Chapter 18 Winnie
WINNIE
“Ineed to be an adult,” I say.
“Oh my god, are you going to finally relose your virginity?” asks Carolina.
We are now all piled in my bed.
No, my stalker didn’t leave me any pasta, but Dad did make his famous crab dip. And some rando in the lobby gave Kathy a bottle of white because apparently when you’re an ex-model, people just hand you things you didn’t even ask for.
“I need to put aside all the childhood issues I’m projecting onto Fitz and just ask Fitz to date Kathy,” I whisper to Carolina as I scoop up more dip. “He’s clearly into her.”
“Is he? He practically had his tongue down your top.” Carolina giigles drunkenly. “He wants to fuck you.”
“Yeah, but he wants to date Kathy. She fits into his world.”
“You just inked a big deal with one of those baby-faced wannabe developers. You guys are a little more—” She laces her fingers together. “Synchronous.”
“No, we aren’t.” I stuff crab dip in my mouth.
“We’re not fated lovers or whatever.” I spill some of the wine while pouring it into my glass.
“This is the real world. Guys like him don’t fall in love with girls like me.
They fall in love with girls like Kathy.
And if I want my house and my life back, I need to make sure they end up together. ”
My family and friends are arguing.
“The way to a man’s heart is his stomach.”
“No, it’s not. It’s through his dick.”
“That many pastries is a way to a man’s heart attack.”
Gritting my teeth, I ignore them as I pile a pink-and-black Brew & Browse box with savory-and-sweet pastries.
“Winnie, you can’t do this. I think he likes you,” Kathy cries. “You should take these as an apology present and tell him you are interested and you’re sorry that you didn’t get to have messy, paper-ruining sexy times in his office.”
“I’m doing this for you, Kathy.”
“You don’t have to give up the love of your life for me.” She starts crying. Olive completely leaves the coffee order she’s supposed to be making to come comfort Kathy.
“Stop being so dramatic—Olive, you can’t just leave that milk container sitting there. You need to hold it while the milk—”
Pffftttsss!
“Oops! I’ll clean it up,” Olive calls.
“He asked you out on a date, for God’s sake. He was about to fuck you in his office,” Carolina complains as she grabs a rag.
“No, he wasn’t. He was just venting,” I tell them as I tie a bow around the box.
I am suddenly exhausted, not wanting to go round and round in that circular argument with my sister about how, no, the way she lives life is not the same as us normal people. We don’t have billionaires and star hockey players falling all over themselves to get with us.
“Now, Kathy.” I turn to my sister. “I’m going to try to get him to agree to a date in the next few days. So you’re going to need to woman the fuck up, okay? No bailing.”
“I’ll have to see how my social battery is feeling.” My sister clasps her hands.
“No, you need to run an extension cord to the crack house across the street and keep it moving,” I tell her. “This is your chance at happiness, at a good life, at separate housing facilities for our parents. You can be sweet and charming. Carolina, help?”
“Protein,” my friend says. “You need to eat protein. We’ll do a detox.”
“Do whatever you need to do to make Fitz love you.”
“Now this”—Fitz leans back in his chair—“is more like it.”
I grind my teeth. We need him…
And no, not like that.
“A woman bearing pastries come to grovel and whimper and tell me she made a mistake leaving me and my credit card late at night when all I wanted was the pleasure of her company,” he drawls, twirling his pen in his fingers like all the varsity athletes in high school used to do while they ignored the English teacher.
Fuck this asshole. I really have to dig deep to keep from dumping the whole box of pastries over his head.
He just grins at my annoyance.
We’re in his office in the Soundview Hotel. There’s a hundred million dollars’ worth of art in the office—Renoirs, Ming vases next to rare books on the mahogany shelves.
Masculine maximalism.
“Set them on the bar.”
“You just love telling people that, don’t you?”
“No, my favorite thing to say to people,” he says, standing up and buttoning his jacket, “is ‘Make you a drink?’”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“Don’t you have a mug that says ‘It’s Booze O’clock Somewhere’?” He snickers.
