo Cruz! Over here!”
Ah fuck.
And just like that, I’m inundated by the vultures.
“Theo, we’re excited to see you here! Who are you wearing?”
“How did the opening of Club Indigo go?”
“Is it true you’re going to be opening clubs in Paris and Venice?”
The questions come at me from all angles.
I’m so damn tempted to be a dick, to completely ignore them and walk straight into the venue, but I put on a neutral smile and do my best to give short, succinct responses.
“The suit is Versace,” I say, internally cringing that I have to name-drop a designer. I bought this suit because it was nice. Well, trut
hfully, my assistant Carey ordered this suit, made a point to tell me who designed it, and then said I had to wear it. Fuck if I know anything else about it.
“Club Indigo’s opening went great, and we’re certainly looking forward to bringing our brand of nightclubs to more locations across the world.”
Even though I feel like a fucking moron standing here, smiling confidently for the flashing cameras, I do it because I know it’s something I have to do.
It comes with the territory of being a part of an empire like Cruz Enterprises.
And if there was one thing my grandfather Merl was good at it, it was always showing confidence in the public eye. He understood the importance of a good outward image that ensures people trust you, like you, and at the end of the day, want to be a part of what you’re creating.
Cap, on the other hand, well, he’s just grinning and shaking hands and answering questions about anything and everything. A real fucking attention whore.
When I overhear him talking about his fiancée Ruby and their upcoming nuptials, I decide it’s high time for me to graciously bow out from the vultures and head inside.
Lord knows I could use a drink, and he’ll be out here for a while until he gets his superficial attention fix.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing inside Spring Studios, whiskey in hand, and having a nice conversation with a man named Hunter Stark. He’s big in the hedge fund game, and before his grandfather Hank passed away last year, our grandfathers were as thick as thieves.
“How is Merl doing, by the way?”
I chuckle. “Doing well. Enjoying retirement way too much. He’s recently become quite the inappropriate wordsmith on Facebook.”
“Is that why I got a friend request from him not too long ago?” Hunter grins and I sigh.
“Whatever you do, do not accept.”
Hunter chuckles. “Ah, man, now I’m curious.”
“Don’t do it, man.” I shake my head on a laugh. “It’s times like these that I miss seeing your grandfather over at Merl’s. Surely, Hank would’ve helped keep his ornery ass out of trouble.”
“Hank wouldn’t have done shit except to encourage the bad behavior.” His smile is reminiscent. “Those two were always trouble together.”
We make small talk for a few more minutes, but once the conversation ends on a “Keep in touch, man,” Hunter steps away and follows the crowd toward where Loro Gianni’s runway show will be held, and I spot Cap moseying on in through the entrance doors.
He picks me out of the crowd right away and closes the distance between us.
“You get enough of the limelight, Mr. Charisma?”
“Still haven’t gotten over your stage fright, bud?”
I roll my eyes. “More like, I can only handle so many vultures before I’ve had enough.”
“Oh, c’mon.” Cap pats me on the back. “It’s okay to accept their love, sweetheart. I know intimacy is hard for you, but I promise, it feels good once you let it in.”
“Intimacy?” I laugh. “How close were you getting with those cameras out there?”
He smirks. “C’mon, you dick. Let’s get inside before the show starts. If I miss it, my baby sister will kill me.”
“Your sister?” I ask and follow his lead inside.
“Yeah,” he responds. “I told you she’s interning for Loro Gianni.”
“Aw, that’s right…and can I just say how sweet this is?” I tease. “Supporting your sister. I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Supporting my baby sister, dickhead.”
“Ohh…wait a minute,” I say, and a slow, teasing smirk covers my mouth. “This is the sister. The one Harrison is always talking about.”
“Harrison is a motherfucker.” Cap groans. “And my baby sister is forbidden. Off-fucking-limits. I’d have to be dead and in the fucking grave before I’d let Harrison come anywhere near her.”
“Cool your jets, bud. I’m just the messenger.”
“Yeah, and you better stay just the messenger when it comes to—”
Before he can finish the thought, though, my attention is pulled toward the stage. The lights dim, and a man in a black suit with neon pink lapels steps onto the runway and is introduced by the MC as the Loro Gianni.
Pretty sure this is the first time in my life I’ve ever been thankful for the distraction that is New York Fashion Week.
Two hours later and three runway shows completed, I still don’t understand what’s cutting-edge and hip in fashion any more than I did when I arrived this afternoon.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the innovation, and I most certainly understand the kind of work and brilliance it takes to create an entire fashion line, but fuck if I know what’s good and what’s not.
