"I'm an adult. Just last week, I purchased a vegetable. Not on purpose, of course."
- Phoebe West, on the meaning of adulthood.
"Phoebe?"
I blink hard and turn to Cormack, wishing it didn't take such monumental effort to turn my back on the place Nate stood only seconds before.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, meeting my date's confused eyes and shrugging lightly. "Just spaced out for a second."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes." I try out a smile. It feels wobbly on my lips. "Too much champagne. All those bubbles go straight to my head."
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Thankfully, Cormack doesn't seem to notice. Or, if he does, he's too much of a gentleman to contradict me.
"What were we talking about?" I ask, in dire need of a subject change.
"I was about to ask what you do for work." His smile is all easy charm.
"I'm a graphic designer." Pushing thoughts of Nate from my mind, I instantly feel steadier. "I manage the WestTech website and design promotional marketing materials— brochures, business cards, advertisements, social media campaigns. Stuff like that."
"And you enjoy it? Working so closely with your father?"
"I love it." I smile softly. "He's away a lot, so I don't see him that often. Which is okay — otherwise, we'd probably drive each other crazy."
The lie slips from my lips as easy as breathing. I've been saying it so long, I almost believe it myself.
Truth is, there's no such thing as seeing Milo West too often or working with him too closely. I took a job at WestTech not because it was the only option open to me — I had plenty of offers, when I graduated from MIT at the top of my class — but because I knew it was the only guarantee I'd have of ever crossing paths with the man who raised me.
Well... raised is a bit of a stretch.
Parker raised me. He was my big brother, but he did all the work — making sure my homework was done, that I'd eaten dinner, that no one at school was messing with me. He gave up being a kid the day our mom died, and stepped into the void she'd left behind.
My dad certainly wasn't going to.
Milo had more of a consultant role in my rearing. Sure, he'd get involved with whatever daily drama was boiling over in his children's lives — if he happened to be around that day. As a kid, the only sure way of seeing him was when Parker and I would beg our nanny to drive us to the WestTech tower, a soaring high-rise in the South End, where we were welcomed with the grudging patience of a man who loves his children... just not as much as his empire.
We didn't ask often. Eventually we stopped asking altogether.
"I'm sure he values your work very much." Cormack's voice shatters my reverie. "He's a lucky man, to have a daughter like you."
I smile up at him thinking, even if his words aren't remotely true, it's nice to hear them.
Before I can respond, a tinkling feminine laugh accosts my ears. A second later, a body slams into mine and arms wind around my frame.
"You're here!" Gemma squeals, grabbing me by the shoulders and peering into my face. Her grin is a mile wide. Her hair — the same shade as mine but longer — is twined up in a modern French twist, and she's wearing a killer boho-chic blue dress that matches the exact shade of her eyes. She's stunning.
"Wouldn't miss it." I grin back at her, feeling her exuberance infect me like an airborne contagion. "It's amazing, Gemma. Seriously, you've outdone yourself."
She waves away my words. "I barely did any of this. Have you met my friends? My boyfriend? Total control freaks, the lot of them. For some reason, they all seem to think everything I touch turns into a disaster."
This, from the girl who breaks approximately one iPhone per week.
I bury a grin. "I'm sure they just wanted to help."
She expels a gust of air. "It's a miracle they even let me pick the flowers."
"I see you ousted those macabre calla lilies in favor of peonies," I say with only a small amount of teasing in my voice, glancing around the gallery space where white, puffy blooms float in water crystal vases and saturate the air with sweet, fresh perfume.
"When in doubt, stick with the classics." Gemma smiles. "Chase knows they're my favorite. I think he buys them by the truckload."
I can confirm this — I've been to their penthouse. Practically every surface holds a vase full of the colorful blooms.
"Where is he?"
"Oh, off in a corner somewhere brooding, no doubt. He's not exactly a social butterfly in the best of times, and everyone here wants to talk to him about a partnership with Croft Industries." Her eyes go soft as she talks about him. "I wouldn't have been able to pull any of this together without him. None of these people would've shown up for just me."
I grab her hand and squeeze. "I would have."
Something warm flashes in her eyes. "I'm so happy you're here. Chase keeps making me talk to these snooty people, like I'm required to make nice just so they'll buy art. I've told him, like, a million times — it's a gallery, not a social hour. Does he listen? Nope. Overbearing caveman."
I hear a muffled chuckle from Cormack's direction. Gemma looks at him abruptly, seeming to notice him for the first time, then glances back at me with raised brows.
"Date?"
I nod.
