CHAPTER FIVE #2
“This special model has the same fifty-thousand volts with a built-in flashlight. Which makes me feel safer about you walking on dark streets alone at night. And I got a dozen so you can have one for your car, in your purse, in your pocket, and multiples here at your apartment.”
“I like the idea of multiples,” I quip before crossing my arms, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. Is he… worried about me?
No! Stay mad. Stay strong. Do not be wooed by electroshock weaponry.
I give a lazy shrug. “It’s not that bad around here.”
Bryce glances behind him toward the street—and right on cue, some dude is spray-painting a glorious pink penis across the wall of the laundromat.
“Ohhh, so when rich snobs do it, it’s performance art. But when it’s poor people, suddenly it’s graffiti ? That guy’s the next Banksy. You should buy that wall before it appreciates.”
For a second, I think he might chuckle, but he stays glued to his usual stoic expression.
“This is nice and all, B, but—”
“Hold on. I’m still attempting to bribe you.”
He turns and reaches once more, carefully lifting something bulky wrapped in bubble wrap. With reverent hands, he unwraps it to reveal…
My record player.
Not a new one. My record player.
I whip my head around to check, and sure enough, the spot where it usually sits is empty .
“I had it repaired. Apparently broken belt drives are common in these models.”
“You stole my record player?”
“Borrowed. Can I come in and return it to its rightful place?”
“Be my guest. How did you get it fixed so fast?” I watch him kneel on my stained carpet and set the player carefully back on the milk crate. “That model is ancient. Parts are impossible to find.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, and God help me, the sight of Bryce Sterling on his knees in my apartment does dangerous things to my self-control.
“Billionaire, remember?”
Is this some misplaced big brother syndrome? Like he’s channeling Gavin’s overprotective energy because my actual brother is too busy being engaged to the princess of darkness? It’s clear that seeing where I live has triggered his white knight complex. Now he feels sorry for poor little Pip.
“Why go to all this trouble? What’s in this for you?”
My question catches him off guard. As he stands, his finger starts tapping against his thigh—tap, tap, tap.
What is he not telling me?
“I had another conversation with Gavin this morning. This abrupt change in plans is causing him a great deal of stress.”
He pauses, his eyes dropping to the floor for a split second before meeting mine again. “And unfortunately, Amanda is unable to attend. I’d… prefer not to go alone. Engaging in small talk with strangers at these events is something I find quite dreadful.”
Something flutters in my chest like a trapped butterfly. Bryce wants me there. Not for Gavin. For him .
“Whoa, whoa. You don’t want to go either? New plan: We both ditch the shindig.”
A dangerous thought creeps into my head. What if I did go with him? Eight days of Bryce all to myself. One last time to be near him. Living the fantasy that he’s mine, if only for a while.
Yeah, that’s pure crackhead logic, Petra. Let’s not veer into “accidental trophy wife” territory.
“Suppose, hypothetically, I said yes. Am I required to participate in all the luxury torture? As in… snail mucus facials with Fiona and 24-karat gold colonics?”
“If I have to, you have to,” Bryce says without blinking.
“So we’re a package deal of mutual misery?”
“Yes.”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
Bryce shrugs. “Not trying to.”
I sigh. Loudly. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“No.”
Katie and Cam would duct tape me to a chair if they knew I was considering this. But I can’t help myself. Not because I believe in fairy tales and all that happily ever after crap. I just wanna bite into that poison apple, savor the taste, and prove it won’t take me down again.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” I snap. “I’ll go to Mexico. Mainly because I want to see Fiona break down over lukewarm mimosas and off-brand humidity. That’s peak entertainment. But if this goes to hell—and it will—I’m tasing you again.”
“Deal.” He holds out his hand like we’re sealing a blood pact and not the worst idea I’ve ever had .
I shake it. Then he glances at the mountainous piles of laundry around my apartment.
“Which one of those is the formalwear heap?”
“Eat a brick.”
“Pack your essentials. We have a stop to make before the jet.”
Then he smiles—a genuine smile—and my heart does a damn triple axel. Seeing that grin light up his face is my new addiction.
This is bad. I have royally fucked up.
***
Let’s set things straight. There are a million places I’d rather be than parked in front of a fancy-ass store on Rodeo Drive. First things that come to mind:
Getting pap smear from a drunken clown.
Holding Fiona’s hand during her weekly colonic.
Hell.
“I’ll save you the trouble, B. I’m not getting out. Beverly Hills is the enemy.”
Through the tinted limousine windows, I notice this particular store has no flashy signs. No mannequins. Just a solid gold plaque with some fancy script that probably translates to “Broke Folks, Keep Walking.”
