Chapter 17
17
F our pairs of curious eyes land on me as soon as I walk into Chloe’s bridal suite. The only person who pays me no attention is the stranger I assume must be the makeup artist, who’s busy spreading foundation on Gwen’s face.
Chloe’s sister gives me a jaunty wave. “Hey, Lili!”
Her chipper chirp is an assault on my eardrums. My whole head feels like it’s vibrating.
I’m not hungover, just extremely sleep-deprived.
“Sorry I’m late,” I announce, tucking a stray strand of hair behind one ear.
I finger-combed it the best I could in the reflective doors of the elevator on the ride up to the top floor, but I couldn’t do much about the smears of last night’s makeup still on my face. I had done a terrible job of washing it off before bed, half delirious from all the dopamine swimming through my system.
Self-conscious about my bedraggled appearance—I look walk-of-shame chic without the chic—I head toward the breakfast buffet that’s set up by the windows. At least my dress covers the bites and bruises scattered across my breasts and marking my inner thighs.
Each step is a reminder of the burn between my thighs.
It’s a good sore. A satisfied sore. A noticeable sore.
I’d thought I’d learned what sex was like a while ago. Mostly because that’s always what it’s been like. But what I’d thought was awesome, occasionally amazing, has now been relegated to a solid B. Not even a B-plus. A B .
And I’m a little mad at Charlie and his A game, honestly.
He set a new standard I’m not sure where to find again. Maybe it’s British men? Aside from a fling in college with a French foreign exchange student, all the other guys have been American.
That’s a better theory than it just being … him.
Chloe, Fran, and Bridget descend on me like vultures as soon as I take a seat on the couch with my full plate. The tug of lace against sensitive skin makes me squirm as I settle against the cushions.
“How was dinner?”
“Why didn’t you answer any of my voice messages?”
“Holy shit, did you hook up with him?”
My best friends toss questions at me rapid-fire.
I take a long gulp of coffee, then answer, “Dinner was good. I overslept and haven’t checked my phone yet. And … yeah, I did.”
Fran squeals as soon as I answer her question.
“What’s going on over there?” Gwen calls. “Are you guys gossiping without me?”
Chloe waves a hand in her sister’s direction. “You don’t know him, sis. Focus on your makeup.”
“You mean, focus on just sitting here?” Gwen replies dryly.
“How was it?” Bridget asks, leaning closer.
“How big was it?” Fran has scooted so close she’s practically in my lap.
I take a bite of cantaloupe. “It’s Chloe’s wedding day. I don’t think she wants to hear about my sex life.”
“Actually, I do,” Chloe tells me. “I went to a dinner with Theo’s work friends, and all the girlfriends-slash-wives got drinks after. A few shots later, one of them said she hooked up with Charles Marlborough a couple of years ago, and it was the best night of her life.”
“Her poor boyfriend-slash-husband,” I say.
Also, that’s not encouraging to my preferred theory.
My friends all look at me expectantly, none of them indicating they’ll let this go.
“There’s a reason I’m sitting right now,” I say. “Everything’s sore. Pilates was not adequate preparation for some of the positions.”
Fran’s jaw practically unhinges. “ That good?”
“You guys are definitely gossiping without me!” Gwen shouts.
Chloe shoots her sister a sweet smile. “Your makeup looks amazing!”
The three of them refocus on me, and now, I’m pretty sure Gwen and the makeup artist are listening as well.
“Yeah,” I answer Fran. Charlie’s not here to have his massive ego inflated even more. Not that he’s under any illusions that I didn’t enjoy it. My throat is as raw as my vagina. “It was that good.”
“So, the date must have gone well too,” Chloe says.
I nod. “It did.”
Best date I’ve ever been on. That, I don’t say aloud. Praising his bedroom skills was one thing, but I’m not going to admit how much I enjoyed the entire evening. I’m self-conscious, recalling how much I confided in him at the restaurant.
“Where did he take you?” Bridget asks, stealing a grape off my plate.
“To dinner. It was a restaurant called The Beach House.”
Fran glances at Chloe. “Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah, I have,” she replies. “It’s supposed to be really nice.”
I nod in agreement. “It was. You and Theo should go sometime. Make sure you get the pistachio tiramisu for dessert.”
“Are you going out with him again?” Fran asks.
I shake my head. “Doubt it. We’re leaving for Saint-Tropez first thing tomorrow, remember?”
Bridget smirks. “But we still have one more night here …”
I pop a piece of fruit in my mouth so I don’t have to reply. Do I want to have sex with Charlie again? One thousand percent. But I’m rapidly realizing it’s a dangerous idea. Not only will it further recalibrate my body to some impossible standards, but the sex wasn’t just physical. There was some layer of trust and understanding that amplified everything. A connection I’d never experienced before, which appeared before any clothes came off.
