Filthy Rich Fae

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning, a jackhammer woke me.

In my brain.

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my head. It would have been a good idea to draw the curtains last night. Then again, last night, as far as I recalled, consisted only of bad ideas. Super bad ideas. Monumentally bad ideas.

Through the cloud of duck feathers protecting my throbbing head, I heard a faint knock on the door.

Lach.

No. Lachlan. Boundaries!

My stomach, already mostly liquid thanks to last night’s said bad decisions, lurched as I recalled what had passed between us. At what I’d said. Apparently, ambrosia didn’t erase the memories of the previous evening. In fact, it seemed to sharpen them.

I groaned. Now seemed like a pretty good time to pretend I couldn’t hear him knocking…or possibly fake my own death. The knock became more insistent, and I decided that faking my death would be easier.

Before I could construct what I was certain needed to be an elaborate plan, the door opened. Apparently, I had forgotten not only to draw the curtains but to lock my door. Not that a lock meant much, considering everyone here could nip into my room at their pleasure, but it might have bought me enough time to come up with a faked-death plot. As it was, the best I had was to lie very still and hope no one checked to see if I was still breathing.

But a cheery voice called out to me, “Rise and shine, princess.”

I screamed into the mattress, which thankfully muffled it. Lachlan’s little nickname was spreading faster than a contagious disease, and now even Ciara was using it. I hadn’t seen Ciara after Bain’s painful speech, but judging from the fact that she did not sound like death warmed up in a microwave, she had not been guzzling ambrosia like water.

The mattress sank beside me, and despite my harrowing condition, I rolled over and peeked out from under my pillow. Ciara grinned back at me, hair done, face made up, looking the picture of fae delicacy, but her eyes were red-rimmed. “Still up for shopping?”

A week had taught me a lot about Ciara, and “shopping” in her language translated to “retail therapy.” I pressed a finger to my pounding head to see if I could make it stop long enough to fulfill her request for moral support.

“I was thinking we could hit Canal Place.” She started on which designers had released their winter lines.

I wanted to say yes, but the thought of being out in New Orleans made last night’s bad decisions slosh in my stomach. There would be lights and noise and other dangerous stimuli that would remind me at every turn that I had gotten colossally, epically wasted last night.

I whimpered. “I can’t. I’m dying.”

Ciara’s soft hand patted my arm soothingly. “Lach said you had too much to drink. He should have warned you.”

“He did,” I moaned. “I didn’t listen.”

“The first time I was allowed to go to a Midnight Feast, I was so nervous that I kept drinking ambrosia, and then I puked in bed with three sentries from the Astral Court.”

I poked my head out from under the pillow. “Three?”

A happy smile slid across her face, and she repeated dreamily, “Three.” Then she cringed. “Don’t tell Bain that story.”

“My lips are sealed,” I promised and tried to push up in bed, which proved to be the cherry on top of the mistake sundae I had been making since midnight. “I don’t think I can go shopping. Unless we’re shopping for caskets.”

Ciara bolted up and reached for something on the nightstand so quickly that my head spun. “I almost forgot.” She passed me a small cup of red liquid. “This will help.”

I stared at the contents suspiciously. “I’m not sure that hair of the dog is the direction I want to take right now.”

Nope. I needed Prohibition era–level sobriety. I rarely drank, and this was one of the many reasons why. I suspected that Lachlan had figured out the other reason and greenlit letting loose. He’d said he would take care of me, but his concern had ended the moment my ass hit the floor.

I took a cautious sip, deciding that even if it was poison, I’d probably rather drink it than continue to endure this headache, and swallowed the rest. The room contracted around me like it was giving me a warm hug, and then the pounding ceased in my brain.

“Better?” Ciara chirped.

I stared at the cup, then sniffed it. “Where has this been all my life?”

I felt fine. Better than fine, really.

“It always works,” Ciara said. “It’s an old witch’s brew they make in London. Unfortunately, the Infernal Court refuses to share the secret. They brought some along with the ambrosia. If I ever tracked down whatever grimoire they stole this from, I would be very rich.”

I opted not to point out that she was already very rich. Mostly because I couldn’t blame her aspirations. This stuff was magic. I couldn’t decide if I should send the Infernal Court a thank-you card for this or a fuck-you card for the ambrosia.

“Now that you’re all better, can we get going?”

“I don’t think Chanel is going to sell out.” I threw off my covers and swung my feet over the bed, relieved that I didn’t feel the slightest dizziness or slosh in my stomach. “Let me get dressed.”

“Hurry up.” Ciara smacked the mattress. “Lach made me wait hours before waking you up. It’s already noon.”

