Fuck me,but I still want to do it, even though I know I shouldn’t. Because if she isn’t thinking about me like I am about her, I want her to be.
As I rise, I give Roux some scratches on her chest, which is her favorite spot, although it’s closely tied with butt pats and ear rubs.
There’s no other reason for me to be standing here, staring at the building like a dumbass without a hundred better things to do. And still, it takes a hell of a lot more effort than it should to walk away.
Why the fuck am I so drawn to her?
I have no answer to that question, but I’d better figure it out quick, because there’s no room in my life for this complication.
But as I walk away, leading Roux down the cracked sidewalk, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder for one last look.
Fourteen
Scarlett
Together, Harlow Jones and Monroe Grafton are one of my private appointments today.
It works out perfectly for me, because they’re easily two of the most well-connected party girls in the city—as well as my friends, despite how different we are. Harlow is married to New York’s top sports agent, Jimmy Jones. Monroe’s third husband, Nate, is a starting pitcher. She’s hoping he doesn’t get traded, which would end up in divorce number three, because Monroe will never leave Manhattan.
“I mean, can you imagine if Nate got transferred to LA or something? I don’t want to live in LA. And don’t even get me started on the rest of the country.” Monroe re-rolls the cuffs on her white blazer, which sets off her mane of dark brown hair perfectly. And since Kelsey styles her, that mane is sleek and shiny and the envy of basically every woman who knows she exists. She’s exotically beautiful, with her perfectly sculpted features and golden-brown eyes.
“Nate’s not getting traded anytime soon,” Harlow says as she inspects one of the cutest tea services I’ve ever had in the store. “Jimmy won’t let it happen. He knows it would piss me off and then he wouldn’t get sex for a month, and no man is about to take that risk.” Leave it to Harlow to keep things in perspective as she flips her blond hair over her shoulder and holds a teacup up to the light.
Monroe studies a granite skull painted with flowers in the curio cabinet against the wall. “I know. I just ... I really love being married to Nate. He’s sweet and cute and nice, and goddammit, it would break my heart to see it end.”
“Then don’t let it end,” I tell her, and like the true debutante she was raised to be, I only see a glimpse of emotion before she hides it away under a pearlescent smile. “You can stay married, even if he gets traded. It’s not like he’s home that much as it is during the season or spring training. You could treat his new city like it’s a weekend adventure.”
“You know I don’t do well alone. My jealousy gets a little out of control when I see those cleat chasers on TV.”
I know she sounds shallow, but I’ve never heard Monroe so worried about this kind of thing before. I won’t blow her too-cool-for-school cover, but I know she really loves Nate, and she’d have to break herNYC-only rule if he got traded.
Harlow snorts from the other side of the room, where she’s adding the tea set to her purchases. “You mean like that time you almost got into a legitimate fistfight with that chick outside the locker room? Yes, please. Let’s not have another one of those.”
“Speaking of not getting into any fistfights,” I say, “what do you say about hitting up a club this weekend and seeing how much influence you have to bring more people through the doors?”
My transition may not be ideal, but neither of them will comment on it because they’ll be too shocked that I’m going out and trying to get them to come with me.
“Youwant to go out this weekend?” Monroe asks, her eyes wide as she looks from me to Harlow.
“Fuck yes!” Harlow throws her arm in the air and shakes her ass with a silver teaspoon waving from her hand. “I don’t know where or what or why, but I’m totally in. It’s been too damn long since we’ve had a girls’ night! We’re going to dance our asses off and getwasted.”
I don’t know about wasted, but I’m not about to burst the party-planning bubble yet. Not when it’s the only plan I have. “I knew I could count on you to be my wing-women.”
“Wait. Wing-women?” Harlow asks, coming a step closer in this season’s YSL silver-studded nude pumps.I need a pair of those and another in black. “Are you after a man who’s not LaBoring? Because you know we are both so down for that.”
Everyone in my life has a name for Chadwick, but LaBoring—a play on LaSalle—is one of my favorites, and I snicker inside.
Suddenly, it seems like everyone is telling me how they feel about Chadwick, and it’s more surprising than I’d like to admit. Have I been ignoring their comments all along, or is this honesty a new development in my life?
“You don’t like Chadwick?” I ask, looking from Harlow’s voluminous blond waves to Monroe’s sleek brown layers. “Neither of you?”
Their faces both morph into expressions of sympathy.
“You could totally do better,” Monroe says. “Why do you think I’m always trying to get you to come with me to Nate’s team events? I know so many players who’d love to take you out. Really hot, rich men, Scar.”
“Jimmy has a lot of other clients too. You’d be a great player’s wife. Can you imagine what you’d do for each other’s social media?” Harlow waves a manicured hand through the air like she’s reading something off a giant marquee. “Like JLo and ARod. You could be ScarPri and some other catchy nickname. AndLord,think of the wedding. It’d be like the event of the century.”
Whoa.What am I missing here? “How long have you both felt like this?”