He’s a handsome guy: tall, with short black hair, horn-rimmed hipster glasses, and a nice upper body. I can only handle a few minutes of political talk before I inform him, regretfully, that I’m apolitical.
His mouth lolls open like a fish’s, and Mags swoops in at just the right time, having finished up a conversation with one of the Hilton cousins.
“Felix. Hi!” She gives him an air-kiss, then yanks me down a slender hallway, done in dusk orange-yellow, with framed grass blades, pine-combs, and bird feathers.
“God, the Carnegies are weird,” she murmurs as we tromp past tall, mahogany doors.
“Not Dec, though.”
She glances over her shoulder, smiling slyly. “I forgot about this.”
I roll my eyes. “Isn’t that what y’all were telling me about Prince Liam? ‘Everyone’ thinks he’s hot?” I ask with air-quotes. I give her another eye roll. “Everyone thinks Declan Carnegie is hot. Even my great-grandmother.”
This is actually true. My grandma Zelda is baseball-obsessed and thinks “Homer” is the second coming of Christ in tight pants.
“Oop, I hear him now.”
And so do I. I can hear Dec’s rich, booming voice as we sail through the doors of…an aquarium?
I blink out at the scene before me: dozens of people mingling, servers weaving between gesturing hands and swaying bodies, all against the backdrop of a wall-sized fish-tank.
“Is that an amberjack?” Mags murmurs.
“Is that a baby dolphin?”
The dolphin-looking thing dips from the surface, near the ceiling, down toward what looks like coral, drawing my attention to a tall head, slightly shadowed by the glow of the aquarium. I assume it’s Dec until another tall guy rises up beside that one, and I realize that guy is definitely Declan Carnegie. He’d been leaning down for some reason. As two girls step closer to him, my eyes return to the other tall guy.
He’s as tall as Dec, maybe a little wider in the shoulders.
Is that a man-bun?
He turns slightly, talking to a group, and my stomach tightens. Oh. My God. That profile.
It’s absolutely…regal.
Even in the shadow of the aquarium’s glow, I can tell he’s got a strong brow, high cheekbones, and the most amazing kiss-me lips. I watch him unabashedly. Heat builds between my legs, flushing through my body in what has got to be the most visceral reaction a woman can have to any man.
The longer I stare, the more my eyes adjust to the bright light behind him, and the more details I process. How tan his skin is—dark, as if he’s been living on an island. How thick and luscious his hair is. And the color of it: warm, rich brown, with lighter sun-streaks.
There’s something panty-melting about the way his lips curve slowly as a girl leans in, touching his forearm.
My body melts another few degrees and Mags grabs my hand.
“Jesus, Luce. I thought you said you didn’t like him.”
My brain barely processes her words before Dec is moving through the crowd toward us, holding an amber glass in one hand while reaching politely for Maggie with his other. I watch his open palm touch down on her shoulder, watch the warmth in his eyes as he greets her. I miss having guy friends, I think as they exchange words. Dec’s posse fans around us as he moves from Mags to me.
“Lucy Rhodes.” He gives me his radiant smile and, instead of making a crack about the show or saying I’m his favorite Rhodes sister, he just asks, “How’ve ya been?”
Dec has dimples. I’m distracted by them for a second, by the dimples and his dark, curly hair. Finally, the question permeates my brain fog.
“Not bad.” I give him a smile. “Yourself?”
He nods politely. “Glad to have a break.”
“I bet. I’ve seen you playing. My grandmother—she’s the biggest fan.”
Dec listens with apparent interest as I tell him about my grandma Zelda watching him play from her electric recliner, with her TV tray on her lap, gawking at his ass.
“It’s a good thing she’s not here,” I tease. “You might raise her blood pressure.”
“You want a signed ball for her?”
“Oh my God, would you? That would be amazing.”
A girl with curly brown hair is hanging on Dec’s arm as he straightens a little and looks around the room. He turns to her. “Sarah, excuse me, will you?”
And just like that, the beau of the ball is leading Mags and me out the room’s double doors and back down the hall, shooting the shit about the framed nature stuff—a byproduct of his grandfather’s midlife Walden obsession—then leading us around a corner, to a closed door.
He glances around before pulling it open, then gestures Mags and me into a stairwell.
“I don’t keep them downstairs.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask.
He makes a dismissive murmur. “Glad to get away.”
“Yeah, these things are tiring,” Maggie says, toying with her Valentino pump.
Declan downs his drink and sets it on a stair. “Remind me to get that on our way down.”
My eyes linger on his backside, which really is amazing. Grandma Zelda always says you could balance a penny on it, and I think she’s right.
I’m thinking about what I’ll tell her when I bump into Maggie’s back.
Oh. So we’ve stopped.
I guess I was lost in thought, because all I catch of what she’s saying is, “a little re-fueling…”
“Hell yeah,” Dec says, nodding.
Maggie’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder. She smiles guiltily.
“Gotcha.” I nod. Maggie and the freaking coke. I know she does it to stay skinny, which I guess is why it kind of bothers me. She’s thin already—naturally Barbie-shaped. Nineteen eighties Barbie. Now-a-days, realistic-body-image Barbie would look fat compared to Mags.
She produces a baggie, then scurries up to the landing, where the bannister is flat. I watch her spread the powder with her Visa card, and Declan hands her a rolled bill.
“Thanks, friend.”
And then I watch as Maggie and Dec Carnegie blow a few lines. God. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He is a 20s-aged male with a fuck ton of disposable—make that snortable—income, but it’s weird because he’s a pro baseball player.
He catches my eye, giving me a rueful smile. “Don’t tell grandma.”
“Never.”
“Luce is cool. She’s just crunchy,” Maggie tells him. “Cocaine isn’t clean enough for her.”
Dec inhales, his thick chest expanding. He blinks slowly. “Fuck. This stuff is clean as it comes, Mags. Who do you buy from?”
I follow them up the stairs, feeling like a tagalong child as they discuss this area’s hookup for quality powder.
We’re greeted on the second floor by a long, hardwood hallway striped by an oriental runner. I can tell it’s authentic by the short, rough fibers. Fake ones are always just a little too fluffy.
Dec hangs a right, leading us past several beautifully appointed bedrooms, all with king-sized beds, several scattered with women’s clothing. The two doors at the end of the hallway are both cracked open just a little.