The Singles (20 page)

“Yeah, I could, but the thing is—” Bending, he scooped up his bag and slung it over his body. He yawned and turned around to look me square in the eye. “—your lies are obvious, and she’s not here for me to harass. See you in a couple weeks, Gemma.”

With my fist pressed to my mouth, I nibbled anxiously on my fingernail, pacing from the couch to the armchair for close to a minute to make sure he didn’t come back. Finally, after checking the peephole only to see one of my neighbors leaving his apartment for work, I went into my bedroom to get dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, I raced out the front door, sliding the stack of stolen paperwork into my purse. I’d read over the legal documents, but the language was so thick I couldn’t understand the importance of what I had trudged through. I’d turned it over to Pen.

*

L
ocking my car door with the key fob, the first thing I noticed was the Jaguar F-type coupe—the same cherry red as my Mini Cooper—parked in front of the garage at Margaret’s place. It boasted temporary decals, and I couldn’t resist giving it a second glance over my shoulder when I walked up the steps as quickly as my plaid pencil skirt would allow.

If there was one thing I was drawn to—aside from men I had no business wanting—it was a sexy car, and that Jaguar was an orgasm on four wheels.

Turning the dials on the lockbox, I reached for the key, but before I was able to unlock the door, it flung open. Finley, looking like she’d just stepped out of the dressing room at Neiman Marcus, stood in the doorway.

“Lizzie, what a—”

“Good to see you again,” I interrupted sharply. When I’d received Margaret’s text, I hadn’t even considered that she might still be here—I was too excited at the prospect of getting back inside the house. As the tall brunette stepped aside to let me in, my chest tightened. “Margaret asked me to stop by and grab some things for her.”

The front door closed, and I faced her. Resting her shoulders to the stained-glass behind her, she looked at me expectantly, her short hair falling perfectly without her trying, just like that damn Bruno Mars song Pen was obsessed with.

Was she waiting on me to say something about her calling me last week?

Or did she think I was too stupid to figure out it was her?

“How’s the apartment search going?” No matter how much Margaret adored this woman, I couldn’t see the stepmonster allowing her to stay very much longer.

“I’m actually on my way out now to do a walkthrough of a townhouse in Brentwood.” Fluffing her sleek mahogany bob, she lifted her hazel eyes to the ceiling in what I guess was supposed to be cute exasperation. “Daddy and Mason went on a camping trip over the weekend.”

“How exciting,” I said dryly, instantly feeling sorry for her brother.

She smoothed her hands over the ruched midsection of her black cap-sleeve jumpsuit and lifted her shoulders until they touched the diamonds winking in her ears. “Oliver suggested the place—said one of his friends lived there—so it must be fantastic.” She fingered her left ear, intentionally drawing my attention to her earring, and I could almost guess what she was going to say before the words even left her mouth. “Obviously, he has good taste.”

“Obviously,” I said, my voice emotionless. “Good luck with the apartment search, Finley.”

Stalking to the laundry room located near the back of the house, I heard Finley’s brown suede platform wedges clacking on the floor right behind me. “I know when I mentioned Ollie’s party to you last week, you seemed surprised. I took the liberty of telling Margaret I have no trouble planning the entire thing. I’d hate to take you away from your work.”

"Perfect.” I turned the corner, letting my childhood memories of this place guide me in the right direction. “I’m sure you’ll do a much better job.” If I stopped moving, there was a good chance she’d get the reaction out of me she was hoping for when she called last week, and I’d lose my job.

I strode into the state-of-the-art laundry room, discovering it was more organized than most people’s closets with the Fisher & Paykel washer and dryer stacked in the center of a massive shelving unit complete with wardrobe racks.  Immediately, I spotted the Alexander McQueen suit Margaret had sent me for.

Snatching the garment bag from the rack, I twisted around to see Finley waiting in the hallway outside the laundry room, fussing with one of the earrings that were, without a doubt, a gift from Oliver.

She was blatantly throwing it in my face, and if I hadn’t disliked her after the phone trick, she had definitely cemented her place on my shit list.

“Is there something the matter?” she asked innocently, staring into my brown eyes, and though I tried, I couldn’t help but narrow them.

“You called me last Friday, pretending to be Margaret,” I said between my teeth, “I’d say we’ve got a pretty big issue.”