He had made her wait? It wasn’t much of a gesture, but it softened me a little. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I can always glamour you,” she called after me.

“You can’t use the toilet for me.” I paused to pull a few things out of a drawer that was full of my own clothes instead of ball gowns. “What does the Infernal Court have planned next? A ritual sacrifice of virgins accompanied by a string quartet?”

Ciara gripped the foot board. “Today, they issue the first banns. I can’t decide if I want someone to object to my engagement or not. I know I agreed to this, but…”

Shit. We were going to need shopping and beignets and probably a box of tissues. “I’ll be right out.”

Swinging the bathroom door shut behind me, I turned to drop my bag on the counter before using the facilities and found a small cup sitting by the sink. My heart stumbled as I picked it up. I already recognized the red liquid in the glass as Ciara’s miracle cure.

Drink this.

The words were written in crisp, bold strokes, and although I’d never seen an example of it, I knew it was Lachlan’s handwriting. As was his typical fashion, there were no pleasantries. No “please.” No concern. And yet, he’d known how I would be feeling when I woke up. He had not just dropped me on the floor last night and forgotten about me. He had cared, even if only a very little.

I told myself it was nothing, but I drank the second glass for good measure. It settled warm and comforting in my belly, and I couldn’t help but wonder why nothing felt like something.

…

Shopping with Ciara Gage should have been listed as an Olympic sport. She approached it with a competitiveness usually only exhibited by professional athletes.

Within two hours of our arrival at Canal Place, she had purchased the entire season’s line from Alexander McQueen, a dizzying collection of dangerously high shoes, and not one but two calfskin bags from Chanel. By the time we reached the lingerie that she needed, my feet hurt and I was mildly afraid of her. I had never seen such focus dedicated to anything, and I had done a surgical rotation in college.

“You have to buy something.” Ciara held up a scrap of lace with an improbably ridiculous price attached to it and smiled. “This would look fabulous on you.”

“I can wear it to read in bed,” I said dryly.

“No one caught your eye last night?” she pressed, her gaze darting over to me as she passed the scrap of lace to the salesperson Saks had assigned upon our arrival.

Had Lachlan mentioned something? Mercifully, he had not been in his quarters by the time I’d finished getting ready, which meant I had a few more hours to mentally prepare myself for the humiliation of facing him. If he was a gentleman, he would pretend like nothing had happened.

I wasn’t holding my breath.

“I prefer that my boyfriends come from books,” I said breezily, holding up something that claimed to be underwear. I had my doubts.

Ciara snatched it from me and threw it in her ever-growing pile.

“I really don’t need that,” I argued with her.

She snorted and rolled her eyes, tossing her glossy black hair over her shoulder. “Not if the only men you sleep with are fictional. But if you come back empty-handed, Lach will kill me.”

“Lach?” I choked on his name. He better not know what we were shopping for.

“Did I forget to tell you? He said to buy whatever you want.”

I grabbed the lacy nothing from her pile and tossed it back on the table. “I don’t want that.” Especially not if he was footing the bill. “And I really don’t want to be in any more debt to him.”

“You’re not indebted to him.”

“It feels like I am.” I crossed my arms and leaned against a display of stockings. “And I don’t like being indebted to anyone.”

“Because you were an orphan,” she said frankly.

I shrugged. So she had sorted out my personal trauma? A college dropout with one semester of Intro to Psychology could have done that. I wished it could have been an easier lesson for me to learn. As a child, it had taken me far too long to realize that most adults, even the ones who claimed to care, weaponized everything from food to shelter to attention. It was a life lesson that had been burned into me like a scar: always be helpful but never need anything or anyone. And never, ever accept a gift. There were always strings attached. My bargain with Lachlan had only reinforced that belief. But the worst lesson…

“Did Lachlan say anything else about last night?” I asked, suddenly very invested in learning about the sizing of Wolford hosiery.

“Only that he caught you in a dark corner with Oberon.”

I dropped the package I was holding. “Nothing happened.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she reassured me. “Oberon is yummy. If he wasn’t such a prude, I might have gone for him.”

Oberon had been nearly as uncomfortable as I was, but I wasn’t certain if that made him a prude. He had been kind. Funny. Very different than my first impression of him. But even if I was interested, which I wasn’t, it wasn’t like a relationship was possible. Not when Lachlan owned my nights. Not when he’d made it quite clear that regardless of his claims about wanting me to let loose, he wasn’t going to make that easy. Not with the way his eyes followed me, checked me, claimed me.

After a moment, I looked up to realize Ciara was watching me, sadness glinting in her eyes. I forced a smile, and she responded in kind as she scooped the entire contents of the medium thong drawer from Agent Provocateur up and deposited them into her pile of purchases.