“Beverly Hills is a zip code, Pip. It doesn’t have an agenda. ”
“I packed clothes. Perfectly acceptable clothes. My trusty black dress. The good jeans without rips in the crotch. And my slutty heels. I’m all set.”
“There is an expected attire for Casa Cashmere.”
“I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
“No one’s asking you to.”
“Oh, yeah? Don’t think I don’t see the Pretty Woman rebrand happening.”
He winces, then opens his mouth to speak, but I’m on a roll. “This is how it starts. First you stuff me into a blazer dress, and next thing I know, I’m married to some real estate developer named Doug, saying crap like ‘We simply adore summering in Saint-Tropez.’”
He wants me to look the part. Translation: He’s embarrassed by the real me. The me with tattoos and opinions.
“Pip, I’m asking for less friction. A few pieces. Things that’ll make the week easier. Do it for Gavin.”
“You rich boys are all alike. Why you want to marry the same blonde cheerleader is beyond me.” The words tumble out before common sense kicks in.
“It’s okay to go against the grain sometimes, ya know.
Try the rebel, not the debutante. The dark side’s got cookies and orgasms that don’t require access to your bank account. ”
Bryce’s eyebrows shoot up so fast, I’m surprised they don’t fly off his forehead.
Shit. The words hang there, sharp and stupid. Nice one, Petra. Great start to the trip. You lasted a whole twenty minutes before hitting on the hot engaged billionaire.
I clear my throat, shifting gears. “What about your clothes? When’s the last time you went on an actual vacation? ”
“I travel constantly.”
“Business trips don’t count. I’m talking tequila with your morning coffee, sand stuck between your toes, and swimwear that’s a little too revealing.” I lean forward, narrowing my eyes. “I bet you’ve never even worn flip-flops.”
“I own appropriate footwear for every occasion.”
“Here’s my counteroffer. I’ll go in there, let the fashion critics pick apart my second-hand wardrobe and resting bitch face. I’ll even ooh and ahh, pretending I know which overpriced designer made the clothes. But only if we both get vacation wear.”
His expression suggests I just proposed he do a striptease while riding a unicycle on the beach.
“I’m talking sunglasses, butt-ugly Hawaiian shirts, and at least one pair of shorts. If I have to pretend to be someone else for a week, then you have to take a vacation from being a buttoned-up CEO.“ I cock an eyebrow. “You said it. If I have to, you have to.”
“You’re going to make me regret this trip, aren’t you?” he asks, but there’s a strange light in his eyes— a flicker of anticipation, maybe?
“Oh, hell yes, Moneybags. Now, let’s go see those pretty ankles.”
The moment we step through the threshold, I’m assaulted by sheer… emptiness. This place isn’t a store; it’s a temple of minimalism. The marble floors are polished to perfection, reflecting all my shortcomings. And those velvet chairs? Art pieces, not meant for actual human asses.
Most disturbing? There are no clothes. None. Not a single rack or hanger.
“What the hell is this place?”
As if summoned, a man materializes before us like Dracula’s fashion-forward twin rising from a velvet coffin. Tall, rail-thin, dressed in funeral-black from neck to toe, tiny round glasses perched on his beaked nose. In one hand, he holds an iPad. In the other, a microscopic espresso.
When his eyes lock on me, he physically recoils. Ah yes. The Beverly Hills Welcome.
“Absolutely. Not,” he says, voice dripping in condescension. “We do not accept foot traffic, walk-ins, and certainly not—” his glare performs a scathing inventory of my entire existence “—whatever this is.”
“Take a breath, Mugatu,” I fire back. “I’m not here voluntarily. I’m being forced to dress like a society-lady robot so I don’t embarrass the billionaire elite.” I hook a thumb toward Bryce.
The man’s entire demeanor transforms. “Mr. Sterling! It’s been too long! Too tragic!” He swoops closer, air-kissing in Bryce’s general direction.
“Sebastian.” Bryce nods with that infuriating rich-person calm. “Good to see you again. We need a complete vacation wardrobe. For my… um… for Miss Brinkman.
“Mistress,” I supply helpfully. “He meant mistress.”
“Ah. That explains the confidence,” Sebastian says.
“Petra.” Bryce’s voice has that scolding edge that makes me go all gooey.
“What? It’s classier than ‘hooker,’ which is clearly what Fashion Frankenstein thought.”
Sebastian doesn’t deny it.
“This is Gavin Brinkman’s younger sister.”
“Impossible!” Sebastian’s eyes narrow as he scans me. “That breathtaking specimen of masculine refinement and this street pigeon share DNA? The universe cannot be so cruel! ”
“Well, this is off to a super fun start,” I mutter.