Chapter 20 Evie
EVIE
There are so many things about this party that make me anxious that I’m not sure I can name them all.
First, there is the fact that I’m seeing his family—his whole family—again. The first time since my early twenties. When we were kids, we ironically didn’t spend a whole lot of time with the Everetts, which my other friends thought was crazy.
I remember Annie Cramer asking me in homeroom once what the point of having a billionaire friend was if I didn’t take advantage of any of the perks.
The truth was, I forgot he was rich.
Often.
He didn’t cruise around Manhattan in a chariot.
He didn’t stick with his security detail.
He didn’t parade around penthouses. Instead, he preferred to assimilate into my life when we were together.
We hung at my house, and his security waited outside.
We went to Coney Island. We went to coffee shops.
Perk of being the second-born Everett was that most people only recognized Cato and Julian.
Keaton was the “spare” as he so affectionately referred to himself.
Julian was the “heir” in the public eye.
He was the oldest, looked the most like Cato, and was in line to take over all the family businesses.
Then when Brooks came along, his birth in and of itself was a scandal that attracted all the media. For years, they’d stalk around, trying to get pictures of him.
Keaton was able to hide away, using the middle-child thing to his advantage.
We would go to Bedell House, the Everett family estate, only when he knew that his family wasn’t going to be on property, when we could have it to ourselves.
We would run through the gardens, fish in the pond, hide out in the library.
I met Cato a few times throughout my friendship with Keaton, and though he was polite on paper, he was snarky and sarcastic and never showed interest in anyone for too long.
I particularly despised the way he made Keaton the butt of so many of his jokes once it became apparent that he wasn’t going to follow Julian’s footsteps and go to business school.
And as we got older, we hung around them less and less.
The next item of anxiety is the fact that I have to not only see them, but I have to act like everything is normal.
And the problem is, I don’t know what normal is anymore.
Normal feels like Keaton. Being with him feels normal.
Natural. It requires absolutely no thinking on my part, which is why being with him feels so freeing. Brain off, feelings on.
But to anyone on the outside, nothing about this situation is normal.
Twenty years ago, we were inseparable, but we never belonged to each other.
Then I got married.
Keaton left and never came back.
Until now.
Now, he’s back.
Now, I’m getting divorced.
In the span of a few days, I’ve left my marriage and shacked up with my billionaire ex-best friend.
That can’t look good.
But it has to look normal.
And being that I don’t know which way is up, I definitely don’t know which way is normal.
I just know which way to go to get to him.
Sawyer sent me to some store uptown where she now gets her wardrobe made. She says it’s the only thing she lets herself splurge on, because she can finally find clothes that fit her. Clothes that make her feel good.
Our bodies are very different. She’s taller, slimmer, straighter—younger, I remind myself.
I’ve worked hard to love myself for my entire adult life, but it’s been double the work lately. When you don’t see your worth, having someone to remind you what they see can be life-altering. Empowering. Freeing.
But having someone remind you that you’re not worth anything can be damaging in ways that feel like they will never be fixed. Having someone solidify the ugly thoughts you have about yourself make them that much harder to ignore.
I’m on my way back, though. I’m letting myself have things I think I deserve. Not just deserve—want. I’m making decisions based on me. I’m getting little pieces of myself back that I wasn’t sure I’d see again.
So having a dress be specifically fitted to my body? Wearing something that feels like it was made just for me?
I’m going to let myself have that.
And boy, did I.
Aaron, the stylist, matched tones and colors and fabrics to me. He talked to me about necklines and hemlines and some other kind of lines. He had me stand in front of a few mirrors while he tested some dresses out under different lighting.
And then he wrapped me in this emerald-green dress that he said matched my eyes, and I felt like Cinderella had just left her fairy godmother.
I have never felt more beautiful than I do in this dress.
Except for maybe when Keaton drags those eyes over my body.
Aaron picked out a pair of strappy nude sandals with a wide enough heel that I feel confident in my ability to walk in them and a matching nude clutch. The final piece was a shimmery nude shawl, and he sent me on my way.
