I’d smile like that at Alex too if I was alone with him shirtless, the lucky B.

  He grabs hold of her waist, and she squeals again. Louder this time. They kiss for a long time before he tosses her over his shoulder as if she weighs nothing, which she probably does since she’s so skinny. Her long red hair covers her face and she pummels his back with her fists, but it’s a lighthearted protest. I can tell she’s loving it.

  They turn and I duck down, just the very top of my head peering through the window, right at eye level so I can still watch. They don’t even notice me, they’re too into each other. I hold my breath as they complete the turn, and now he’s facing me. My gaze wanders up the half of stomach and chest that’s on display (the other half is covered by Tiffany draped across him) and it’s a nice view. He has a six-pack. Muscles on muscles. And a very nice face—

  Wait a minute.

  I squint. Blink slowly three times. Shake my head a little.

  That’s not Alexander Wilder.

  That’s.

  That’s…

  Another man?

  I duck completely down, so fast I fall on my ass on the cold concrete. My shaky fingers are covering my mouth and I sit there for a moment, horrified. Trying to absorb what I just saw.

  No. It couldn’t be a different guy. No freaking way.

  Without thought I get back on my feet but remain in an uncomfortable crouch, peering over the edge of the window again to try to see them.

  But they’re gone.

  What the shit?

  What the shit!

  Tiffany is cheating on her future husband.

  Five

  I drive like a bat out of hell all the way back to my apartment, not even caring if Tiffany and the guy she’s with heard me pull out of the driveway. I’m gonna guess they were too wrapped up in each other to notice much, considering they never heard me approach in the first place.

  My mind races the entire drive home, filled with scandalous thoughts I don’t know how to deal with. Like:

  Tiffany is a cheater.

  She’s going to marry Alex in less than two months.

  Yet she’s prancing around half naked with another guy.

  In Alex’s house.

  While demanding I bring the save the date wedding cards over ASAP!

  The absolute nerve of this chick is stunning. I mean, seriously.

  Luckily I find parking not too terribly far from my place and I hightail it down the sidewalk, bumping into tourists who are wandering along Ocean Avenue at a leisurely pace on a beautiful early spring evening. I envy their carefree lives, because my world has just been rocked.

  Rocked.

  I enter the apartment not five minutes later to find Stella barefoot in the kitchen, clad in jean shorts and a cropped white T-shirt, pouring tequila in the blender I found at a thrift store for five bucks.

  “Oh my God, are you making margaritas?” This is my greeting to her as I shut and then lock the front door.

  “It’s Margarita Friday, bitch! I’m bringing it back!” She dumps in more tequila, puts the lid on the jar, and hits a button, the loud whirring of the blender drowning out all other sound.

  We had Margarita Fridays last summer, and they were the best thing ever. After the afternoon I just had, I need a serious drink. Stat.

  I drop my bag on the couch and go to my tiny bedroom, where I strip out of my work clothes and put on a faded black T-shirt and a pair of black sweats I got at Victoria’s Secret like five years ago. The word P I N K is spelled out in silver sequins across my butt. Obnoxious as hell, they’re pants I’d never be caught in public in, but they’re totally comfortable.

  “Remember when we used to get all made up and go out on a Friday night?” Stella says when I make my way back to the kitchen. She’s already poured a drink for me and even added a straw to the glass. I grab it and start slurping it down, my eager drinking making her eyes widen. “Easy there, partner. There’s more where that came from.”

  “I do remember when we used to do that,” I tell her after I swallow the cold, frothy goodness. “We’d hang out at the bars downtown and pray someone would notice us.”

  “They would totally notice us. Right?” She sounds like she’s questioning me.

  “Sometimes.” I shrug. Take another drink. I can already feel the alcohol coursing through my veins, and I know it’s not going to take much for me to get a little tipsy. I’m a total lightweight.

  “We’d also meet up with guys we connected with on dating sites,” Stella reminds me after she’s downed half her drink.

  “Yeah, those always went so well.” I roll my eyes and make my way to our tiny pantry, where I know a brand-new bag of tortilla chips is stashed. I rip the bag open and set it on the counter, then grab the salsa from the fridge.

  “Fiesta!” Stella exclaims as she takes a sip from her drink, her gaze snagging on mine. I must look crazed because she slowly sets her glass down and takes a step forward, resting her hand on my forearm. “Car. Are you all right?”

  I settle my butt on one of our wobbly stools and exhale a shaky breath. “You won’t believe what happened to me.”

  She sits across next to me on the other equally wobbly stool. “Tell me everything.”

  I do, not leaving one detail out. I mention the drive, the gorgeous house, the mystery guy with Tiffany who has nice abs, and that she’s with this guy in her fiancé’s house and whoops, he’s not her fiancé.

  “So she’s cheating on him,” she says when I finish.

  I pour the remaining contents from the blender jar into my nearly empty glass. “Yes.”

  “And you know for a fact the guy she was with wasn’t Alex Wilder.”

  “I saw his face,” I tell her. “It wasn’t him. I’d remember that face.”

  “I would too,” Stella says with a nod. “It was a good face.”