Her happy expression crumbles and I know it's because of her dreams for my happily-ever-after with a certain someone. I don't have the heart to tell her that life isn't a fairy tale.
Not my life, anyway.
She quickly recovers, offering him a dazzling smile. "Well, hi there. I'm Gemma Summers. Phoebe's... friend."
Her beat of hesitation makes my heart skip a beat.
Aren't we friends?
I take another sip of champagne and try not to dwell.
"I'm Cormack." My date steps forward, hand outstretched. "You have a gorgeous gallery."
Gemma's eyebrows go up, up, up as she listens to his introduction. She shakes his hand politely, then leans close to me and whispers in my ear.
"Holy shit. That accent?!"
"I know," I whisper back.
We're both laughing as we pull apart. Cormack stares at us, amusement flickering across his face.
"You two wouldn't be joking at my expense now, would you?" he asks.
"Absolutely not," I deny immediately
"Oh, definitely," Gemma confirms at the same time.
We look at each other and dissolve into laughter again.
"Thanks for clearing that up," Cormack says, his voice wry.
When we've stopped giggling, Gemma grabs me in another tight embrace. "I suppose I have to go mingle." She says it like a dirty word. "But let's plan lunch sometime this week, okay?"
"Of course," I agree, hugging her back.
With a smile for me and a wink for Cormack, she's gone again, winding into the crowd and disappearing.
"Another childhood friend?" Cormack asks, stepping into the space she left behind.
"Actually, we just met about a month ago."
His eyebrows lift in surprise.
I can't blame him for being skeptical. Sometimes, I have to remind myself I barely know Gemma. There's just something about her that makes me feel totally at ease. Like I've known her forever, could tell her anything. I can't really explain it, so I just shrug lightly, wrap my arm through his, and lead us toward the canvas on our left, making sure my eyes never wander to the shadowy corners of the room.
Dark-eyed ghosts have a tendency to lurk there.
* * *
An hour later, I'm several grand poorer and the proud owner of a gorgeous new pastel abstract by Sartre. Lila and Padraic have joined us again and, judging by the faint hickey blooming on Lila's neck, it's not hard to guess what they've been up to in our absence.
I'm on my fourth glass of champagne for the evening — at this point, mustering enough indignation to scold her about necking like a teenager in the back hallway of Gemma's black-tie event seems a daunting task. I watch Lila lean into Padraic's arm, watch his mouth twist into a knowing smirk as he whispers secret nothings into her ear and a giddy smile blooms on her lips, and feel a pang of sadness sweep through me.
I can't help wishing that at any point in my life, even for an instant, I'd felt that way. Happy and carefree and in love with nothing but the moment.
As handsome as the man standing beside me is, I know we'll never have that.
I'll never have it with anyone.
"Another champagne, Phoebe?" Cormack asks politely, as a waiter passes by. I notice he doesn't grab a glass for himself. In fact, he hasn't been drinking at all.
"I've had plenty." I rub at my temple. "I'm actually starting to get a headache. I'm going to step out on the back terrace, for a minute. Get some fresh air."
He looks at me with concern. "Want company?"
"No, I'm all right."
"We can leave," he offers, my own personal knight-in-tailored-Hugo-Boss-suit. "I'll take you wherever you'd like to go, just name the place."
God, he's nice. And charming. And good looking.
He's everything I could ever need in a man.
He's just not the one I want.
He's not...
Nate.
The mere thought of him is ruining the first good date I've had in... maybe ever. I hate that he has this hold over me. Bloodlust stirs inside me again, needing an outlet, but this time it's tinged with a sense of hopelessness.
If a man like Cormack can't make me forget Nate, I doubt any man on earth can.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don't scream. Or cry.
"That's very sweet." I smile up at Cormack. "I'll be back in bit, okay?"
"Phoebe..." His gorgeous face wrinkles in worry, his hand grazes my lower back in a way that should have me doing victory cartwheels around the room. All I feel is tired. Empty. And frustrated that I can't stop wishing it were someone else's hand pulling me close, offering me comfort.
"Don't worry," I tell him, voice falsely bright. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me."
"Are you sure? I'd be happy to accompany—"
"No," I say too sharply. "I just need a minute," I add, my voice softer.
I'm not trying to be rude but I'm suddenly desperate to be out of this room, away from the lights and the noise. All the things I want to say — scream — to Nate have formed a lump in my throat so thick, I can barely breathe around it.
I feel abruptly very alone, in this crowd of people. Despite my date, despite Lila and Gemma and all the people who claim to adore the West family... I'm overcome by that feeling again. The one that whispers at the back of my mind that I could just evaporate into thin air without causing so much as a ripple in the party going on around me.
