Massive trees provide a canopy of shade over the perfectly manicured lawn. The patio furniture is abundant and placed around the patio area, white with turquoise cushions, much like at the country club. Servers mill about with food and drink. An acoustic guitar player is in the corner providing background music.

  Just a “quaint, friendly backyard barbecue,” read the invitation.

  That’s how far removed the Rothschilds are from reality.

  Caterers? Servers? A musician?

  This is a place where they’re used to hiring the help. Is this what my mom saw every day—the lavishness, the waste, the excessiveness—as she cleaned their houses before coming home to us every night? Is this disparity what drove her to not give up so we could have the same opportunities?

  I saw it in my job at the Westmore Country Club back then—but what was on display there more than anything was a sense of entitlement. She saw this—an embarrassment of wasted food—while we could barely feed ourselves, often eating the same thing over and over because the ten for $10 deals on canned goods were our staple at the end of most months when the money ran out. People complaining about the hired help not doing this or that when she was the hired help. The inability to pick up after yourself because you’re so used to someone else doing it for you.

  My gaze drifts toward the pool area, and that’s when I find Rowan again. She’s standing among a group of people. Her smile is wide, the glass of wine in her hand almost empty.

  She’s a part of this world. I have a habit of forgetting that. She might not say the things they say or act the way they do, but she’s still a part of the culture and the privilege.

  That she fits in here is without question.

  I put the image I have of Rowan at the diner, concerned about the waitress, side by side with the one I see right now. Diamonds glinting, hand reaching out for a fresh glass of wine from a server with barely a nod, and more than comfortable with how over-the-top this party is.

  Rowan leans her head on her mom’s shoulder as she laughs at something being said. It’s normal to be at odds with someone in your family—their ideals, their whatever—and still want to be around them. And still love them.

  I get that. Everyone gets that.

  And yet it’s hard to reconcile the things Rowan says about her family, the way she feels, with seeing her like this. Hard to believe she truly means those things.

  When the world falls down around them, when I make it tumble, what will happen to her?

  It doesn’t matter, does it, Knight? She’s just a good lay for the time being. A way to twist the knife a little deeper.

  Nothing fucking matters but the end game.

  And yet still I stare. Still I wonder. Still I justify.

  “They make a handsome couple, don’t they?”

  I glance over to the woman who has just walked up and taken Rupert’s place beside me. She’s tall with blond hair and an imposing presence. Pearls around her neck, a French manicure on her nails, and a purse to her lips that says she uses it when she’s passing judgment on someone.

  “I’m sorry. Who are you talking ab—” But I see exactly who she’s talking about when I follow her gaze back to where I had been looking moments before. Back to Rowan … and Chad, who is now standing beside her with puppy eyes and a pathetic smile.

  He’s regaling the group with some animated story and every time he wants to add emphasis, his hand goes somewhere on Rowan. Her shoulder. The small of her back. Her arm.

  It creates a visceral reaction from me that no matter how hard I try to ignore, it doesn’t go away.

  Yeah. A good-looking couple if you’re into pretentious, sackless pricks.

  “See, they take your breath away too,” she says and holds her hand out. “Florence Williams. So nice to formally meet, although I’ve already heard so much about you from my son.”

  Ah yes. Of course. Chad’s mother.

  I temper the sarcasm of the response I’d really like to give. “Nice to meet you.”

  She offers me a warm, searching smile before turning back to watch the topic of conversation. “Their wedding is going to be the talk of the town, you know. She’ll be such a stunning bride in tulle and taffeta. And he’s always dashing in a tux.”

  Tulle and taffeta? That’s the last thing I’d picture Rowan in. Not that I think of her in a wedding dress by any means.

  “I wasn’t aware they were engaged.” The last word is like broken glass on my tongue. “Apparently I need to pay closer attention to my soon-to-be employees.”

  She bats a hand at me and laughs the fakest fucking laugh I’ve ever heard. “No need to pay any closer attention to anything. Some things were just meant to be, you know. She and Chad have played cat and mouse since high school. They were even a thing way back when. First kiss, first … all that.”

  I grit my teeth and exhale, slow and measured. There’s no fucking way she lost her virginity to him.

  “I’m sure she’d be thrilled that you’re telling everyone her personal business.” I don’t hold back on the sarcasm this time.

  “Oh honey, I’m going to be her mother-in-law. I get to say whatever I want. All of us go so far back we’re probably connected on some family tree somewhere.” She laughs like a hyena and bats my arm again. “Not really, but it feels like it.”

  “Charming.” This woman is a nightmare. An absolute fucking nightmare.

  “It is, isn’t it? The wedding’s planned.” She sucks heavily on her straw. “I mean, the flowers, the venue, the caterer, the colors—every single last detail. All we need is for Rowan to finish sowing her wild oats and come to her senses.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is, yes. Chad is crushed every time she rejects him—but we understand it’s simply because she’s scared. Cold feet are a real thing. But the chief—”

  “The chief?” The fucker.