Women striding down the runway in heels that look next to impossible to navigate around a city like New York?
Men with purses strapped around their chests?
Funky patterns and textures that make my brain hurt over the idea of taking something like that to the fucking dry cleaner?
Yeah. Pretty sure I’ll stick to my classic, understated suits and occasional jeans and button-downs, thank you very much.
The crowd stands to applaud the last designer’s line, and Cap nudges my arm with his elbow.
“You coming with me?”
“Huh?” I ask. “Coming with you where?”
“Backstage, dude,” he says and slips out into the aisle, gesturing for me to follow his lead.
I shrug and go along with his plan, whatever horrifying details it might entail, and before I know it, he’s flashing VIP passes toward a security guard and we’re being let through to the backstage area.
The room is chaotic, with models running around in stilettos, people finalizing hair and makeup for the next round of runway shows that will start in about an hour, and various designers and their staff stressing over hemlines and wrinkles.
But Cap appears oblivious to it all, maneuvering through the crowd until he spots who he is looking for in the far corner of the massive space.
“Gianni!” he shouts, and the man with the neon pink lapels looks up with a big grin. “Fantastic show!”
Loro’s grin grows, and he steps away from a conversation to greet us.
“Caplin Hawkins,” he says and wraps him up in a big hug. “Thank you so much for coming.”
The instant he notices me, his eyes light up in a way that’s far too reminiscent of Carey. “And who is this?”
“This is one of my good buddies,” Cap introduces us. “Loro, this is Theo Cruz.”
“As in Theo Cruz of Cruz Resorts and Nightlife?”
“That’s me,” I say and hold out my hand to shake his. “It’s nice to meet you, and it was a great show.”
Loro raises an amused brow. “Oh, c’mon, Theo, you don’t look like the type of man who enjoys runway shows. I have a feeling sitting through something like this is more of a chore than anything else, but I appreciate the support.”
Busted.
“Sorry,” I apologize with a chuckle and shrug. “The whole fashion thing is way over my head, but I know by the crowd’s reaction, you killed it.”
“I did,” he says, a confident smirk on his lips. “And speaking of my fabulous designs, what will it take to get your fine, successful ass to wear my clothes?”
“Me?” I chuckle and deflect to Cap. “What about this guy? I think he could pull off the man purse and tight slacks.”
Loro cackles. “There is just about nothing that can help Caplin Hawkins’s penchant for plaid.”
“Hey now.” Cap’s puts a dramatic hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know I look great in plaid.”
“Yes, you do,” Loro agrees, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “And don’t you let anyone tell you any different, sweetie.”
Cap chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, you snooty, fashionista bastard.”
Loro just smirks.
“And where is my little sister?” Cap asks, glancing aro
und the room. “I thought I’d find her back here with you. Tell me you haven’t fired her.”
“Fired her?” Loro tosses back. “Don’t be insane, Caplin. I am in love with her. That girl is going places, and she is a big reason today’s show was such a success. I tell her one, she counts two, three, and four on her own. Which is a real shift from the brain-dead, self-centered, vapid girls I normally get as interns.”
I don’t miss the proud smile on Cap’s face as the designer glances over his shoulder and shouts across the crowd, “Lena! Get your cute ass over here, lovely! You have someone who wants to see you!”
My heart up and fucking stops at the name.
It can’t be her, right?
A moment later, two petite arms wrap around Cap’s back. “Are you starting trouble, you big jerk?”
My heart kicks up in speed. Her voice is familiar, too fucking familiar. I’m about to peptalk the shit out of myself again, but before I convince myself I’m just hearing things, she lets go of Cap and steps into our group.
Stunning face.
Wild, blond curls.
And blue eyes that have been haunting my fucking dreams for the last three weeks.
It’s her. It’s Lena.
The woman I met in Positano.
Right here, in the flesh.
I forget all human function, but it’s the damnedest thing; the world rages on around me.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just here waxing poetic about you to Loro.”
“He really was, sweetie, and so was I.” Loro winks. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to mosey about for a bit.”
The designer leaves. Or, at least, I think he leaves. I’m too busy trying to come back from the dead to compute the logistics of his exit.
“Proud of you, sis.” Cap wraps his arm around her, pulling her close to his side and sending my brain reeling.
Proud of you, sis.
This is Cap’s sister.
Lena, the Lena, my Lena, is Cap’s sister.
Right then, like she can sense the shock and confusion radiating off me—as she goddamn well should since I’m currently living through emotional Chernobyl—she looks away from her brother, and her gaze meets mine.
I don’t miss the way her eyes go wide or the way her full, pink lips part in surprise. It’s impossible to.