CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me: Quick poll: How wrong is it to ride your ex-crush like a thirst pony?
Katie: Petra Monroe Brinkman. You did NOT!
Me: Don’t lecture me, but yes, Bryce Sterling rearranged my organs last night.
Cam: ?DIOS MíO! PETRA! After so many “I’m over him” speeches?!
Me: I am not catching feelings. It’s casual. My vagina is very grateful.
Katie: Sweetie, you got a tattoo for this man. That’s not casual.
Cam: Rating needed. Scale of “meh” to “soul left my body?” Spill!
Me: There were unicorns leaping over rainbows, splashing through candy fountains with glitter raining down like confetti. Just like my teen journal predicted.
Katie: Happy for you. We just don’t want to see you hurt again.
Me: My body is satisfied. My heart is locked away. Call it character growth.
Cam: Whatever happens, we’ll be here with CPK and hugs.
I WOKE UP IN my own bed this morning with no clue how I got there. Like, zero.
If not for the delicious ache between my thighs and suspicious red marks circling my wrists— are rope burns my new favorite accessory? —I’d swear last night was another ridiculously hot Sterling sex dream.
But it wasn’t.
The orgasm count was real—I lost track after five. The emotional mess I made of myself? Also very real. I told him I wanted him—like a hormonal idiot—with words and everything.
Now I’m sweating my ass off in Casa Cashmere’s pretentious art salon, my houndstooth Valentino mini dress trapping heat like it’s mad at me. Still, I’m doing my best to resemble a functioning adult.
Unlike Echo—the Human Psychedelic Trip—who is channeling his inner cult leader for a crowd of bored billionaires.
His man bun glistens, and his linen pants are soaked in either passion or humidity—I don’t want to know which.
He’s a true showman, grunting loudly and flailing his paintbrush with passion.
His latest creation: the wedding portrait.
Bryce isn’t here.
No text. No “last night was fun” follow-up. Not even a tragic little emoji. Just… poof. Gone. He might as well have left a hundred-dollar bill on my nightstand.
Ugh. I need to think about something else.
The morning sun cuts through the stained-glass skylight overhead, filling the room in a dazzling array of colors. On a raised platform built for ego and aesthetics, Gavin and Fiona pose with confidence.
My brother is the picture of masculine elegance in his charcoal suit. Beside him, Fiona predictably drips in diamonds, her emerald couture gown a cascading waterfall of silk and sparkle. There’s no mistaking it—she’s glowing from all the attention.
They look annoyingly perfect. And they assume that is the pose Echo is painting.
He is not.
From my strategic corner position, I’ve got front-row seats to Echo’s interpretation of wedded bliss.
Holy. Fucking. Hell. This isn’t distinguished artwork. This is what happens when Michelangelo gets horny and traumatizes future generations.
Canvas-Fiona is nude. Not sorta nude. Not strategically draped. No. She is full-on, Renaissance-reclining-on-a-cloud nude. One arm lifted like she’s summoning the spirits of lust, the other cradling a breast to an audience of peeping Tom cherubs.
And my brother?
Homeboy has wings.
Massive, iridescent, Victoria’s-Secret-model-type wings, spread behind him like he’s leading the armies of heaven into war.
Instead of a sword, he’s clutching Fiona as if she’s the last virgin in the apocalypse.
A whisper of fabric hovers over his junk—the only thing standing between this painting and an NC-17 rating.
Gavin has no idea.
The poor man thinks he’s getting a legacy portrait. Something classy. Something his future children will stand under in monogrammed pajamas while sipping hot cocoa at Christmas.
I’m struggling so hard not to laugh that I might swallow my own tongue.
“Each brushstroke celebrates the mystic union of spirit and flesh!” Echo proclaims, sweeping his brush dramatically over Gavin’s painted nipples. “The divine consummation of soulmates reborn in celestial bliss!”
My brother adjusts his pose slightly, appearing pleased as punch. “We wanted something that captures our enduring love.”
Oh, it’s capturing something all right.
I should tell him that he’s the unwilling star of Biblical erotica.
I absolutely will not.
This is my reward for waking up in a post-orgasm shame spiral while my sex partner-turned-ghost haunts me with his absence.
Reluctantly, I return to my laptop. Petra Brinkman: Wedding Assistant. That’s my role here. Not Spiraling Girl Who Had Scream-Your-Throat-Out Sex with the Groom’s Best Friend.
I force a reset. Time to get my head in the game. Finish this job for Gavin, secure the college funds, and then go save the world as a kickass pro bono lawyer. I repeat it, a silent promise, even as my brain’s rebelling and returning to Bryce. Damn it.