Poof! Gone.
I make sure to grab a fresh glass of champagne as I cut through the crowd and head for the French doors that lead to freedom.
* * *
The terrace is deserted. It's not quite summer in Boston and there's still a crisp chill on May nights, especially by the water. I lean against the railing, press my eyes closed, and pull a deep breath through my nose. Sometimes just the act of pulling oxygen into your lungs can feel like the hardest thing in the world.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
The voice hits me like a wave, rolling over fragile limbs of sand, threatening to erode my very existence. Deep, gritty, and detached of all emotion.
Nate.
Abruptly, I'm covered in goosebumps that have absolutely nothing to do with the cold. I force my eyes to open, but don't turn to face him.
"West?" His voice is closer, lower.
I fight a shiver.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
There's no heat to my internal chant — only resigned sadness.
"You hear me?" Closer still, and this time the iron in his tone is undeniable. He wants an answer.
I sigh and turn my head to look over one shoulder at him.
"I heard you," I echo softly, my eyes meeting his.
Something flashes across his face — concern? surprise? — when he catches sight of my expression and hears the exhaustion in my tone, but he doesn't comment. I watch his jaw tighten as his eyes roam my features.
He's devastatingly handsome, even in the dark.
It's pretty annoying.
"Go back inside," he commands, no kindness in his voice.
I'm too tired to fight with him and certainly too weak to keep looking at him without caving to the need to step into his chest and wrap my arms around him, so I just turn back to the water, lean deeper against the railing, and murmur, "Actually, I'm good right here."
I hear what I think is a curse and then he's there, right beside me, hovering so close I can feel the heat of his chest. Not touching me, but almost.
It takes physical effort to keep my body from leaning into his, to keep my eyes locked on the river — a spill of dark ink, now that the sun's set.
Love that dirty water, Bostonians everywhere chant at sports games and bar crawls, taking pride in the polluted Charles. Reveling in their adoration for something broken and toxic and wrong.
I know a little about that.
"West."
Am I crazy, or is his voice a fraction softer? A shade kinder?
I'm probably crazy. Or drunk.
Maybe both.
"It's cold as hell out here," he informs me unnecessarily. I know just how icy the air is between us, how many frozen degrees of separation divide his body from mine.
I nod and sip my champagne, lacking the energy to snap back at him, as I'd usually do in this scenario. There hasn't been a single conversation between us in the past ten years that wasn't laced with sarcasm and scorn.
First time for everything.
"Dammit, West." His words are harsh, but his voice is uncharacteristically rattled. Like he doesn't quite know how to handle me, when I'm not cursing at him. "Nothing's fucking easy with you."
"You've mentioned that before." My voice is so bland you'd think we were discussing cereal brands.
He's silent for a moment, before barking, "What the hell is the matter with you?"
I shrug, still not looking at him. "Nothing."
"Then why aren't you being a sarcastic pain in my ass and snapping at me for ordering you around?"
I turn my head to look at him — I can't help myself — and as soon as our gazes meet, I feel the breath seize in my lungs.
It's hard, so hard, to be indifferent with those dark eyes a half-foot away from mine.
Tension builds like a summer storm in the space between us — charged air currents zinging from my body to his.
His jaw starts to tick. "West—"
"Don't you ever get tired of it?" I ask, the words popping out before I can stop them. I'm not sure who's more surprised by my question.
His brow furrows. "Tired of you being a sarcastic pain in my ass?"
I try to grin but only half my mouth cooperates. I look away before he sees the flimsy smile, proof of my deep unease.
"No," I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of that."
Indifferent, I tell myself. You're indifferent to him. You've got a hot date inside who actually likes you. Why waste your time on someone who so clearly doesn't?
My inner voice is about as convincing as an oceanfront condo salesman in Nebraska.
Silence drags on. After a second, I feel him step closer. It takes every ounce of energy I possess to remain still.
"Tired of what?" Nate mutters, sounding like he'd rather have bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails than continue this conversation with me.
It's almost enough to draw out a real smile. Almost.
"All of it." I shrug and sip my champagne again. The glass is almost empty.
"Gonna have to elaborate on that one."
I finally look up at him and I swear he almost flinches when our eyes meet. I'm not sure what that says about the emotions in my eyes — I'm not sure I want to know.
"Don't you ever—" My voice cracks. I ignore it and start over. "Do you ever feel like you could just disappear and no one would even notice?"
