41. Cassidy
I stare into the empty laundry hamper with rising dread. Where the hell is the yellow dress I wore yesterday? Don’t tell me he sent it to be cleaned! I rush back into Ethan’s bedroom, tossing his pillows onto the floor and pulling back the bedsheets, hoping to find the dress cramming into a crevice somewhere.
“Shit.”
Okay, don’t panic. Ethan was just trying to scare me, anyway. This guy can’t be as bad as he’s making out to be, otherwise he wouldn’t be introducing him to me.
Right?
Damn it, now my hands are sweating.
I hurry into Ethan’s walk-in closet, my jaw shifting to the side as I stare in faint horror at all the men’s clothes around me. Maybe if Ethan wasn’t a fucking giant, I could have gotten away with wearing some of his gym clothes, but I’m not going out there with his sweats rolled up at the ankles and a belt to stop them sliding down my ass.
Unless…
As reluctant as I am to leave the bedroom, it’s better to get this over with. So after giving myself a quick, critical stare in Ethan’s full-length mirror, I scrounge up what little courage I have left and leave.
Faint voices greet me as I make my way down the hall. I hesitate as soon as Ethan and his guest come into view, taking a moment to run my hands down the white cable-knit sweater I found in Ethan’s closet.
It’s so big on me it ends mid-thigh, but once I rolled up the sleeves, it didn’t look half bad. If I had a pair of leggings, this might even pass as a cute fall outfit. The only problem is that the wide neck keeps slipping off my shoulder, and the fabric is a bit clingy, especially around my ass and boobs.
I stand in the hallway in bare feet, toying with the neckline of the sweater as I study the man standing beside Ethan.
This must be Myles.
He’s dressed in a bespoke royal blue suit with subtle silver pinstripes, and I can’t decide if the way the color offsets his tanned skin and deep blue eyes makes him look too pretty… or so handsome that my mouth runs dry. Like how some male fashion models are so hot you keep questioning if they’re straight.
The man lifts a hand to smooth back his hair, hiking up the brilliant white cuff of his button-down shirt and revealing the edge of a dark, faded tattoo peeking out from under his wrist.
Fuck. He’s hot.
I prefer Ethan’s ruggedly handsome features, especially since Myles’s almost a foot shorter, but I’m sure every girl he walks past gets a crick in their neck.
“If I’d known you were all coming, I’d have arranged for dinner,” Ethan says, sounding vaguely uneasy.
“Nah, we already ate,” blue-eyed Myles says, before turning back to the entrance. “You guys just going to stand there or what?”
Curiosity gets the better of me, so I slowly emerge from the hall with another nervous pluck on the sweater’s hemline. I don’t want to piss Ethan off—if he doesn’t like what I’m wearing, I’ll have to find something else. But he’s looking at Myles, not me.
“Ethan,” I whisper, but he doesn’t seem to hear. “Ethan!”
He frowns as he glances over his shoulder, and then his face sets like stone.
Shit.
I give him a quick shrug, tugging on the hemline of the sweater as I mouth, “Is this okay?”
He looks at Myles, then past him at whatever other guests are arriving, then back at me, shaking his head.
“Who’s your friend, Ethan?”
My body locks up, only my eyes moving to the blue-eyed man. From the curious smile on his face, it’s obvious he wasn’t expecting to see me standing here like a badly dressed statue.
Ethan clears his throat. “This is Cassidy Monroe. Cassidy, Myles.” There’s a beat of expectant silence before he adds reluctantly, “She’s a…well, I guess you could say a friend.”
He guesses he could call me a friend?
Myles laughs at the incredulity on my face, but before anyone can say another word, three more men walk into Ethan’s penthouse.
I don’t know what to make of them anymore than I do of Myles. The first to swagger in behind him looks like he doesn’t take anything seriously until I realize his smirk is caused by a scar distorting one side of his mouth.
The man behind the scarred guy is all business. Tightly buttoned up in an impeccable suit as expertly tailored as Myles’s, but leagues more subtle. Charcoal—almost black—as if to match the dark eyes shielded by a pair of thin-framed spectacles. I don’t normally think guys wearing glasses are hot. But he could be a model posing in one of those posters in an optometrist’s shop.
Then comes the guy keeping up the rear. He moves with precision, eyes scanning the penthouse like he’s checking the exits. He seems dangerous before I even spot the pistol on his belt.
The boss, the jester, the accountant, and the muscle. That’s the only way I can think to describe them.