To: Casa Cashmere Events Team
Subject: Updated Seating Chart - Please Don’t Make Me Do This Agai n
Hi there! Here’s the new arrangement. If anyone asks to switch tables again, I’m setting myself on fire.
Delete.
Hi. I changed everything one more time because apparently I’m a wedding goblin and I hate myself. Chart attached.
Delete.
Dear Team. Seating chart attached. This is version… I don’t know, infinity? Let’s consider this one locked down or else. Cheers, Petra
Send.
I inhale, and boom—my brain’s once again spinning on that what-if carousel, flipping through worse-case scenarios like it’s training for the Anxiety Olympics.
What if he’s having second thoughts about defiling his best friend’s sister?
What if he’s calculating the many friendship rules he’s violated with his dick?
What if he carried my unconscious body over to my room like he was disposing evidence and wants to pretend it never happened?
What if he’s practicing his “lapse in judgment” speech in real time?
I need this humiliating disaster of a trip to end ASAP so I can crawl back to my shitty apartment and never see him again.
“Wildcat, how’s it looking over there? We haven’t gotten a peek yet.”
Gavin jerks me from my daydream (daymare?) right as Bryce enters the room.
He claims the empty chair beside me with calm assurance. Not a single word. No hint of a smile. Not a damn thing to show he remembers that less than eight hours ago, I was his willing prisoner, tied to his bed, moaning for him to please not quit .
The man’s gone full statue. Silent. Expensive. Gorgeous.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the full effect.
A navy suit that emphasizes his powerful shoulders, the very ones that pinned me against walls, doors, and his bed.
His hair is smugly styled, those dark-blond strands slicked back.
His jaw is clean-shaven now, but last night, when that sexy stubble scraped against my inner thigh…
Yes, please. Dear Lord, I made some indecent sounds last night.
He just sits there as if I’m invisible.
Oh, he’s feeling regret. Is that it? Message received. Loud and dickless.
I bet he’s already processed his hot, sweaty miscalculation. He took me for a test drive but has swerved back into his emotionally unavailable lane.
Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.
He wants to pretend last night didn’t happen? Fine. I’m on the brink of not giving a single fuck. And you, Bryce Sterling, can choke on every second of it.
I cross my legs, slap on a serene smile, and stare at Echo as he immortalizes my brother’s (ahem) angel-winged penis.
“Bryce?” Gavin shifts in his pose. “You’ve got the best view from there. Initial thoughts?”
“Bold,” he responds.
Oh sure, Gavin gets a whole word from Mr. Manners.
“He’s giving you more than you asked for,” I add. “Really capturing your brand.”
“Bryce, can you take over my ten a.m.?” Gavin asks, clearly getting restless. “This portrait session is running long.”
“Gav-Gav, sweetheart, this is our artistic legacy,” Fiona purrs. “Someday our children will inherit this beautiful representation of our love.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “don’t think they’ll be fighting over this one.”
“What’s the agenda?” Bryce replies.
“It’s the auditing team,” Gavin says while maintaining his statuesque pose. “Someone leaked rumors about executive restructuring at Heartvest. They want clarification that there is no shake-up before we finalize the public offering.”
The transformation in Bryce is immediate (and alarming) . His entire frame goes rigid. That telltale finger starts its nervous percussion against his thigh—tap-tap-tap—and his breathing suggests internal panic.
Whatever this restructuring rumor involves, it’s hit a nerve the size of the Grand Canyon.
“SILENCE! The moment is climaxing!” Echo booms across the salon as if he’s summoning lightning. “And Gavin, for the love of Aphrodite’s ankles, stop shifting. Your aura is wrinkling.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bryce announces, vaulting from his chair like the seat has caught fire.
He’s out the door before I can blink. My phone buzzes.
Moneybags: We need to talk.
Oh, hell no. Nothing good ever follows those four words. I’m already picturing his cover-your-ass speech about maintaining appropriate boundaries and preserving his sacred friendship with Gavin.
Me: No need. I had fun. You had fun. One night. That was the point, right?
The little typing bubbles appear. Then disappear. Then reappear. Then vanish again like they’re emotionally conflicted Morse code.
Finally:
Moneybags: If that’s what you want.
And there it is. The polite agreement to pretend our night of passion never happened. No fight. No protest. Just… acceptance.
My throat splinters like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
I’m seconds from throwing myself a one-woman sob parade, when Hana plops into Bryce’s empty seat with a dreamy sigh.