He stares at me a beat — brow creasing, eyes active, mouth pressing into an even firmer line. My heart starts beating too fast. He's watching me so intently, it's like he's never seen me before. Like I've changed right before his eyes into a stranger.
I look away, because I can't look at him. Not with that mortifying question — a question that revealed so much more than I ever intended to — still lingering in the air between us.
The longer it's out there, the more exposed I feel. Like I've just reached into my chest, pulled out my beating, vulnerable heart, and handed it to him on a platter.
Worse still, he doesn't say anything. Not a single word. The silence stretches, grows, until it's a physical presence. Until it's so loud, my ears begin to ache with it, and suddenly, for no reason at all, I'm fighting tears.
I should've stuck with indifference.
Indifferent is always better than raw and afraid and lonely and broken.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Then, out of nowhere, a hand lands on the bare flesh of my arm. Every thought except holy-frack-Nate-is-touching-me disappears from my mind as lightning jolts through me, frying my circuit boards. I go completely still, barely breathing as my eyes move slowly from the hand curled around my arm — so unbearably gentle, like I'm made of glass — to his other fist, which is wrapped so tight around the deck railing, his veins pop like stark cords. It's a wonder the wood doesn't splinter under his hold.
As though he's so tense from just touching me, he needs a physical outlet.
As though the feeling of my skin under his palm is nearly enough to kill him.
I marvel at the tandem show of utter tenderness and brute force. At his ability to keep that pain contained within himself, never once tightening his grip on me. Such total control — I'd be intimidated, if I could feel anything at all, right now.
My entire system, every ounce of sensory input, is narrowed to a single point of contact. To five callused, masculine fingers, where they grip the fragile skin of my wrist.
My eyes trail up the muscled length of his arm to his broad chest, then to the tanned column of his throat where it peeks out the unbuttoned collar of his black dress shirt. Before I lose all my courage, I slide my gaze up over the planes of his face to meet his stare head-on.
He's not even looking at me.
His eyes are on his own hand, where it's curled reverently around my wrist. He's staring at it like he doesn't quite know what to make of it. Something stirs low in my abdomen, a pang of longing shooting through me like an electric charge.
"Nate..." I whisper, breathless.
His eyes snap to mine, but his hand doesn't move. "You drunk, West?"
"No," I say, even though it's kind of a lie.
"Five glasses of champagne say otherwise."
My mouth parts and my eyes narrow. "What, you've been spying on me?"
"Don't think watching the most boring date in history counts as spying. Even if you are wearing your fuck-me heels."
My brain actually stutters inside my skull, hearing the phrase fuck me come from Nate's mouth, watching those lips form such sensual, sinuous words. Words that should insult me, not turn me on.
"Excuse me?" I snap, mustering all the anger I can manage to cover my sudden lust. "For your information, Cormack is not boring. He's charming. And good-looking. And unlike some people I know, he doesn't feel the need to assert his manhood by brooding and glaring and grunting like a bull in heat."
"West—"
"Frankly, it's none of your fracking business who I date!"
"Fracking?"
"And furthermore," I barrel on, ignoring his amused question. "These are not fu... fu..." I swallow hard. "They are not those kind of heels."
His mouth tugs up at one side and the sight of it makes my heart skip a beat.
"Can't say the word fuck, West?" He sounds vastly entertained by the idea.
My cheeks heat.
Oh, I can, all right. I just worry that if I say fuck me while you're standing so close, my body will disobey orders and wrap around you like a tree frog.
"Just a word, West." He leans closer, practically inducing a heart attack. "No need to be afraid of it."
"I'm not afraid of anything, you condescending ass," I hiss, tugging my arm from his grip and praying I don't fall over. To my dismay, he lets me pull out of his hold. I miss his touch as soon as it's gone, cursing myself even as I curse him.
"I'm an ass, now? Thought I was a bull in heat," he mocks. "And I gotta say, charming as your elementary, barnyard-animal insults are... I've been called worse."
"Oh, fuck you, Nate. Fuck you, fuck off, go fuck yourself." I twist my face into the mimicry of a smile and make my voice sweet as pie. "How was that? Was my usage correct? My diction on point? Because, if we're quite finished here, I have to go do something more interesting. Like alphabetize my entire bookshelf by title, author, and genre. Maybe un-gunk the lint from my car speakers with a toothpick. Oh, or translate the entire works of Tolstoy into Pig-Latin."
He stares at me for a beat, those dark eyes glittering, that almost-smile playing on his lips. I'm breathing too hard and I tell myself it's from the anger coursing through my system. Not something else. Something stupid. Like attraction.