Ethan obviously knows them well, but from the slant of his mouth, he’s less than thrilled that they’re in his penthouse.
“Nice to meet you, Ethan’s friend,” Myles says, sounding faintly amused. Then he points out the men behind him. “Richmond, Smith, Troy.”
Ethan frowns at him, and then shifts his gaze over to where I’m standing. The frustration in his steel-gray eyes makes my stomach sink all the way to street level. He takes a quick step closer to me, grabbing me just above the elbow.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he whispers furiously.
“I couldn’t find my dress,” I hiss back, giving the men a quick, uneasy smile as they spread out in a semi-circle to study me like some exotic bird they thought extinct since the twenties.
“So you chose this?”
“Would a trash bag have been better, Sir?” I snap.
“Have we come at a bad time?” Smith asks dryly.
Myles waves at him, a warm smile spreading over his wide mouth. “Oh, leave them be. It’s always awkward meeting someone’s friends for the first time.” He finally takes his eyes off me, and it’s like I can breathe again. There’s a faint chime from the elevator, and Ethan throws Myles a look that screams, what fresh hell is this?
“Right on time.” Myles rubs his hands together, chuckling, but his face drops when he sees Ethan’s expression. “You know, that was a mean prank you pulled, pretending you’d already gotten your gift.”
There’s utter silence as two white-gloved porters wheel in an enormous crate on a dolly.
I glance over at Ethan, and he quickly looks away.
When I grilled Ethan about why he thought I’d been sent by Myles, he just mumbled something about a gift. I’m guessing this is what he was talking about, but how the hell my arrival at Glenmont could be confused with whatever’s inside that crate is a mystery.
The porters exchange a few quiet words with the muscle guy in Myles’s group, and then leave again.
Ethan is staring at the crate like he knows what’s inside, and he hasn’t quite decided whether he’s pissed or absolutely livid.
“Now, before the big unveiling,” Myles says, “Promise me one thing.”
Ethan glares at him.
“Don’t leave her to rot in your crypt, okay? She deserves better than that.”
My heart gives a terrified thump against my ribcage as my gaze flicks back to the massive crate.
Oh God.
Is there…is there someone inside that fucking crate?
I grab Ethan’s hand, gripping him for all I’m worth. He gives me a reassuring squeeze, but that does nothing to calm my nerves as the group’s muscle grabs the crowbar fastened to the side of the crate and starts easing it open.
“Jesus,” Ethan says, when a frame comes into view.
I must admit, I’m a little disappointed. Such a lot of fuss for what, a painting? But as Troy peels away the protective wrapping, it slowly becomes apparent—even to me—that this is more than just some random work of art.
Although the frame is elaborate and stunning, I barely notice it once the painting is revealed.
It’s a portrait of a dark-haired woman draped casually in a plush armchair. She’s wearing a white and lavender dress with puffy sleeves, a purple gemstone hanging around her neck.
But it’s her expression that draws me in.
She stares at me like she’s so done with being filthy rich and having to pose for days on end on the same chair, wearing the same dress, her face in the same resting-bitch-face expression.
Suppose I’d look like that too if I couldn’t just eat cake, read books, and take naps all day.
Why the hell do I suddenly feel so inferior?
Ethan’s voice breaks the reverential hush surrounding us.
“An excellent replica,” he murmurs, stooping to study the painting.
It would have taken a whole choir of crickets to fill the silence that follows.
Ethan straightens, looking first at Smith, then back at Myles. Then at the painting. Back to Myles.
He takes a hurried step back, gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Don’t tell me this is…”
Myles grins. “Smith said it was one of your faves. Who better to appreciate it than a genuine fan?”
Ethan looks a shade paler. “Jesus fucking Christ, Myles.”
The man pats him on the shoulder. “The Balmont Boys take care of their own.”
Myles turns to me, that same devilish smile on his face. “What do you think, cherry pie? Are you okay sharing Ethan with Lady Agnew?”
I chuckle nervously, but when I see how Ethan is staring at the painting, Myles’s words aren’t that funny anymore. I sniff. “Looks like a bit of a snob. I don’t know if I should curtsy or give her the finger.”
Ethan laughs. Like a full on belly laugh. He claps his hands over his eyes like he can’t bear to stare at Lady Agnew anymore and then waves everyone out of his entrance hall and back into the living area like he’s herding geese.
Something Myles says comes back to haunt me.
The Balmont Boys.
I stare at the four men Ethan allowed into his penthouse, and a small shiver races through me.
Why does that name sound so…mafia?