Chapter 37 Hannah
HANNAH
“Will you get off that damned phone?” my mother hisses, her million-dollar smile still plastered across her face. It’s an art, I swear. Virginia Stoneham has her fake-ass smile down pat.
“Thunder won,” I say smugly, tucking my phone back into my purse and taking out my red lipstick, ignoring the glower my mother spears me with in the reflection of the gilded mirror. “They’re headed into the playoffs.”
“Did you really need to wear black, sweetie? It does nothing but wash you out.” Mom tsks, ignoring my mention of hockey to instead criticize me and my choice in attire.
I’m not surprised though. I saw it in her face the second I stepped foot in the private dining room of the country club.
It’s the reason I chose the slinky, short, black strapless dress on purpose; I knew it would piss her off.
“This is a wedding, not a funeral,” she mutters.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone and my smile completely insincere.
“Well, I hope you have something a little more appropriate for tomorrow. It’s a pastel theme.”
“Got it.” I bite my lips together to stop myself from laughing.
Rolling her eyes, my mom steps back, getting a look at herself in the mirror and fluffing up her already fluffy blonde hair.
I remember when I was little, I used to look at my mother and think how beautiful she was.
Like a princess. Because she was beautiful.
Inside and out. But one day I looked at her, and I noticed she’d changed without me realizing.
She went from being a princess to an evil queen.
She’s still beautiful in a generic, artificial sense—blinding veneers, bottle blonde hair, plumped up lips, boobs, and butt.
Quintessential diamond-encrusted cross dangling in the valley between the aforementioned fake tits.
The embodiment of a middle-aged woman from the south who swears by the Bible but only when it suits her.
I’m so glad I grew up to be nothing like her.
“How do you like Peter?” Mom asks, her smirk suggestive and gross.
“You mean my soon-to-be stepbrother?” I grimace because the man is disgusting.
I only met the guy three hours ago, and in the span of a few hours, he’s already insulted my job, insulted my and eight million other people’s home—New York City—and he touched my ass (twice), purposely grazed my side boob, and he keeps calling me babe.
“Oh—” She waves a dismissive hand, blowing a raspberry. “Sweetie, you’re both adults.”
I blink at her. “Okay, so that doesn’t change the fact that by this time tomorrow, he will be my stepbrother. It’s got nothing to do with age. You know that, right?”
She rolls her eyes indulgently, her smirk lingering as she nudges me. “I saw the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you. Even in that black dress,” she says, taking the chance to offer me another unimpressed once over.
Grabbing my purse from the marble counter, I spin on my heel and head for the door, choosing not to dignify her with a response. Because, firstly, ew. Secondly, I have a boyfriend, and he is so much more than a man like Peter, who seriously looks like he needs to have his hard drive checked.
I walk with my mother through the quiet corridor toward the dining room, which is alive with the sound of music and voices and the clanging of dinnerware.
But just before we reach the doors, the man himself struts out, looking every bit the cokehead douchebag.
And I don’t even bother hiding my disdain.
Peter stops in his tracks, a self-assured smile spreading across his face that gives me the ick. “Well now, if this isn’t a vision.”
“Oh, you!” Mom swats a hand in his direction, practically gushing over the compliment.
I roll my eyes.
“My father is looking for his blushing bride,” Peter says, his southern accent pronounced.
Mom glances from Peter to me, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes as she winks at me before turning and walking back into the party with a breezy, “Y’all have fun now,” called over her shoulder.
I scoff, glaring at her retreating back.
“Hi, babe,” Peter says, holding his hands up and quickly correcting himself with a very derisive, “Sis.”
I look up at him, and I’m certain my what-the-fuck face says it all. But, of course, men like Peter are oblivious.
“Where are you staying while you’re in town?” he asks, not even trying to hide the way his gaze dips from my face down to my breasts. “I have a guest bedroom…”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I snap. “I have a room at the Belmore.”
“Nice.” He steps closer.
I take a much-needed step back.
“When do you go back to… New York?”
God, the way he says it, like New York is some sort of cesspool, causes my hand to ball into a fist.
“Sunday,” I respond curtly, wondering if I might possibly be able to leave the wedding reception early and catch a late-night flight home instead.
Peter comes even closer, and I move back another step, bumping into the wall, which is when I realize this is so not okay.
Home boy needs to take a big old step back.
But before I can tell him to fuck right on off, I feel my phone vibrate in my purse, and I shrug out from between Peter and the wall, using the phone call as an excuse.
When I see Happy’s name flash on the screen, I don’t know how or why, but something feels off.
He’d been messaging me earlier before the game, but since the game finished, I’ve heard nothing from him.
I saw online that he was doing press with my father, so I assumed he didn’t have his phone.
But since then, I’d been hoping for a flirty text and the promise of a sexy FaceTime call a little later. A voice call now seems weird.
Peter lingers, but I ignore him, sliding to answer the call. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Baby Draper we have a problem…” is all he says, his low voice foreboding, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to prick.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly panicked. “Are you okay? Is Lucky okay?”
“We’re both fine,” he says dismissively. “But… I’m so sorry… fuck—”
“Happy?” I press, interjecting his senseless rambling. “What is it?”
“Your d-dad—”
My stomach drops into the pit of my ass.
“He… he knows.”
“Oh.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes as I try to think. “How?”
“Lucky.”
I rear back, gaping at nothing in front of me. “Lucky?”