  “Yes, my husband. The chief of police of Westmore proper. Has been for over thirty years.” She wobbles her head on her shoulders like it’s something I should already know.

  Don’t worry, Flo. I do know.

  “Thirty years? No shit.”

  “Yes, indeedy. Oh look,” she all but squeals as Chad does something I clearly don’t catch by the time I look back over at them. Maybe that’s a good thing. “See? They are perfect together.”

  “Mmm.” Fucking perfect.

  “I made a special request to the department to have a police salute caravan parade thingy for them on the ride from the church to the reception. And you know it’ll get approved.” She winks.

  “Last I checked, Chad wasn’t on the police force.”

  “Honey, haven’t you figured it out yet? Westmore might as well be called Williamsmore or Rothschildmore. We’re as much a part of this town as the soil itself. Born and bred. Tried and true.” She smiles but all I see is her smugness, and the corruption she wears like a second skin. “With the Williamses being the law side and the Rothschilds being the captains of industry, this town would do anything for our families.”

  I know. Believe me, I fucking know.

  “Chief’s dad was a chief and his grandaddy was too. My daddy and his daddy before him have been the circuit solicitor. That’s why everyone is silently rooting for these two to get married sooner rather than later. That way, Rowan can quit that silly company and get to work on what she was born to do—give me grandchildren.” She laughs and her chest bounces with the motion. “We need a chief or another solicitor in training to be born, and fast.”

  Jesus fucking Christ, this place is backward.

  I’m not exactly sure how Chad’s dad being the chief has anything to do with why people are silently rooting for them but I’ve heard enough.

  “And what does Rowan think about that?” I ask.

  She squeals again, but this time I catch what she sees. Chad lifting an appetizer to Rowan’s mouth for her to take a bite. My hands clench.

  “There you are,” Mallory says as she slides a hand around my waist and presses a kiss to my cheek.

  I smile politely. “Haven’t moved,” I say, fighting the urge to look back at where Rowan and Chad are.

  “We could get out of here,” she murmurs, her eyes lighting up as they meet mine. “There are plenty of other things we could be doing?”

  My smile is as automatic as any man’s would be when a gorgeous woman suggests something like that, but fuck if I have any desire to leave a barbecue I was dreading coming to in the first place.

  And no doubt it has to do with the woman Florence is still stalking with her eyes.

  “And who is this?” Florence asks when she realizes someone is beside me.

  “Florence Williams, this is Mallory Sanders,” I offer but don’t give any more of a description of who she is to me, because fuck if I know.

  This is me heeding Audrey’s warning.

  This is me trying to mitigate distractions.

  This is me standing beside Mallory while only wanting to talk to Rowan.

  The Rowan who literally locked eyes with me when I walked in, and then froze when she saw the woman on my arm. I’ve had enough scotch to dull how the hurt glancing through her eyes made me feel.

  But not nearly enough to forget it.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Mallory says, her hand extended and her sultry smile as much a part of her as the air she breathes.

  “I wasn’t aware you had a girlfriend,” Florence says.

  “Didn’t think there was a need for a memo,” I state, not answering her question. But as my hand rests on Mallory’s lower back, my eyes flick back over to Rowan.

  “It just melts my heart to see them like this,” Florence says, following my gaze as she puts a hand to her chest and coos. Fucking coos. “To watch the yarns of like start to weave themselves into a blanket of love.”

  “Stop badgering the man, Florence,” Emmaline says as she walks up to us.

  Saved by yet another overbearing mother who raised another entitled, pretentious prick.

  “Mrs. Rothschild, you have a lovely home,” I say.

  “Please, Holden. I told you both to call me Emmaline. And I do hope you are enjoying yourselves. What’s ours is yours.”

  You have no fucking idea how true that is, Emmaline.

  Your daughter. Your company. Your fucking future.

  “Thank you. I’ll make sure to handle with care.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Rowan

  I’ve about had my fill.

  Of the fakeness.

  Of the boring conversations.

  Of watching Holden from across the yard with his hand on that woman’s back. Of the churning in my stomach when I see them and the lump the size of Texas in my throat.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve repeated in my head it doesn’t matter … because it does.

  Here I thought the biggest problem about today was going to be keeping my distance from Holden to prevent everybody from seeing right through me. To keep our friends and the board members who are milling around from knowing that we’re sleeping together.

  But it wasn’t by a long goddamn mile.

  Instead, it was a game of charades. Of pretending like I don’t care where Holden is or what he’s doing. Of fighting back the tears that would threaten at random times when I’d catch sight of them interacting. Of throwing myself into any and all interactions with Chad as my only means of a “fuck you” to Holden.

  I brace my hands on the bathroom counter and emit a fortifying sigh. The fake smile I’ve had plastered on my face all freaking day looks back at me. Mocks me. Tells me I’m crazy for thinking what this was with Holden was … something to be upset over.

  “You said it was just sex,” I mutter to myself.

  When I showed up today, I had thoughts that maybe I’d be rewarded for this punishment later. That I’d find Holden sitting on my porch when I got home, and we could … entertain ourselves after a long day full of pretention and monotony.