Yes, I do have that mug, and no, I won’t admit it to him.
“No.”
“Hmm.” He laces his fingers in the black-and-white bow on the box, pulling at it.
“There are savory ones in there too. I know you liked the stuffed pretzels,” I tell him.
“Sweet, savory, or…”
“Or?” I blink up at him. He’s unreasonably close. I swallow and force myself to keep his gaze.
“Or?” Two fingers tip my chin up. “What if I say I want option number three?”
I can’t speak, can barely breathe. I don’t know if I want him to kiss me or want to want him to kiss me, want an attractive guy to actually want me, to like me, to love me.
He leans in.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
He doesn’t kiss me.
Because of course he doesn’t.
Of course it’s all in my head.
“Still rocking the pineapples.”
I clutch at my earrings that I was too lazy to change.
“I run a hotel, Creampuff,” he says as he selects a raspberry-and-chocolate tartelette. “I know what the swinging pineapple means.”
Of course.
He’s just messing with me.
Classic.
The dumb teenager in me still wants it to be real, for it to finally, for once, be my turn, be me the guy wants.
Grow up.
“How do you feel about dating—”
He chokes on the pastry. Sets it down. “You actually want me to take you out?”
There’s that emphasis again on you.
“Me? What?” I choke out a laugh, play it off like I didn’t care that he didn’t immediately sweep me into his arms and fly me to Paris for a romantic date right then and there. “No, my sister. Supermodel, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. You met her a couple times. Seems just your style.”
I read the intrigue in his eyes.
I can’t draw this out. My heart’s not going to take it.
Again, the drama, Winnie.
It’s all the wine and late nights outside of my house.
“She’d be the perfect billionaire’s girlfriend. Pretty. Doesn’t run her mouth.”
The corner of his mouth turns down.
“She’s basically a virgin.” I grasp for all the tropes, anything that would make my sister enticing. “She has self-esteem issues and just wants a man to run her life. Also, she’ll probably name your children something problematic, so definitely don’t give her free rein with the birth certificates.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Those gray eyes just bore into mine.
Then something snaps into place.
Cold.
It’s unnerving.
He breaks the glance.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, going for another pastry. “I do have other options, you know. Also, other women send nudes, not pastries, when they want to fuck their way into a billionaire lifestyle.”
This mother—
“No.” I slam the lid on the box.
He tries to take the food.
“No food if you don’t date my sister.” I wag a finger at him. “You don’t get to eat for free and be difficult.”
“Fine,” he snarls, grabbing the box back. “I’ll date your sister. But she better know how to cook like this.”
My sister burns water—one of Knox’s many complaints.
“Great,” I snap. “I’ll let you plan something then. Tell me what time works for your first date.”
I stomp out of his office, furious so I don’t have to be sad.
I just need to find a way to make them fall in love.
Then I can worry about figuring out how I’m going to survive living in the same city as my sister and her new billionaire husband—aka the man that I have a massive humiliating crush on.
I wipe my eyes in the elevator on the way down to the lobby.
Won’t be the first time and, honestly, probably won’t be the last.
“Well, Kathy, I have a date for you.” I force the smile onto my face.
“With your Fitz?” Kathy cries.
“He’s not my Fitz,” I snap then try to calm down. “Anyways, he’s going to let me know when the date will be and where. I’m going to give you my credit card. You need to buy some West Coast–appropriate outfits. Seattle men of his caliber like a certain understated luxury.”
“Didn’t he grow up in a polygamist commune?” Kathy wrinkles her nose. “That’s what Carolina said.”
“Don’t mention the commune on your date,” I scold. “I’m going to give you a list of safe topics. Study it because there will be a quiz.”
“I don’t think I can go.” Kathy hugs herself.
“Kathy,” I bark at her, hating that I sound like a bitch.
“I am doing this for your benefit. Everyone here has had to uproot their lives because of you. I’m busting my ass here yet again to save you from yourself, and you’re once again spitting in the face of my efforts. ” My eye is twitching like crazy.
