8. Plus One for The Money
EVA
The sun dips low, splashing the horizon with a cocktail of oranges and pinks. After getting West’s parents into their seats at the back of the patio, Tyson decided to interview them. I mean, they have a great story, and I hope the TV exposure helps their store. When that finished, I returned to Foster, and we’ve fallen into easy conversation—inheritance this, expectation that.
“Your father’s very proud.” Foster dabs his mouth with a napkin after an adventurous encounter with a lobster cake.
“Um, I think the jury’s still out on that one.” I take a sip of water, trying to suppress the pang of guilt.
“No way. He speaks so highly of you.” Foster flags down a server with the kind of effortless authority that comes from a lifetime of privilege, and two flutes of champagne appear. He hands me one with a wink that suggests he’s aware of the tiny power plays of our upbringing.
“Cheers to surviving high expectations,” he toasts, like he’s read the Cliff Notes on my life.
“Surviving?” I take a sip. “I’d say thriving. Like houseplants given just enough neglect to prove we can make it without watering.”
“Spoken like a true cactus.” Foster’s laughter is a pleasant rumble.
We fall into a rhythm, volleying back and forth about charity galas as competitive sports and cutthroat summer internships. It’s all punctuated with clever barbs and self-deprecating humor that makes it clear: we’re two peas from the same privileged pod.
“Ever feel like you’re in a play?” I swirl the champagne in my glass. “Like, everyone has a role, and there’s a script we’re supposed to stick to?”
“Every damn day.” There’s an edge to his smile now, a shared secret between us. “But sometimes, I improvise.”
“Rebel.” Beneath the banter, I feel a sense of kinship that’s comforting. And no doubt, Foster’s charming, has sharp wit, and looks to spare. But there’s this niggling thought poking at me, and I can’t figure out whether it’s the universe’s way of telling me to ease up or my own stubborn resistance. Or maybe it’s the fact that I keep glancing at West, who’s having a grand old time yakking up the bartender. He can have fun with anyone.
When I realize I missed what Foster just said, I blurt, “Expectations are a bitch,” hoping that fits.
“Biggest bitch of them all.” We clink glasses in solidarity.
Maybe it’s just nerves—after all, Dad’s already mentally planning the marriage. Because I am liking that I can relate to someone else with a family agenda breathing down his neck.
But I need to shake things up, so I decide to pull out a trick West and I do with each other all the time when we’re bored. One of us says, “Tell me something real,” and the other has to answer with a secret or something vulnerable they don’t talk about often. We always end up learning something cool about one another, and at a deeper level. I flash Foster a serious face. “So, Foster. Tell me something about yourself that you don’t usually share.”
He studies me for a moment, and I brace for impact. But instead of a confession or a wild tale, he simply says, “I hate wearing argyle socks.”
I smile. “Okay, that’s a start.” It bothers me a bit that his answer lacked substance, but maybe he keeps things close to the chest, and he’s just someone with layers to peel.
He gets pulled away, and Paige materializes, dressed in white and looking like a flowing Goddess. “So,” she says, “Olivia is starting to piss me off.”
A human bridesmaid, Olivia’s been Paige’s friend since college, but I’ve only met her a couple of times.
Paige scowls. “Look at her. She’s all over Zach while the camera’s on him. I mean, why is Tyson filming that? Gross!”
“You know the show’s gonna be digging for drama, Paige.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry—Zach is head over heels for you.”
“I know, right?” She looks at her nails. “So, what do you think of Foster? Like a Jewish Ken doll with a law degree and a trust fund.”
“He’s great,” I say, thinking about the way he laughed at my jokes. “Charming and definitely easy on the eyes.”
“See? Dad might be flunking Romance 101 for himself, but he’s acing Matchmaking.” Paige grins. As if the universe hears her comment, an human question mark sashays in.
She’s a walking, talking Vogue cover—low cut, clingy dress hugging curves that defy basic laws of physics. Strutting straight toward my father, she doesn’t walk; she glides. With the confidence of someone who’s used to turning heads, she wraps Neil in a kind of kiss that should come with an age restriction.
I gasp, my eyebrows launching into orbit. “Whoa. You sure about that flunking Romance 101 comment?”
Paige chokes on her drink. “What the hell? Did Dad seriously bring a plus one without telling us? And not just any plus one—Ms. Thang?”
“Looks like it.” I’m unable to peel my gaze away.
“I swear to God, Eva! How dare he? She’s half his age. She’s probably a total gold digger!”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” I try to sound reassuring, but the woman is Saran-wrapped around our father.
“Conclusions? She’s wearing less fabric than my honeymoon outfit. And that kiss... I mean, you don’t just eat someone’s face like that unless—”
“Paige!” I cut her off with a laugh. “Eww.”
“Am I wrong?” She raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. What a mess. “No. You’re not wrong.”
“Something’s fishy here. And not just because we’re by the ocean.” Paige takes a determined sip of her drink, eyes narrowing.
“Let’s just play it cool,” I say, but who am I kidding? Paige playing it cool about this would be a Christmas miracle in July.
“Eva, he’s playing tongue twister with a woman we’ve never met who’s probably younger than us. This is not a ‘play it cool’ situation.”
“Fine, but let’s not make a scene.” Right. Paige has never met a scene she didn’t dominate.
She scoffs.
“Paige—” But she’s already marching toward them, determination in every step. I take a deep breath, grab a cocktail then follow, bracing myself.
And Tyson’s right on my heels to capture every moment.
Skye sidles up next to me, her feathered dress billowing in the salty breeze. “Sweetie, your dad’s taste in women has plummeted faster than my nipples.”
I suppress a giggle. She’s a life raft in the sea of our family drama, but then she disappears back into the crowd.
I’m clutching the cocktail when we reach Dad, his arm linked with Miss Thang. Paige freezes, her mouth hanging open like a ghost stole her martini.
“Girls,” Dad begins, clearing his throat like he’s introducing a Supreme Court nominee, “this is Katerina.”
“Kat for short,” she chimes in, her voice a melody.
“Kat,” I echo, offering my best smile. “Lovely to meet you.” My mind’s doing somersaults trying to connect the dots between her and my father.
Dad’s clearly smitten and oblivious to the silent communication between Paige and me that’s screaming, “What the actual fuck?” He beams. “I’m so glad you three can finally meet.”
“Finally,” Paige echoes, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Anyway,” Dad continues, “Katerina wants to start her own food business. She’s a fabulous cook. Eva, you should walk her through the pitfalls.”
“Right. I’m definitely the expert on pitfalls,” I say light-heartedly but feeling a mild panic at having to discuss my failures with a potential stepmother who looks to be my age. “So, Kat, what kind of cuisine?”
She flashes a dazzling smile. “I specialize in Mediterranean food but love it all.”
“Speaking of love.” Dad raises an eyebrow, blazing with hope. “What do you think of Foster, Eva?”
“Well, since I met him just hours ago, I won’t comment on love. But he checks all the boxes, made me laugh—easy on the eyes.”
Dad smiles. “That’s wonderful. I have a great feeling about you two.”