“Word around the country club is you’ve gone into business on your own,” she comments casually. “Got yourself a law firm with your name on it.”
Her tits are pretty phenomenal too. A little on the small side, no more than a B cup—but I just bet they’re firm and perky and magically delicious. The kind that can forego a bra, so her nipples poke against her shirt when she’s turned on. I love that look on a woman.
“Yes, almost two years now. We’ve built quite a name for ourselves.”
“You must be so proud.”
“I am.”
She lifts one shoulder. “I think it’s pretentious as hell.”
My eyes snap to her face. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a farce. The brave young defense attorney, giving up the big-paycheck firm to serve the little people.” Her voice turns derisive. “It’s easy to be brave when you have Great-Grandpa’s money behind you.”
My brow furrows. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you.”
“No, what’s presumptuous is thinking you can walk over here, ogle my tits and ass, and assume I won’t call you on it.”
Guess I wasn’t as discreet as I thought.
“Is ogleable a word? Cause if it is—you’re it. A lot of women would take it as a compliment.”
She faces me head-on. “A lot of women are idiots. And not as knowledgeable as I am about what a selfish, immature little prick you can be.”
Little? I resent that—particularly in such close proximity to the word prick.
“Who the hell are you?”
She stares at me for two beats. Then she throws her head back and laughs.
“My God. Of all the ways I pictured this going, I never considered you’d totally forget me. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—I was pretty forgettable back in the day.”
“What does that even—”
A woman’s voice calls “Kennedy!” cutting me off—and knocking me on my proverbial ass.
Mitzy Randolph, one of my mother’s oldest friends and our next-door neighbor, walks up and plants two air kisses on the blond beauty at my side.
“I’ve been waiting for you to arrive,” she tells her.
“I’ve been here for twenty minutes, Mother.”
Holy fuck.
Mrs. Randolph turns to me, her arm around her daughter’s back. “Isn’t it wonderful that our Kennedy has come home, Brent?”
And all I can do is parrot like an idiot. “Yeah . . . wonderful.”
Mitzy steps back, takes her daughter’s hands, and holds them up at her sides—looking her over, judging and evaluating—just like the good old days. “I’m so happy to have you out of Nevada. All those nasty casinos and dust and desert.” She caresses her cheek. “That dry air has wreaked havoc on your skin. I’ll make you an appointment with my esthetician this week—she’s a miracle worker.”
Kennedy gives a resigned sigh. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Now I’ll let you two get reacquainted. I see the Vanderblasts are here and if I don’t spend at least ten minutes with Ellora she’ll work herself into a snit.”
When we’re alone again, I can’t stop staring. Once upon a time she was my best friend. For a hot minute she was more. After that, she hated me. And then she was just . . . gone.
I haven’t seen her for fourteen years, and the last time I did, she sure as shit didn’t look like this.
“Kennedy . . . ?” I whisper, still not entirely convinced it’s her.
She regards me with a tilted head, a cocked hip, and a disdainful smile. “Hello, Dickhead.”
Okay. Now I’m convinced.
4
It takes a few seconds to recover from the shock, but when I do, I hit the ground smirking. Because if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s give as good as I get.
“Kennedy Randy Randolph.”
Her smile drops like a barrel over Niagara Falls.
“My middle name is Suzanne.”
“I know, but I never did come up with a nickname for you. Though we already considered Randy, didn’t we? It wasn’t a good fit—I’ll keep working on it.”
I shake my head, checking her out all over again. Because now that I know who she is, we’re talking a whole other level of depraved interest.
“Goddamn. You look—”
“Yes, I know.” She sighs, then gazes at her manicure in that bitchy way women do. “Thank you.” There’s not a shred of sincerity in her tone—like she’s heard a million compliments before. Which, with her level of hotness, is possible. Except for one thing.
“What’d you do to your eyes?” I lean in, frowning.
“They’re called contact lenses.”
“Well, take them out. I don’t like them. Your real eyes are incredible.”
Breathtaking, actually—deep, warm brown with flecks of gold. I’d know Kennedy’s eyes anywhere.
“What’d you do to your face?” she asks, folding her arms.
I touch my chin. “I grew a beard.”
“Well ungrow it. It looks like a vagina from a 1970s porn film.”
My lips twitch—because, fuck, the things that come out of her mouth.
That always did.
“I’m starting to get the impression you don’t like me anymore, sweetness.”