Her mouth fell open and for a moment I thought she’d deny it, but then she shook her head indifferently, her cap of mahogany hair swinging around her face. “It was a little joke, I figured you’d pick up on it because of the forced accent.” She picked at a piece of lint on the front of her jumpsuit, raising both eyebrows. “
Apparently
, you didn’t.”

I tossed the garment bag over my arm and walked by her, clenching my fingers as I continued down the hallway. “I don’t joke when it comes to my job. And I sure as hell don’t find a high school-esque prank amusing. I’m—” I took a deep breath in order to separate Lizzie from Gemma. “—I’m twenty-five. Not fifteen.” And she was thirty-one, which made it even more unnerving.

Once again, she was right on my heels, and my nostrils flared. “No, and that was so wrong of me, I—”

Spinning around to face her in the foyer, my neck and shoulders tensed. “When I was a kid, my dad always told me I shouldn’t apologize for things I wasn’t sorry for. That I was better off not saying anything.”

Unintentionally, my attention flicked to the family room, pushing the memory of the time I smeared finger-paints all over the cream-colored walls to the front of my mind. I’d found my antics funny—I was five, after all—and when I’d given my father the obligatory “sorry” he had knelt down beside me and shook his blond head, telling me the same thing I just said to Oliver’s ex.

Studying Finley’s triumphant expression, I smiled and reached for the doorknob. “Since we both know your intention was to get me in trouble, I’m just glad it didn’t pan out the way you hoped.”

“Ollie was my first love,” she blurted out. “I’ve loved him since I was fifteen, and I panicked when I saw him disappear with you to the balcony.”

She’d seen us? Keeping my grip on the knob, I looked back to see her leaning against the bannister, her long legs crossed at the ankles. “Whatever you thought you saw, I hate to disappoint you, but—”

She laughed and waved her hand, rejecting what I was going to say. “If Ollie sets his sights on something new and shiny, nothing stops him from getting his rocks off.”

Finley sounded so much like Margaret, I felt my blood boil. “Once again, I hate to disappoint you, but that’s never happened.”

She nodded like she understood. “Well, I figured as much after I saw your picture at the top of the
Lavish
website on Saturday morning. If there’s one thing Oliver doesn’t do, it’s a taken woman.”

I froze. “What are you talking about?” I demanded breathlessly.

Her hazel eyes widened in surprise. “There was a picture of you out clubbing. Some Oliver-happy photographer snapped it after she recognized you as the woman he was with at the party last week.” Lifting her Vuitton bag a little higher, she sauntered to the door, offering me a flash of straight white teeth as I let go of the handle to let her pass. “Like I told you before, I’m sorry about the little joke. It was hasty of me considering the circumstances. Nice to see you again, Lizzie.”

With all my limbs trembling violently, I waited until the Jaguar coupe was out of sight before I slipped on gloves and returned Margaret’s documents to the upstairs office. Then, the moment I was behind the wheel of my car, I Googled
Lavish
.

I had to scroll through several pictures that were taken of the L.A. social scene over the weekend, but finally I found what Finley was referring to, and my heart seized from within my chest. There I was, with my platinum hair flying around my face and the blond guy’s hand gripping my hip as we danced to “I Want You.” With our bodies pressed close, the photo looked so much more intimate than it had been, and the caption below was especially damning.

Oliver’s Newest Flavor Moves On with Heir to Food Empire.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hissed. I didn’t even bother Googling my partner’s name. It wasn’t important to me because we hadn’t exchanged anything—no phone numbers, no information, and certainly no bodily fluids. Instead, I pulled up my text history.

Oliver hadn’t texted me since yesterday morning, but I’d attributed that to his busy work schedule. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I had a feeling Finley would have messaged him right away, and the thought turned my stomach.

Even though I knew it was stupid—even though I knew I should let him think whatever so I could stop worrying over him—I couldn’t. My breathing harsh, I composed an innocent text.

How many episodes of Vikings are you up to now? Hope you managed to get some rest yesterday.

I felt like I waited eons for him to respond—even though I knew he likely wouldn’t—before I gave up and started my car, squeaking into work with only four minutes to spare.