“I know, Winnie.” Her lower lip trembles. “I’ll date Fitz.”
“Great. Read his Wikipedia page.” I press my finger to my temple. “I’m going jogging.”
“Winnie is exercising!” my mom yells to my dad.
“Don’t overdo it, kiddo. You gotta work up slowly to that intensity.”
“I’m going to make a salad for dinner to celebrate.” Mom claps her hands.
“Sounds great, Mom. You want to microwave some fish while you’re at it?”
My dad is furiously chopping cabbage when I step out into the clammy, foggy Seattle night air.
My legs already hurt, and all I’ve done is walk down the sidewalk.
“This is good. This could be the start of turning over a new leaf,” I pep talk myself as I stretch and pull something in my stomach. “We’re saying yes to health.”
The motivational speech carries me as far as the corner.
I’m beat.
I’m dying.
“I’m not going to make it home,” I say through a gasp.
I seriously consider calling my dad to come drive and get me from the corner.
Come on, Winnie, let’s make it to the trail at least.
All I can think about as I trudge, sweating, up the hill to the Redwood Trailhead is all those pastries that I gave Fitz.
“I could use a pizza roll right now. The sausage one with the caramelized onions and mushroom with that hint of basil and the gorgonzola.” I lean over the back of the exercise equipment, gasping for breath.
“I’m not going to make it back.”
My phone beeps. The perfect excuse to stop.
Carolina: Kathy says you are JOGGING????
Carolina: WTF
Carolina: This is a massive cry for help.
Carolina: This is your soul begging for Fitz.
Carolina: I’m driving over to come find you.
Carolina: I’m bringing wine and pizza.
“Pizza…”
Wheezing, hands on my hips, I pant as I try to get my arms to stop shaking enough to type out a response.
I hate exercise.
I register the footsteps as I respond to Carolina.
Winnie: I’m saying yes to health.
Carolina: This is worse than I thought.
Winnie: Mom is making cabbage and kale salad with a watery mustard vinaigrette.
Carolina: I’m sorry, a what?
Winnie: I’m turning over a new leaf.
Winnie: Going to give up wine.
I scoot out of the way to avoid the man from the footsteps who’s jogging way more easily than I was to the trailhead.
Winnie: Might join a running club. I think I’m sort of getting into it.
Carolina: You’ve completely lost it.
I’m not even going to look at him. Even the footfalls sound attractive. I can’t have any more unattainable crushes. I need to get back to the investment-bitch Winnie who didn’t give men the time of day and certainly didn’t pine over the guys who only like her sister.
Winnie: Maybe I could split the difference and join a—
“Fuck!” I choke out as a heavy gloved hand grabs me by the neck. Thick, worn pants scratch my bare legs. The scent of motorcycle grease floods my nostrils.
He doesn’t say anything as he clamps a leather glove over my mouth and drags me back into the shadows.
My legs are already shot from the running. I can’t put up a fight.
I claw ineffectively at the rough black leather-and-canvas jacket he’s wearing. Pinning me against the wall with his knee, one hand on my neck, he pulls up the mask—just the bottom part—enough that I get a flash of the strong jaw until his mouth is locked on mine.
You’d think it would be weird kissing a stranger.
Except—
I know him.
It’s dark, thrilling.
It’s the stalker. He wants me.
His hands in the gloves are rough on my waist, pawing through the sweaty clothes as he kisses me in a frenzy, not saying anything.
I want to hear his voice.
His tongue plows into my mouth until I almost gag, trying to breathe through my nose.
I rub against his leg as the large hand holds my jaw steady, tipping my head back so he can kiss me rough and deep.
I could practically come from that kiss.
When he releases me, I sink to the ground, my legs fully giving out.
By the time I have the wherewithal to look up, the mask is back in place.
“Who are you?” I croak.
Nothing. Just a heavy rush of breath behind the mask. Then he’s gone.
And isn’t it just the fucking thing?
Part of me—a tiny part—wishes it was Fitz instead.