leverage I’ve got with him, but I don’t
know how much longer it will keep him from crossing the line.
“Behave yourself at dinner, OK?” Brent snaps
at me, as he pulls up by the valet. “This is an important investor,
could be my big break.”
I don’t reply. He’s always talking about his
next big business venture, but most of the time, it’s just an
excuse for expensive dinners and partying with his preppy rich
friends.
He grips my arm tightly and steers me into
the restaurant.
“Welcome back, Mr. Ashcroft!” The hostess
flashes a smile at Brent. “So nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you too, Becca.” Brent leers at
her cleavage. “You put us at the best table, right? None of that
backroom bullshit.”
“Of course.” She leads us to a table in the
middle of the room. Brent takes his time following, and he parades
me through the room like he wants everyone to stare.
And they do. In this dress, with four-inch
heels and my blonde hair tumbling free, I look like I should be in
some trashy nightclub, not a classy restaurant like this.
I feel myself go numb under their stares.
Let them look. They aren’t seeing me, the real me, just this act I
have to keep together.
Remember you’re more than his prop, I
remind myself . Remember you’re more than this.
“Bring a bottle of Brut,” Brent barks at
her, as we take out seats. “And none of that new shit. Vintage, all
the way.”
Becca’s smile dims. “On its way.” She gives
me a look before leaving, as if to say, ‘what the hell are you
doing with him?’
Me too, honey. Me too.
Brent’s buddies stroll over to us, drinks in
hand, and claim seats at our table like they own the place. They’re
college friends, now all big-shot bankers and CEOs propped up by
daddy’s connections and trust funds, and soon they’re trading
gossip—the size of their bonuses, and the new expensive toys
they’ve been buying.
“Rooftop pool, state of the art
electronics…” One of the guys is bragging about his new penthouse
apartment. “It was a fucking bidding war, I went a mil over asking
to lock it down.”
I try to look interested, but I can feel my
eyes glazing over. These men, they don’t know how to talk to a
woman, how to respect her, make her feel valued. I’m just a
decoration to them.
“Sweet,” Brent says. “I’m looking too,
right, Iz? Your place is kind of cramped.” He’s noticed how quiet I
am and is trying to make me participate in the conversation.
My two-bedroom on the Upper East Side is
nowhere near cramped, but I smile and nod, appeasing him as I sip
my champagne.
“You got to go downtown,” his buddy insists.
“They’ve got great units in Soho, nine, ten mill. Bargain.”
Brent’s jaw clenches. “Sure, sure.” He
agrees, but I can see the jealousy seething in his eyes. I don’t
understand it: thanks to Charles Ashcroft, who adopted us both from
different homes when we were kids, Brent and I grew up in luxury.
But nothing was ever enough for Brent, he always hung out with kids
who were even richer than us, and kept acting even more entitled.
Now he has nothing left except my borrowed trust fund, but he still
won’t quit trying to act like a big-shot.
My gaze wanders around the room, scanning
the crowd. It’s a hot new dining spot, and it’s packed on a Friday
night with fashionable people and—
My heart stops.
Cam.
He’s being shown to a table with my
half-sister, Keely, and her fiancé, and he looks just as
devastatingly hot as ever. His tall, broad-shouldered physique is
draped in a designer suit, and his dark hair is matched with sexy
stubble.
I shiver, flooded with memories. His hands
gripping my wrists tightly. His body pressing down on mine. His
fingers trailing lower—
A hand slides around my shoulder, but it’s
not Cam’s. Brent grabs me so hard I wince, then raises his other
hand to wave.
“McCullough,” he calls, smug. “Good to see
you, man.”
Cam looks over, and his face turns to
know how much longer it will keep him from crossing the line.
“Behave yourself at dinner, OK?” Brent snaps
at me, as he pulls up by the valet. “This is an important investor,
could be my big break.”
I don’t reply. He’s always talking about his
next big business venture, but most of the time, it’s just an
excuse for expensive dinners and partying with his preppy rich
friends.
He grips my arm tightly and steers me into
the restaurant.
“Welcome back, Mr. Ashcroft!” The hostess
flashes a smile at Brent. “So nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you too, Becca.” Brent leers at
her cleavage. “You put us at the best table, right? None of that
backroom bullshit.”
“Of course.” She leads us to a table in the
middle of the room. Brent takes his time following, and he parades
me through the room like he wants everyone to stare.
And they do. In this dress, with four-inch
heels and my blonde hair tumbling free, I look like I should be in
some trashy nightclub, not a classy restaurant like this.
I feel myself go numb under their stares.
Let them look. They aren’t seeing me, the real me, just this act I
have to keep together.
Remember you’re more than his prop, I
remind myself . Remember you’re more than this.
“Bring a bottle of Brut,” Brent barks at
her, as we take out seats. “And none of that new shit. Vintage, all
the way.”
Becca’s smile dims. “On its way.” She gives
me a look before leaving, as if to say, ‘what the hell are you
doing with him?’
Me too, honey. Me too.
Brent’s buddies stroll over to us, drinks in
hand, and claim seats at our table like they own the place. They’re
college friends, now all big-shot bankers and CEOs propped up by
daddy’s connections and trust funds, and soon they’re trading
gossip—the size of their bonuses, and the new expensive toys
they’ve been buying.
“Rooftop pool, state of the art
electronics…” One of the guys is bragging about his new penthouse
apartment. “It was a fucking bidding war, I went a mil over asking
to lock it down.”
I try to look interested, but I can feel my
eyes glazing over. These men, they don’t know how to talk to a
woman, how to respect her, make her feel valued. I’m just a
decoration to them.
“Sweet,” Brent says. “I’m looking too,
right, Iz? Your place is kind of cramped.” He’s noticed how quiet I
am and is trying to make me participate in the conversation.
My two-bedroom on the Upper East Side is
nowhere near cramped, but I smile and nod, appeasing him as I sip
my champagne.
“You got to go downtown,” his buddy insists.
“They’ve got great units in Soho, nine, ten mill. Bargain.”
Brent’s jaw clenches. “Sure, sure.” He
agrees, but I can see the jealousy seething in his eyes. I don’t
understand it: thanks to Charles Ashcroft, who adopted us both from
different homes when we were kids, Brent and I grew up in luxury.
But nothing was ever enough for Brent, he always hung out with kids
who were even richer than us, and kept acting even more entitled.
Now he has nothing left except my borrowed trust fund, but he still
won’t quit trying to act like a big-shot.
My gaze wanders around the room, scanning
the crowd. It’s a hot new dining spot, and it’s packed on a Friday
night with fashionable people and—
My heart stops.
Cam.
He’s being shown to a table with my
half-sister, Keely, and her fiancé, and he looks just as
devastatingly hot as ever. His tall, broad-shouldered physique is
draped in a designer suit, and his dark hair is matched with sexy
stubble.
I shiver, flooded with memories. His hands
gripping my wrists tightly. His body pressing down on mine. His
fingers trailing lower—
A hand slides around my shoulder, but it’s
not Cam’s. Brent grabs me so hard I wince, then raises his other
hand to wave.
“McCullough,” he calls, smug. “Good to see
you, man.”
Cam looks over, and his face turns to
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