  “The mystery guy has a good face too, don’t get me wrong. He’s very attractive. But he’s not Alex.”

  “And you’re sure about that.”

  “Stella. Come on. Are you not believing me?” I’m a little incredulous. She believes everything I say because hello, I’m not a liar. And neither is she. We’re best friends.

  We trust each other.

  She holds her hands up in the air like I’m going to arrest her. “Don’t get mad. I just want to make sure that the man you saw really wasn’t her fiancé, you know? Because what you’re implying is a major accusation.”

  “Trust me, I know.” I sound miserable because I feel miserable about this entire situation. She’s cheating on Alex Wilder. What did he do to deserve this? He seems like a nice guy. Back in the day, I thought he was a nice guy.

  Nice guys don’t deserve to get cheated on.

  “You’re going to have to tell him, you know,” Stella says, pushing me out of my brain fog.

  “Tell who?”

  “Alex Wilder. He has every right to know what his fiancée is doing.”

  I grab my glass and down the contents. Like I literally drink every last drop of cold, slushy margarita before I slam the glass back onto the counter with a loud clang. “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to, Caroline! He deserves to know. He’s going to marry that cheating bitch in three months!”

  “Less than three months,” I point out.

  She shakes her head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that she’s cheating on him, and you saw it with your own eyes, and you have to tell him.”

  “God, I wish I’d never peeked inside the window,” I moan, staring at my empty glass with longing. “I want more margaritas, please.”

  “Eat some chips first.” She shoves the bag in my direction. “And don’t get drunk over this. It’s not worth it.”

  “It’s so worth it.” I grab some chips and start munching. “You’re not the one who saw her prancing around with some strange dude only wearing panties.”

  “Wait a minute.” Stella frowns. “The guy was wearing panties?”

  I start giggling. “No, no, no. Tiffany was wearing the panties. The guy was wearing black pants. No shirt.”

  “And she wasn’t wearing a shirt either.”

  “Right. I saw her boobs. They were really perky. Not too big, not too small. They’re just right.” I glance down at my chest, which isn’t the perkiest, but only because I’m not blessed with a big chest. “She had really big nipples, though.”

  Stella giggles, then I’m giggling again, and it eventually turns into uncontrollable laughter for at least five minutes. Until finally Stella sobers up first and she’s watching me with concern in her eyes.

  “You must tell him, Caroline. It’s the right thing to do. Plus, you know him. You have history. He was Carter’s friend. He deserves to know.”

  “Does he really?” I drop my arms at my sides. “I don’t really want to be the one to tell him. The conversation will be super awkward.”

  “You know what’s super awkward? Knowing those two are getting married and she’s totally cheating on him. Now that is what I call awkward.” Stella slaps the edge of the counter, making me jump. “You have to be upfront with him. I know it won’t be an easy conversation, but he needs to know the truth.”

  “There is such a thing as minding your own business, you know,” I remind her. “As in, I mind my own business, and pretend I never saw anything.”

  “True, but do you want that guilt hanging above your head for the rest of your days? Knowing what you know, yet you didn’t stop their wedding, and now he’s married to a cheater?”

  Her explanation does make sense, but… “He flirted with me.”

  “So what?” Stella grabs a chip from the bag, piles it with salsa, and shoves it into her mouth.

  “I don’t know, it’s kind of weird that he did that, don’t you think? He flirted with me about my cutting in line. He wanted a Fast Pass. Remember?” He was so freaking attractive in that suit, the smile, his voice. Everything about him screamed sexy hot guy.

  Too bad it didn’t scream sexy hot taken guy. Then I would’ve left him alone.

  “It was harmless flirting.” Stella waves a hand, dismissing my words. “Seriously, that was nothing.”

  “He might be a cheater too.” I don’t even like thinking of Tiffany as a cheater, though I saw it with my own two eyes.

  “A cheater would’ve not just flirted with you, he would’ve tried to get your number and ask you out. He didn’t do any of that. Just made flirtatious conversation with you, asked about you after you were gone, and that was that. End of story,” Stella explains, sounding perfectly logical.

  But I hate the part that he asked about me. That shows interest, doesn’t it? Though he was trying to figure out who I was, since he recognized me.

  So yeah. I guess that doesn’t matter. It was harmless flirting . He has a fiancée.

  A fiancée who is cheating on him…

  “We need more margaritas,” I tell Stella before grabbing the bottle of tequila. “Like now.”

  Six

  Alex

  “Hello. Did you have a good weekend?” I pull Tiffany in for a quick embrace before I press a kiss to her cheek, and she quickly steps away from me, a faint smile curling her bright, pink-glossed lips.

  “It was fine, though I missed you so much.” She settles into the chair across from me and cracks open the menu.

  Her words don’t quite ring true. It’s the addition of so much that sounds false.

  I choose to ignore it.

  “You know I wanted to be here.” Work kept me in New York longer than expected. I’d originally planned on returning home Friday night, but an unexpected all-day meeting was called for Saturday, and by the time we finished, I was exhausted.

  So I flew home first thing Sunday morning and now I’m back in California, tired and running on only a few hours’ sleep, meeting my fiancée for brunch at my family’s hotel near Pebble Beach.