Now, I’m sitting in the bathroom of Keaton’s guest suite, having my hair done by a professional that Sawyer also recommended and a makeup artist who is currently putting on so much mascara I’m worried if I close my eyes, I won’t be able to open them again.
When they both step away from me, I do a double-take.
The fabric has this give to it that makes me feel sexy. It hugs my body in all the places that Keaton has kissed. All the places he refuses to let me hide.
They have done my hair in an elegant updo, one of those that looks strategically messy on purpose, and my makeup is flawless.
I swallow as they exit the bathroom and make their way down the hall, saying their goodbyes to Keaton as they leave. I appear at the end of the hallway, and I see him talking to Mac, looking as dazzling as ever in his perfect fucking suit.
Fuck the gown, the suit, the makeup, the hair. All of it.
I just want to fuck him.
I draw in a breath as his eyes find me, scanning me from head to toe, his tongue jutting out to lick his lips. Then they tug up into this dangerously sexy half-smile as he walks toward me, meeting me in the middle.
“Jesus, you’re perfect,” he whispers. He bends down to leave a soft, careful kiss on my lips.
“Little more flattering than my usual sweats and flannel, huh?” I ask, visibly uncomfortable. He knows how bad I am at accepting compliments. But he doesn’t waver. He reaches his hand out and takes one of mine, lifting it to his lips.
“Sweetheart, there is no such thing as unflattering when it comes to you,” he says. “There is no version of you that doesn’t melt me into a fucking puddle.”
I giggle and roll my eyes, but his expression doesn’t change.
I’m not used to this full, undivided attention he gives me, and I don’t quite know what to do with it.
“This dress is beautiful. It was made for you. I want to be this dress. Be wrapped around you like this. My next favorite is when you’re wearing something of mine.
You’re comfortable, but you’re claimed. You’re all mine.
” I smile, staring up into his big gray eyes, listening intently.
“But, no questions asked, hands down, my favorite is when you’re naked in my bed. ”
I laugh, but then I realize, he’s not kidding.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I love every single inch of your body, Evie Dawson. It’s even better than I ever could have imagined. And I imagined it plenty.” Then he pulls me in for another kiss, expertly kissing me so that my makeup stays intact. “Now, let’s go before I rip this thing off of you.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I whisper back with a smile. His hand slides down and gently taps my ass.
“Don’t tempt me, Dawson,” he says, his voice low and gritty and making me squeeze my
legs together. We get on the elevator, get in the car, and make the drive out to Bedell House.
When we pull up, a little under an hour later, I’m a bit shellshocked.
Mac types a code in at the huge iron gates, his hand is scanned, and then the gates open, and we start up the extra-long driveway.
I remember Keaton once telling me that the driveway itself was a mile long.
And as we approach, I forgot how fucking massive this place is.
How perfectly manicured it is. The huge stone palace sits on this tract of land on Long Island that Keaton’s great-great grandfather had built once they struck oil.
His family lived here for decades until Cato decided to build his own estate, Bendmere, about thirty miles out.
When Keaton’s grandpa died, he left the house to the family in the will with the agreement that public tours would still be permitted, and no unnecessary updates, additions, or changes would be made to the property.
Mac pulls the car up around the circle to the big front doors and puts the car in park. He zooms around to grab our door, but Keaton is already out of the car, holding a hand out for me. He helps me slide out, straightening out the bottom of my gown for me then giving me his arm.
“You ready?” he asks me. I look up at him, our eyes locking, and for the first time since we decided to come here together, I feel confident. I do feel ready, because Keaton needs me to be. So that’s what I’ll be. I nod and smile, squeezing his hand.
“Let’s do this,” I tell him, and he leads me up the big, over-the-top stone staircase that leads to the main doors. Two doormen exit the building, holding open the big, cathedral-style doors and waving us inside. Keaton greets both of them with a smile, leading me through the doors.