I’d thought Chloe was being overprotective, cautioning me about getting attached. Turned out, she might have been right on the money. I’m best off preserving last night as a special, sexy memory.
“We’ll see,” I say. “I want to find out what the other options are first.”
Fran groans. “You do not get to snap up another guy. You already got the duke who turned me down. My fragile ego is still recovering from that.”
Bridget snorts. “Your fragile ego recovered when you met that wannabe actor at Proof. Is he still texting you?”
“Yes.” Fran pouts. “But he’s not British .”
Chloe laughs. “You’re welcome for getting married here.”
There’s a knock on the door.
“Fran? You in there?”
It sounds like Cal.
“Yeah,” she calls back. “What’s up?”
“You said you’d pick out my tie.”
Fran rolls her eyes. “Did you bring options, Cal?”
“Four.”
She stands and strides over to the door.
Cal’s standing in the hallway, wearing navy slacks and a white button-down, four ties draped over one arm and a sheepish smile on his face.
“Sorry, I just—” He spots me sitting on the couch. Stares for a few seconds, smiles, then holds up his arm. “Which one?”
Fran surveys the options. One silver, one striped, one skinny, and a pink one with a subtle white pattern I can’t see from here.
“Pink,” she decides.
“Really?”
“Really. Real men wear pink. Now, go check on Tripp. He’s never been on time for anything in his life, but today, that changes.”
“Tripp is up. He’s eating breakfast. We’ll all be there on time.”
It seems like Cal is careful not to look in my direction before Fran closes the door in his face, but it might be my imagination.
Aside from the elevator reflection, I haven’t surveyed my appearance, but I’m pretty sure I currently look … like I was having sex all night.
I recall Bridget’s words on the plane— I think it would be good for Cal to see you with someone else —and pray that she’s right. I don’t blame Cal—at all—for how our relationship ended. My own insecurities were at fault. He would have signed a prenup if I’d asked. He wasn’t with me just for the money. In many ways, he was a safe bet, and that didn’t change in one evening. It just made me realize I didn’t want a safe bet. If no one could ignore my immense wealth, I wanted to experience what it was like to be with a guy who made me feel more than simply safe.
Cal never would have challenged me to race him. He fretted over me even stepping on the track when we went to Monaco for Jasper’s twenty-first. And our relationship was more romantic than passionate or physical. I never once felt like I would die if he stopped touching me, which was the state I spent most of last night and the start of this morning in. I hadn’t known that desperate level of desire existed.
I sink a little lower on the couch once it’s all girls again, poking at the scone on my plate. “Do you think he knows?”
“That Britain’s most eligible bachelor was in your bed last night? Definitely,” Bridget says from my right, not looking up from the magazine she grabbed from somewhere and is now flipping through.
I scoff. “He’s not Britain’s most eligible bachelor.” Then glance at Chloe, the resident expert on England. “Is he?”
Her shrug is not exactly comforting. “I mean …”
Bridget taps the magazine she’s reading. “It says it right here. Charles Marlborough, the eighth Duke of Manchester and Britain’s most eligible bachelor, was seen leaving exclusive gentlemen’s club The Ivy House with respected barrister Henry Sutherland .”
“That’s a tabloid.”
“So? Do you think he’s met the royal family?”
I roll my eyes. “Can we stop talking about Charlie, please? It was a fun night. It’s over. It’s Chloe’s wedding day. We’re leaving for Saint-Tropez tomorrow. After today, I’ll probably never see him again.”
That last sentence isn’t as reassuring as I’d like it to be. More … melancholy.
Fran walks over to where Bridget and I are sitting. Flashes her phone screen at us. “Which hairstyle should I do? This one or”—she swipes to a new photo—“this one?”
Chloe’s mom arrives right as Gwen’s makeup gets finished. She starts crying as soon as she sees Chloe and again when the bridesmaid dresses my mom designed are revealed.
I’ve never really considered what my wedding day would look like. It’s always felt far off, even when Cal mentioned marriage. But as I watch my best friend enjoy hers, it’s easier to imagine than I thought it would be.
I can see Fran and Bridget fussing over me the same way they’re doing with Chloe right now. Collins, my college roommate, would be here too. Wren and Rory. Aunt Hannah. Gigi. And I doubt my mom would be sobbing like Mrs. Beaumont, but I think she’d probably dab at her eyes when she saw me in my dress. I’ve always known I’d ask if I could wear hers. My dad would definitely cry before we started down the aisle, and I’d probably make a joke about how if anything went wrong, we would get it right at my second wedding.
The only part I can’t picture clearly is the groom.