  This was what she wanted. To make an appearance, to ensure everyone sees us together. I can’t blame her. She’s staked her claim, and she wants everyone to know she’s the fiancée of Alex Wilder.

  I sound bitter. Maybe I am. I feel like lately I’ve been working my ass off, I’m never around, and I have no idea what my fiancée is doing with all of her free time. When we first got together, I was in a lusty haze. I wanted her. She wanted me. We fucked like rabbits every time we were together. Now…

  That’s not the case.

  “I know, Alex.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, her gaze too focused on the menu before her. I take the moment to study her, the long, wavy red hair, the flawless skin, the hint of cleavage peeking from the deep V of her dress. It’s a tantalizing view, I can’t deny it.

  Frowning, I try to recall the last time we had sex.

  “How was New York?” she asks, knocking me from my thoughts.

  “Boring.” She doesn’t want to hear about the endless meetings, the discussions on where we’re taking the Wilder Hotel Corporation next.

  Well. There is one tiny bit of information she’ll be interested in hearing.

  “I’m going to Paris,” I tell her.

  She lifts her head, her eyes widening the slightest bit. “When?”

  “In a few weeks. We’re hoping to acquire a property there.”

  “A few weeks? But we still have so much to plan for the wedding…” Her voice drifts, her expression full of concern.

  “You hired a wedding planner, correct?” At her nod, I continue. “Let her plan everything, and she can consult with you when needed.”

  Tiffany sighs, irritation flickering in her golden-brown eyes. We always tend to argue over the wedding plans. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It should be. We’re paying her enough money to put this together.” We’re paying all of them enough money. I can’t fucking believe how much a wedding costs, not that I should be surprised. I see the invoices come across my desk when we host charity galas at the hotel. The prices we’re charged are astronomical. I’d secretly hoped with setting the wedding date so last-minute, she might want to elope, or at the very least have a small wedding, but that didn’t happen.

  Unfortunately.

  Tiffany deftly changes the subject. “When you go to Paris, will you be staying at the property in question?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s closed. Actually, it’s completely rundown. Hasn’t been in use for years, so if we do acquire it, we’d have to completely renovate the building.”

  “That sounds exciting,” she says carefully.

  “It is.” It’s the most excited I’ve felt about a project in a long time. “You should come with me.”

  Her eyes flash with surprise. I’m guessing she wasn’t expecting that. “To Paris?”

  I nod, knowing my offer will please her.

  Lately, it feels as if nothing I do pleases her. From the start of our relationship I’d warned her that my job, my duties to the family business, take up the majority of my time. She’d agreed not to be too demanding, reassured me she’d be perfectly happy with whatever time I could give her, but lately, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough. My mother even warned me about her, after I first brought Tiffany to meet the family.

  “I don’t think she cares about you in the way you want her to,” she’d said, a worried expression on her face, her fingers twisted in that long pearl necklace she loves to wear.

  I’d given my mother a kiss on the cheek. “It’ll be fine,” I’d told her, which only seemed to make her even more worried.

  “I would love to go with you.” Tiffany is beaming. “I’ve never been to Paris before. I hear the shopping there is fabulous.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “The prices are less there for all the designer pieces. Chanel, Vuitton, Dior.” She presses her hands together in front of her mouth, almost as if she were praying. “Maybe we can finally find a ring for me.”

  I wince. I’m a terrible fiancé who hasn’t given her an engagement ring yet, though my excuse is that the engagement only just happened—over a month ago, but still. My mother claims to have plenty of family diamond rings for me to choose from, though we haven’t made the time to view them yet. That was the route I planned to take. Traditional, keep it in the family, a ring passed down from generation to generation.

  But Tiffany has other ideas. She wants something extravagant and modern, sparkly and large.

  Very large. And brand new. No “used” diamonds for her.

  “You know I want to give you a family ring.” I resume reading the menu, hoping she doesn’t argue. This is what we’ve gone round and round about lately. The ring. It’s a touchy subject for both of us.

  “Alex.” I glance up at her surprisingly stern tone to find she’s frowning at me, her pink lips pursed in a glossy pout. I stiffen, preparing myself for what she’s about to say next. “I feel foolish telling everyone we’re engaged, planning our wedding, yet I have no actual proof of the engagement.”

  “You live in my house,” I point out. “How much more proof do you want?”

  “You know what I mean.” She glances around before lowering her voice. “I want a ring on my finger as a sign of your commitment. It’s been over a month since you asked me to marry you. How much longer am I going to have to wait?”

  “I’ll get together with my mother later this week, and I’ll find a ring for you,” I reassure her.

  The annoyance on her face is undeniable. “You know how I feel about taking one of your mother’s rings.”

  “It’s not my mother’s ring. It’s a family ring. An heirloom, one that’s been in our family for generations,” I gently remind her.

  She shakes her head, her gaze growing distant. “I just don’t know why you can’t purchase me my own ring.”

  “I don’t understand why you can’t see a family ring as having more meaning,” I return, irritated. “Enough of this. I don’t want to talk about the ring anymore.”