“Yeah,” Happy says on a sigh. “She came to the game tonight, and—”
“Wait,” I stop him. “She came to the game? Like, at Madison Square Garden?”
“Yeah,” Happy says, and I can hear the smile in his tone.
“Oh my God, that makes me so happy.” I beam although I know he can’t see me. “Did she love it?”
“She fucking loved it, Baby Draper. Wore her bedazzled Slater jersey, and every time I looked up to where they were sitting, she was waving at me. It was so fuckin’ cute.”
“I love that so much.” I shake my head as if I’ve just remembered exactly why he called me. “Oh my God. Okay. So, my dad knows because of Lucky?”
“Yeah, I stupidly introduced her to him afterwards, and as soon as I did, she mentioned your name and your dad was like, ‘How do you know Hannah?’” He puts on a deeper than usual voice, and I bite back my smile.
“And Lucky was all like, ‘Hannah’s my daddy’s girlfriend,’” he adds in a high-pitched tone that makes me giggle.
“I mean, I love that girl with my whole heart, but when I tell you it took all I had not to cut the ears of her Bluey plushie when I got home…”
“Happy!” I snicker at the thought.
“It was my fault. As soon as I introduced them, it was like I was having this out-of-body experience, watching on as if in slow motion, Lucky’s voice turning all deep and robotic and slow as she said the words, and the whole time I’m thinking, how the fuck did you think would play out, you absolute dickhead? ”
I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“I’m so glad you find this amusing.”
“Okay, sorry,” I say, reigning in my laughter. “So, what happened after. What did my dad do?”
“Well, it was weird,” Happy begins. “At first, he was speechless, and his face went all red, and that little vein started to protrude at the side of his forehead. I was scared he was gonna blow. But he didn’t.
He actually smiled. He told Lucky he was excited to meet her, and then he left. And I didn’t see him again…”
“Oh, he’s pissed,” I conclude.
“He is?”
I nod to myself. “Yeah. He’s pissed, but he didn’t want to cause a scene in front of Lucky.”
“Oh, great.” Happy groans. “What do I do?”
“Honestly, let him process it, and I’ll talk to him when I’m back.”
“Man, I’m gonna be sent back to the farm team for sure,” Happy mutters.
I laugh again. “This is a good thing, baby. It’s out in the open now. You and me. Lucky. Everyone who matters knows now.”
“Did you just call me baby?”
I deadpan. “Out of everything I just said, that’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”
“I mean, yeah,” he scoffs. “No one’s ever called me baby before. It just made my dick hard.”
“Happy Slater, not the time or the place,” I chastise half-heartedly, looking around, which is when I realize Peter is still right there behind me, eavesdropping. I flash him a pointed look he doesn’t pick up on, and I heave a sigh. “I have to go. I’m still at the rehearsal dinner.”
“FaceTime when you’re done?” Happy asks, his tone all gruff and low and sexy as hell.
“Do you want me to go in and get you another wine, babe?”
I bristle at Peter’s closeness, spinning around and putting at least a few feet of distance between us, glaring at him. “My name is Hannah,” I seethe.
“Baby Draper?” Happy’s voice cuts through. “You okay?”
“Happy, I’ve gotta go,” I say regretfully. “I’ll let you know when I’m back at my hotel and available to… FaceTime.”
“O-kay…” He sounds uncertain. But he lets me go.
“Ready, babe?” Peter asks, holding his arm out.
I purposely ignore his offer and walk ahead, fully aware of his closeness trailing me as I enter the dining room. Across the way, I catch my mother’s eyes. She arches a brow as best she can given the Botox and, with a knowing smile, she raises her champagne glass.
Heading for the bar with Peter still following me like a lost little puppy dog, I wait for service, my phone buzzing with a notification. I look down at it, confused to see Happy’s name.
Happy: Who was that guy in the background?
I huff an exasperated sigh, trying not to get too carried away over the fact that Happy might actually be a little jealous right now. I decide to have some fun.
Me: Oh, that was Peter…
Happy: Let me guess. He’s some guy you used to date back in high school. A jock on the varsity football team. Now he works in real estate?
Me: Not even close… try my mom’s soon-to-be husband’s son who I literally met three hours ago and who will not stop staring at my tits.
Happy: Fuckin’ what???
Me: It’s nothing. I’ve got it handled, trust me.
Happy: And he’s going to be at the wedding tomorrow?
Me: I mean, yeah, his dad is the groom.
Happy: And you’re still planning on wearing that red dress?
Me: It’s the only one I brought with me, so yes.
I wait for Happy’s response, but it doesn’t come, and before I can send him a follow up, I’m next in line at the bar.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a kind smile.
“She’ll have the cabernet,” Peter says before I can speak for myself, sidling up far too close. “And I’ll have a scotch on the rocks, por favor.”
Por favor? I spear Peter with a serious side-eye because what the ever-loving fuck?
I don’t miss the flush of annoyance in the bartender’s olive skin, his dark gaze swinging from Peter to me, and I shake my head once in the hope that he realizes I am so not with this guy.
He presses his lips together in an understanding smile as he gets to work, making our drinks, and I do all I can to completely ignore the ignorant piece of shit dressed in a poorly tailored designer suit next to me.
I wish I was back home in New York where I belong, because I know for certain, between the way my mother is treating me, and this sack-of-door-knobs who I wouldn’t trust alone with my drink, I don’t belong here. Not anymore.