moment, indulging in everything (minus the pâté) and doing two things he never would have dreamed of: He bought a yacht, which he christened the Triple Bypass , and now, he hoped, he would screw Eden Clyde.
Naturally, Rory took to Eden instantly, and their flirtation carried on through the meal as Otto looked on, teasingly winking at his ex on occasion. He wasn’t at all jealous (well, maybe a little); he just wanted her to be happy.
But alas, Rory was too slick, too pretty. Eden wasn’t feeling it. She knew when she was being used as a pawn, a collectible asset to check off his list. She wasn’t wrong. Her image was so famous around the world, it would be the holy grail of lays. The old Eden wouldn’t have minded being used as a prop, as long as it got her places. But now she didn’t care.
She didn’t need to be someone else’s arm candy. Not anymore.
After Otto’s party, Eden and Otto continued speaking one or two times a day on top of their painting sessions. Even though part of her was wounded about the roll in the hay with corn-fed farm girl Mary, she no longer held it against him because somewhere deep inside she was grateful. She knew she wanted more and would have probably coasted indefinitely. It had been so long in the making.
Sometimes she had to act casual when she was steaming inside (like when Mary would yap in the background) and other times she felt a warm comfort in Otto’s voice like catching up with an uncle or old teacher. They spoke not just about Cole but about anything and everything. Some nights they’d chat till all hours, even once or twice suggesting that maybe they should just stay together for the companionship and convenience.
“Nothing would be different.” Eden shrugged. “I really think you’re more into Miss Mary than you let on.”
Otto was silent. A mute confirmation of Eden’s suspicions that deafened her on the line.
“I just miss you sometimes,” he said sadly.
“Well, maybe I want to be missed all the time,” she said. “There was an era when I couldn’t walk to Gourmet Garage without twenty questions about when I was coming back.”
“So why did you blow off Rory? He seemed nice. Lots of ducats in the bank.”
“I’m not looking, Otto. Actually tonight Allison’s friends Callie and Sara are taking me to Cipriani.”
“Just don’t have too many Bellini,” he teased.
“CHEERS!!” The third round of peach nectar-infused Prosecco clinked together.
“Oh my god, we’re like The First Wives club but without the rings floating at the bottom!” said Sara.
“Yeah, and I was never married,” said Eden.
“Oooooh, eye candy three o’clock,” Sara whispered. A bunch of Wall Streeters in blue button-downs walked in after a long round of squash at the Racquet Club followed by Chinese “Special Massages” at a Third Avenue second-floor jerk joint, where, before the Happy Ending, they tell you to “frip” (as in “flip over”). All the guys were calm as cucumbers (thanks to Li and Ling having taken care of their cucumbers) and ready for some Italian food. These nights were a preppy tradition—Squeal and Veal—“frip” rubdowns and eats.
“Check it out, bro, look at the cans on those broads,” one said between gobbles of veal parm.
“Hells yeah! Holy flesh melons!”
“Talk about happy fun bags,” added another.
“Try happy meal. ”
Overhearing enough to Sherlock the guys’ convo, Callie beamed. “They’re checking out our racks,” she said proudly, sitting erect.
Eden looked at the guys, then back at her friends. It was like two sets of Big Bad Wolves licking their chops, and she was innocent Red Riding Hood in the middle.
One of the preppies raised a glass to the ladies’ table.
“What is going on?” Eden asked.
“It’s called flirting. Geez, you really do need to get out more. You’ve lost the moves, girlfriend!” Sara teased.
“Mesdames,” the waiter said, approaching their table. “The gentlemen
Naturally, Rory took to Eden instantly, and their flirtation carried on through the meal as Otto looked on, teasingly winking at his ex on occasion. He wasn’t at all jealous (well, maybe a little); he just wanted her to be happy.
But alas, Rory was too slick, too pretty. Eden wasn’t feeling it. She knew when she was being used as a pawn, a collectible asset to check off his list. She wasn’t wrong. Her image was so famous around the world, it would be the holy grail of lays. The old Eden wouldn’t have minded being used as a prop, as long as it got her places. But now she didn’t care.
She didn’t need to be someone else’s arm candy. Not anymore.
After Otto’s party, Eden and Otto continued speaking one or two times a day on top of their painting sessions. Even though part of her was wounded about the roll in the hay with corn-fed farm girl Mary, she no longer held it against him because somewhere deep inside she was grateful. She knew she wanted more and would have probably coasted indefinitely. It had been so long in the making.
Sometimes she had to act casual when she was steaming inside (like when Mary would yap in the background) and other times she felt a warm comfort in Otto’s voice like catching up with an uncle or old teacher. They spoke not just about Cole but about anything and everything. Some nights they’d chat till all hours, even once or twice suggesting that maybe they should just stay together for the companionship and convenience.
“Nothing would be different.” Eden shrugged. “I really think you’re more into Miss Mary than you let on.”
Otto was silent. A mute confirmation of Eden’s suspicions that deafened her on the line.
“I just miss you sometimes,” he said sadly.
“Well, maybe I want to be missed all the time,” she said. “There was an era when I couldn’t walk to Gourmet Garage without twenty questions about when I was coming back.”
“So why did you blow off Rory? He seemed nice. Lots of ducats in the bank.”
“I’m not looking, Otto. Actually tonight Allison’s friends Callie and Sara are taking me to Cipriani.”
“Just don’t have too many Bellini,” he teased.
“CHEERS!!” The third round of peach nectar-infused Prosecco clinked together.
“Oh my god, we’re like The First Wives club but without the rings floating at the bottom!” said Sara.
“Yeah, and I was never married,” said Eden.
“Oooooh, eye candy three o’clock,” Sara whispered. A bunch of Wall Streeters in blue button-downs walked in after a long round of squash at the Racquet Club followed by Chinese “Special Massages” at a Third Avenue second-floor jerk joint, where, before the Happy Ending, they tell you to “frip” (as in “flip over”). All the guys were calm as cucumbers (thanks to Li and Ling having taken care of their cucumbers) and ready for some Italian food. These nights were a preppy tradition—Squeal and Veal—“frip” rubdowns and eats.
“Check it out, bro, look at the cans on those broads,” one said between gobbles of veal parm.
“Hells yeah! Holy flesh melons!”
“Talk about happy fun bags,” added another.
“Try happy meal. ”
Overhearing enough to Sherlock the guys’ convo, Callie beamed. “They’re checking out our racks,” she said proudly, sitting erect.
Eden looked at the guys, then back at her friends. It was like two sets of Big Bad Wolves licking their chops, and she was innocent Red Riding Hood in the middle.
One of the preppies raised a glass to the ladies’ table.
“What is going on?” Eden asked.
“It’s called flirting. Geez, you really do need to get out more. You’ve lost the moves, girlfriend!” Sara teased.
“Mesdames,” the waiter said, approaching their table. “The gentlemen
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