  A knock on the bathroom door startles me.

  “Just a minute,” I call out, more than irritated. This is a bathroom in the back of the house. Guests are supposed to use the front ones. There’s a reason I came back to this one.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Jesus. Impatient, much?

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “What?” I snap as I yank the door open only to yelp as Holden pushes me back inside the same moment his lips claim mine.

  “Get off me—” I attempt to get out, but my words are lost as our tongues touch and bodies meet.

  Pent-up desperation overrides sense.

  “Holden—”

  Blatant desire erases all semblance of rationality and obliterates all thoughts of that carbon copy of me.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  There’s just me.

  “Who is she?”

  Just him.

  “No one.”

  Just this bathroom.

  “Liar,” I say when I tear my mouth from his.

  Just a finite amount of time and a hunger that never seems to get sated.

  “I’m in here with you, aren’t I?”

  Just our hands fumbling—mine with my panties beneath my dress and him with his pants until his cock is free.

  Our eyes hold in a suspended state. It’s a split second—anger meets jealousy, hurt joins confusion, lust fuels need—and then we crash into each other again.

  Bodies against one another’s.

  Mouths taking.

  Fingers roaming.

  Need escalating.

  Moments flash. His hands on my ass, lifting me onto the shallow counter. My hands in his hair. His taste on my tongue. His fingers parting me and finding me wet. His appreciative moan.

  He enters me without warning. There’s a sting of pain chased by a rush of pleasure as he seats himself with a feral grunt.

  “Fucking take it, Sunshine. Take the whole goddamn thing.” Another low growl as my fingernails score his neck, prompting him to lift me up so that I have no choice but to take every deliciously hard inch of him.

  “I hate you,” I groan out.

  “No, you don’t.” A chuckled moan.

  “You’re a prick.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he lets out as he thrusts into me. “Just like that,” he praises, my legs falling farther open. “Just. Like. That.”

  His restraint is snapped, his control lost as he presses my back against the wall—pinning me there with his body against mine as leverage—and begins to move.

  It’s all rushed and euphoric. We’re harsh pants and unrefined movements. Our only thought is chasing the high. Our only need is to make sure we reach it.

  “Holden,” I moan his name out and then catch myself when reality seeps momentarily in to remind me where we are.

  “No. Don’t stop,” he murmurs roughly against my ear. Each word said between a thrust up. “Ride it. Just like that. God, you ride my cock like a goddamn pro, baby.”

  His every action is my reaction.

  His every exhale, my next inhale.

  It’s not soft.

  It’s not tender.

  It never has been between us. But there’s something about this time. Maybe it’s the moment, the seeing and not touching, the hiding from the outside world and reveling in our sexy secret, the knowing if we get caught there’s hell to pay … whatever it is, it’s violent desire mixed with desperate need.

  It’s about being wrong but feeling so goddamn right.

  It’s about his date being out there while he’s here inside of me.

  It’s about his murmured praises and his gruff commands.

  It’s about the orgasm that hits like a lightning strike—I knew it was coming but when it strikes, I succumb to its fire. My skin. My nerves. My breath. My pulse.

  I sink my teeth into his shoulder to muffle my moan.

  But he doesn’t stop. Can’t. My back slams against the wall with each deep stroke, his arm holding me still while he drives into me.

  Again.

  And again.

  Until it’s my name on his lips as his whole body wracks with tension as his own climax slams into him.

  We’re still against the wall, our hearts beating as frantically as our breaths are labored. His forehead on my shoulder as one hand still holds me against his and the other is on my ass.

  “Let me go,” I say as my sense seeps in through the haze. As I realize he brought a date and I fucked him anyway.

  “No,” he grunts and tightens his grip on me.

  “Who is she?” I ask, his cock softening slowly.

  “This right here.” He ignores my questions and licks a line up the side of my throat. “It’s all I’ve thought about all goddamn afternoon. Tasting your skin. Feeling your pussy. Owning this body. Having you stand at the party after this, when everyone is looking at you, and still feel me in you.”

  “Holden,” I murmur in simple, satisfied appreciation. It’s without thought. An effortless reaction when I should be rioting against him.

  At the sound of his name, Holden slowly lowers my feet to the ground, but instead of letting me go, he slides his hands up until they are framing my face.

  And when he leans in to kiss me this time, it reminds me of the night at the beach. It’s tender. It’s quiet but so damn powerful. It’s the exact opposite of what we just did.

  He leans back, his eyes on mine, and his thumb now brushing over my bottom lip. There’s something in the look he’s giving me that has chills chasing over my already overstimulated skin. His guard slips in that split second, but it’s not long enough for me to place the unnamed emotion before it’s pushed back down.

  He opens his mouth to say something, hesitates, and then leans in for one more brush of his lips, almost as if to make up for the pause. And then he murmurs, “I fucking hate being ignored, Sunshine.”

  If that’s what this is about, then I’m going to ignore him constantly. Holy hell, was that … intense, hot, erotic, something I want to do all over again.