*

I
could count on one hand the number of times I’d stressed over a man getting in touch with me. The first had been the varsity lacrosse player I’d fallen all over myself for as soon as Mom and I had moved to Vegas. Although we’d eventually dated, we’d only lasted a very chaste eight months—a sad relationship record for me.

The most recent was now, with Oliver. He still hadn’t texted me back by the time I turned the key to open my apartment. I’d stayed late at work tonight after Margaret tasked me with transcribing several hours of board meetings, and since it was close to eleven in New York, I was certain he wasn’t going to reply tonight.

But maybe it was for the best.

What did I expect from the man? As soon as I accomplished what I came to California to do, it wasn’t like I could be with him.

And yet, my chest ached.

“I’m home.” Locking the door, I rested my forehead on the wood. Damn, I was a mess. “Are you home? We really need to talk.” If I couldn’t get an answer from Oliver, I could at least confront my best friend about what was going on with her.

“In the kitchen, Lizzie,” she shouted.

“Who—” I started, but then my head snapped up. She absolutely refused to call me Lizzie when we were alone in the apartment, reserving the name for when we were out in public where someone might hear us, so for her to do so now told me two things: she wasn’t alone and she was with someone whom she absolutely had to hide my identity from.

Tiptoeing through the foyer and the dining room, I turned into the kitchen to find Pen sitting on the counter with a beer in her hand. Across from her, leaning against the wall by the fridge, stood Oliver.

“You didn’t tell me you had a date,” she said, the corners of her mouth quivering as she tried to fight a smile.

Stunned, I tossed my purse in the dining room chair closest to me and walked inside the narrow space, looking back and forth between them. “I didn’t realize it either.” Focusing solely on the disheveled and distant man with more than a day’s worth of facial hair, I struggled to maintain my composure. “Oliver.”

“Lizzie,” he replied, but I couldn’t deny the chill in his voice.

“I’ve—” Pen scratched her fingers into her dark hair and made a face. “—I’m going to go grab some dinner.” She hopped off the counter, her smile so wide I thought her face might crack. “I’ll see you later, Liz.”

Oliver’s blue eyes continued to paralyze me, even as he said goodbye to my best friend. “It was good to meet you, Grace,” he said, using her middle name, and I grabbed her arm as she moved past me.

“We need to talk,” I said, and she nodded quickly.

“Oh yeah, but tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.” Then, before I could say anything else, she grabbed her computer bag from the dining room and practically ran out the front door.

Leaving me alone with Oliver.

Oliver who, in classic straight leg jeans, a gray tee, and Red Wing boots, looked the sexiest—the most irresistible—I’d ever seen him.

Oliver, whose tattoo—the one that had peeked out from beneath his rolled-up cuffs—was finally visible. It was a quote I recognized from Frank Herbert’s
Dune
novels: Fear Is The Mind-Killer.

Oliver who was pushing away from the wall and walking toward me.

Licking my lips, I peered down at the tile floor. “I thought you’d be gone until Friday.”

He stopped a couple inches in front of me, the spicy scent of his cologne an invitation that made me angle my body closer to his.  “I wrapped everything up quickly.”

“I guess you’re—”

His thumb covered my mouth, his touch a complicated medley of frustration and desire that took my breath away. “Are you fucking someone else, Lizzie?”

“No.”

His other hand cupped my face, his fingers threading in the soft strands along my hairline. He tilted my attention to his blue eyes. “Do you want to fuck someone else?”

“No,” I answered, and this time my voice was firm.

He dropped his hands to my ass, and I barely had time to react before I was in his arms, gasping as he pinned my back to the fridge. He urged my legs apart to wrap around his waist, and I could hear my plaid Rag & Bone pencil skirt tearing at the split, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t care that it was wrong of me to want Oliver.

Or that his mother—my stepmother—had forbidden me from being around him.

I. Didn’t. Give. One. Single. Fuck.

His mouth skimmed mine, his tongue branding a hot path along the outline of my lips. Tightening my arms around his broad shoulders, I moved my hips against him, watching as his blue eyes darkened. “If I asked you if you still wanted me?” Crashing his lips to mine, he kissed me until my head spun. Until the electricity thundered through my body and tightened everything—my chest, my nipples, my sex.  At my silence, he tested the weight of my breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his thumb and forefinger until a hoarse noise pushed from the back of my throat. “Do you want me, Lizzie?”