“Those better not be for me.”

“It’s a gift,” she said softly. “From one friend to another. I’m buying. No expectations.”

I swallowed and finally managed to nod.

“Good.” She beamed at me and winked. “Because you’re going to need them. Fae love to rip off a pair of panties.”

I did not demand further clarification from her, but that didn’t stop me from thinking about it while we finished our shopping. It distracted me almost enough that I didn’t hear the absolutely insane price tag attached to our little shopping trip. Almost. But Ciara didn’t bat an eye as she passed the salesperson a thin black credit card and signed away more money than I would make in my entire lifetime. But try as I might, and I was really trying, I couldn’t stop picturing a pair of strong fae hands gripping flimsy elastic lace and snapping it with ease, tattoos swirling over his knuckles as he did it.

I nodded as Ciara debated if we should get étouffée at Galatoire’s or take the car to Gautreau’s for the privacy. But I was so preoccupied with my fantasy that I walked into a wall.

The wall growled.

I looked up, my hands still planted on the wall, which was not a wall but a broad, hard chest that continued into a breathtaking face and a set of green eyes that threatened to undo me. I jumped away from Lachlan before he could growl again, before I could feel it vibrating under my skin, before it got into my blood and traveled to the deepest parts of me. His faded blue jeans were worn into a work of art that showcased his muscular thighs. I couldn’t imagine what they did for his ass. I almost asked him to turn around to sate my curiosity. The rolled-up sleeves of his thin, white Henley revealed his inked forearms, the shirt clinging to every dip and ridge of his impressive upper body. But it was his face, so brutally beautiful, that stole my breath along with every thought in my head.

“What are you doing here?” Ciara demanded as sales personnel carried bags to a waiting limousine. The last twenty-four hours had been full of firsts. My first orgy. My first limousine ride. My first drunken confession that I wanted to lick every square inch of his body.

“You’ve been shopping for hours,” he grumbled. “You spent last week shopping. How much shopping can you do?”

Ciara tossed her hair again, the effect not unlike flipping him off. “What do you care? Didn’t you have a million boring meetings today?” She turned to me and rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t know how to have fun.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.” He looked me up and down and scowled. I guess I was still lacking in his eyes. Had I really suspected any differently, even if he flirted with me a little? Had I imagined the kiss on the back of my neck, the nose trailing along my jaw, the way his hands claimed my hips and wouldn’t let go? “I thought Cate might like to experience more than your rampant consumerism for a few hours.”

Ciara flicked her polished nails. “I’ve spent years honing my rampant consumerism, thank you very much.”

He ignored his sister and returned his attention to me. “Where are your bags?”

I shouldered my very non-designer purse a little higher. “I didn’t buy anything.”

“Didn’t Ciara tell you that I’d already arranged for your purchases?”

I had read similar scenarios in books, but the reality was much hotter in person. It took effort to not let that show, because the truth was I was just another item he’d bought. “I don’t need anything.”

“Actually, we did get a few things.” Ciara inserted herself into the conversation with a mischievous grin. “Why don’t you show him, Cate?”

I was beginning to question if she was really my friend as I shot her an imploring look.

Lachlan, by some miracle, was not picking up on what she was implying. He glanced to the continuing parade of purchases being Tetrised into the trunk. “Which bag is it?”

“No need,” I said quickly.

“Are you trying to steal her from me?” Ciara asked.

“I’m trying to rescue her.”

“We were going to go eat,” I said. Spending the day pretending like I hadn’t basically dry humped him on the dance floor was not what I had in mind.

But Ciara reached over and squeezed my arm. “But Lach is here to save you. Maybe you can model those new—”

“No,” I cut her off, my face flaming.

I did not miss the subtle wiggle of her eyebrows behind his back. Apparently, his sister was rooting for me to throw all caution to the wind, hook up with a tattooed bad boy, and hope that some iota of my dignity and heart remained intact—aka Team Lach.

Before I could think of another excuse to get out of going with him, Ciara was sliding into the back of the limousine and waving goodbye. She paused with her hand on the door and called out, “We’re going to Alouette tonight. Are you two in?”

He frowned. Answer enough.

“I’ll come,” I said. Even though I had no idea what I just signed up for.

“Great!” she said brightly. And then the limo was off.

He sighed. “Maybe drink a little more water tonight.”

At least we were going to tiptoe around what happened. “I think I’m going to skip drinking altogether.”

“Good idea.” He took my hand and started toward the curb. “Let’s go.”

Not drinking was a good idea. I had plenty of good ones. The trouble was that every time he touched me, I could only think of bad ideas.