“We’re keeping it small,” I begin again, “until eight. That’s when the regular guests arrive to see all of Blaine’s paintings and do the mingling thing.”
“Cool. And Ollie?” She says it casually, and I can’t tell if she’s just making conversation or if there’s still something going on between the two of them. I know I should simply ask, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“He’s not coming,” I say.
“Not for the first part,” she clarifies. “I know you never told him about the painting.” She eyes me sideways. “Did you?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“I was wondering if he was coming to the rest of it. The showing, or whatever you want to call it.”
“I’m still calling it a cocktail party,” I say as I pull the car into my assigned parking space. “And no, he’s not coming. I think he and Courtney have plans,” I add, referring to Ollie’s fiancée. I feel guilty about the lie, but I don’t want to tell Jamie that Damien refused to invite Ollie to his home. It bothers me that Damien and one of my best friends don’t get along, but I get where Damien’s coming from.
Though they’d started out sniffing around each other like two alpha dogs, they’d ultimately forged a tentative truce. But that came to an abrupt end when Ollie told me some of Damien’s secrets—and breached the attorney-client privilege by doing so. Damien understands that Ollie thought he was protecting me, and that’s probably the only reason that Ollie is still a lawyer and still working in this town. Or on this continent, for that matter.
But Damien doesn’t want him in the house, and I can’t say that I blame him. I hope they find a way to get along, because I need both these men in my life. But it’s only been about a week since all the shit went down, and things are just too raw between them.
Jamie, however, knows none of that, and I don’t plan to tell her. But that’s one more wedge between us, even if I’m the only one who realizes it’s there.
Soon we’re at the door and I’m fumbling for my house key. I slide it into the lock and push open the door—then stop dead on the threshold.
“Holy fuck,” Jamie says, looking over my shoulder.
I don’t say anything. Jamie has pretty much said it all.
There, in the middle of our living room, is the bed. The bed. The beautiful iron bed beside which I’d posed. The stunning bed upon which Damien so thoroughly fucked me last night, and so many nights before that.
I realize we’re both standing frozen and take a step into the room. There’s a dress bag from Fred’s on the bed with a note pinned to the plastic. I only have to glance at the handwriting on the envelope to feel my body tighten with anticipation. Slowly, I pull the folded slip of paper from the envelope, then unfold it and read:
I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of wearing this dress tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild. And then perhaps you will do me the even greater honor of taking it off.
I realize too late that Jamie is behind me, reading over my shoulder. “How did you get so lucky? The guy is seriously swoon-worthy.”
“Totally,” I agree, smiling.
She flops down on the bed while I unzip the garment bag, and then laugh. I’d fallen in love with the dress while we were shopping yesterday. It hits mid-thigh and is made out of dusty-blue chiffon. It’s not fitted, but the pleated front and flowy design make it fun and flirty, and I cannot wait to put it on with my favorite pair of clunky silver sandals and a matching silver bangle.
I hold it up for Jamie to see. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to look hotter than sin in that dress,” she says. “Can I raid your closet? I’m bored out of my mind with my clothes.”
“Jamie, you’re a size four. I haven’t been that small since I escaped from Mother and learned about the existence of that mysterious substance I like to call food.”
She sighs and eyes my new dress lustfully. “I need my own billionaire boyfriend.”
“I don’t disagree,” I say. “I find him a highly desirable accessory.”