"There she is," he murmurs under his breath, those dark eyes locked on mine. His tone is hushed, amused — almost like he's talking to himself. About me, rather than to me.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snap, but my anger feels suddenly stretched thin.
There she is. There she is. There she is.
His words beat through my mind like a tribal drum beat.
He doesn't answer. His eyes are already shuttering away whatever emotion flashed there seconds ago. I glare at him, fully prepared to launch in again and ask why the hell he insists on antagonizing me at every opportunity, but before I can get out another word a voice cuts across the deck like a thunderclap, shattering the moment.
"Phoebe?"
Phey-bee.
"Crap on whole wheat," I mutter, taking an abrupt step back from Nate and turning to face Cormack, who's crossing the terrace with a look of concern on his face.
I think I hear Nate curse again, though I don't know what he could possibly be pissed off about, unless it's the fact that he can no longer taunt me with Cormack here to witness it.
"You were gone a long time. I thought I'd come check on you," Cormack tells me, though his eyes are locked on Nate. I can't help but notice his usual charming smile is nowhere to be found. When he reaches my side, his hand immediately finds the small of my back in that possessive way of his.
I fight the urge to stiffen at his touch, looking anywhere but at Nate.
"Just enjoying the fresh air," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. My eyes lift to Cormack's. "Thanks for checking."
He smiles faintly before his gaze shifts back to Nate, who's crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a seriously intimidating expression. It's one I've never seen before and I immediately dub it his Badass Mercenary look.
Tight mouth, scary eyes, pervasive silence.
So, basically his normal look... on steroids.
To my surprise, Cormack doesn't turn and run. His spine straightens as he meets Nate's hard stare, and he shoves a cordial hand into the space between them. Nate stares unmoving at the other man's hand and, eventually, Cormack drops it and shoves it back into his pants pocket.
"I'm Corma—"
"I know who you are." Nate's voice is arctic cold. Colder than I've ever heard it. "And I don't know what game you're playing here, O'Dair, but it ends now."
Cormack actually laughs — laughs! — like he isn't standing two feet from the most intimidating human on planet earth. There's a strange gleam in my date's blue-green eyes that wasn't there earlier, and a smug smile playing out on those killer Irish lips.
I'm instantly set on edge.
Something's happening here. And, as much as I'd like to think the tension between them is because they're both madly in love with me — HA! — I'm pretty sure that's not the case. They clearly have a history.
Judging by the frost crystalizing the air between them, I'm guessing it's not a happy one.
At least a decade passes as the men face off, neither breaking the heavy silence. The tension builds until I can barely breathe around it.
"Maybe—" I start, but my words are immediately cut off.
"West, go inside." Nate never looks away from Cormack. "I'm going to have a chat with your..." He pauses intentionally, a hard smile curling at his mouth. "...friend."
"What?" I snap. "I'm not going anywhere."
"It's fine, Phoebe," Cormack says, glaring at Nate. "We have some things to talk about. I'll see you in a few minutes."
Dismissed like a little girl. By both of them.
Well!
"This is a joke, right?"
They both ignore me.
I plant my hands on my hips. "Seriously?"
Still, no response.
"You know, as a general rule, if you're going to act like total dicks, you should wear condoms over your heads." Their eyes snap simultaneously to look at me when the words leave my lips. I widen my eyes in an innocent expression and continue in a sweet tone. "It would help prevent the macho bullshit from leaving your mouths."
With that, I spin — not easy, on four-inch stiletto heels, let me tell you — and head for the doors. I don't stop to say goodbye to Gemma or Lila; I stomp straight for the exits and ask a startled valet to call my town car. The expression on my face must be seriously pissed, because he practically jumps out of his skin when he sees me coming. I'm too angry to care. (Much.)
Not even a minute later, I watch my car pull to the curb, blow past the paparazzi, and am settled in the backseat being whisked toward the city proper.
Screw Nate. Screw Cormack.
In fact, screw men altogether.
Celibacy isn't so bad. There are perks to dying alone.
For instance — never having to shave my legs ever again. Not worrying about rogue eyebrow hairs. Being able to watch seven consecutive hours of Netflix without anyone around to reprimand me for my poor life decisions. Never having to share my French fries when I order takeout. Being able to sleep diagonally across my queen-sized mattress.
See! Perks.
Totally worth a life of solitude and an endless sexual dry spell.
I sigh deeply and stare out the window. It doesn't matter what I try to tell myself — I'm still tormented by the knowledge that I'd trade any amount of single-girl benefits for just one night of sexy-benefits in Nate's arms.