31. Jenna
JENNA
T hey look like they should be on the top of a wedding cake, McCarthy and Sable—the broad-chested billionaire and the elegant ballet dancer on his arm.
I resist the urge to pull at my thrift-store-find dress.
It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing, I remind myself. I’m the hired help.
A friendly waiter offers me another glass of champagne. I look longingly at his friend, who’s circling with a tray of lobster puffs.
Someone must have told them to stay away from the area where all the interns, PR, and assistants are congregated. We don’t deserve caviar.
I eat one of the pretzels in my bag and watch McCarthy. He’s so obviously flirting with Sable as they talk to the chairwoman of the Evergreen Trust.
I knew all his talk of wanting me, of rings and love, was just a lie, knew it, yet part of me wishes I were on his arm, that it was me he looked at like he couldn’t believe something so exquisite existed outside of his fantasies.
McCarthy’s going to take Sable back to his penthouse and sleep with her, and she’s going to drape herself like a movie star across his bare chest after and draw hearts on his collarbone, and they’re going to laugh while he tells her embarrassing stories about me.
Sable is perfect for him, and no, McCarthy is wrong—she’s not an escort, or if she is, she’s clearly got her sights set on being the next Mrs. Svensson. She’ll be a perfect corporate wife. They look natural together.
She leans up to kiss his cheek.
I murder a pretzel.
Jealous? Moi ?
As if. The men I pick are all in a race to the bottom, and McCarthy is doing shots at a bar in hell.
I down the rest of my champagne, letting the slightly sour bubbles fizz on my tongue as I look around for a refill. I almost choke on it when I see him .
One of my exes?
No.
Stalker?
Nope.
Random guy I dated in a fit of desperation who I knew wasn’t good for me or my biological clock, ready to jump to its fiery demise?
Also no.
It’s him . My father. He looks… Well, he looks good. Happy. Not like someone eaten up by regret that he’s been no-contact with his oldest daughter for the last fifteen years .
Devin’s there with a pretty-looking professional woman. She’s no Sable, but she’s made beautiful children with him. I know because I stalk her Instagram on the reg, especially when I’m drinking alone.
My dad was younger than appropriate when he got my mom pregnant at Burning Man. Now? I hate to admit it, but someone might think we were siblings—I, of course, being the haggard older sister. My dad looks jaunty and youthful, not a gray hair in sight.
“It’s a hairpiece,” I whisper to myself. I don’t even need a mirror to see the tears in my eyes. “It has to be a hairpiece, because it’s not fair otherwise.”
This right here is one of the reasons I jumped at the chance to go to L.A. with Brock after I graduated. Seattle’s a big city, but somehow, it’s small enough for me to keep randomly running into my father.
Devin looks in my direction.
I scurry behind one of the oversized flower arrangements, trying to calm down. Since I’m hidden anyway, I tug at my waistband, adjusting my tights.
Truman’s bark is the only warning before there’s a hand with a vise grip on my arm.
“I thought you didn’t sleep with clients.” Rex. Yeah, that Rex, with the undocumented sex dungeon.
“I—What?” I stammer, trying to catch my bearings.
Why is he here?
“You refused to fuck me even after I bought you that bracelet?” He’s drunk. I can smell it sour on his breath.
“I didn’t take it; it’s still in your house.” I’m trying to keep my tone even. “McCarthy is a client, just like you were. I am not sleeping with him. I’m not accepting expensive presents from him either. ”
Him getting me off in his car wasn’t sex—that was just poor decision-making on my part.
“You lied to me.” Rex grabs the strap of my bag.
Where is McCarthy? part of me shrieks.
“You going to stop being a tease and put out for me like you are for him?”
Truman growls.
Rex scowls down.
“Filthy animal.” He glares at me. “I don’t let women humiliate me. Don’t ever forget that.”
I gag after he stomps off.
I don’t need McCarthy to save me. I don’t care what he thinks.
Heart hammering, I bend over, trying to catch my breath and hushing Truman. With the other animals roaming around, he doesn’t draw any looks.
I smooth down my dress.
It’s good McCarthy didn’t try to save me. That would have been bad. It would have caused a scene.
The chocolate-covered potato chip helps me calm down. Another handful and I’m ready to hit the champagne again.
“I thought those were mine.”
“Eep!” I bite my thumb from where I’m licking grease from my fingers.
“Here to admit that you were wrong?” I throw his words back at him. “That you are an adult toddler and don’t like the snacks here?”
McCarthy makes a face.
“No one in their right mind wants shrimp that have been sitting out for God knows how long.” He picks up Truman and rummages around in my bag, plastic rustling. “Also, I saw someone’s cat walking all over the charcuterie station.” He’s holding a piece of jerky in his teeth, and he jostles me.
“Oh, hell yeah, peanut butter snack cups.” He rips one open and swipes out the jerky for it.
“Gross.”
“You’re eating chocolate and potato chips. This, at least, is healthy protein.”
He feeds Truman a bite. The dog makes smacking noises around the peanut butter.
It feels almost like we’re a couple, like we’re simply meant to be.
“You can’t be over here,” I finally force out.
“I already wrote them a check.” He drains the last of my champagne and leans in to quickly nip my ear. “Say, we can leave now?”
“No. Go make small talk, and try to be human. Where is Sable?”
McCarthy shrugs. “Left.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Maybe she had another client. I told her I wasn’t putting out and you weren’t actually paying her for her time, sooo.”
“For God’s sake, McCarthy, she’s not a prostitute. No wonder she left if that’s what you said. You know,” I shoot at him, “you probably could have gotten lucky with her. She was practically humping you in the middle of the ballroom, and I don’t think she’s wearing a bra under that dress.”
“Oh, she’s definitely not.” He smirks.
“Asshole.”
His eyes light up with dark glee. “Someone is jealous.”
“No. ”
“Yes, you are.” He purrs the accusation. “You’re mad that she was all over me.” His hands circle my waist. “She tried to touch my junk.”
I throw up my hands.
He sticks two fingers down the neck of my dress, pulling me to him so he can kiss me. “Don’t worry,” he breathes, “Her tits were definitely fake. I’d come all over yours any day of the week.”
“You know what?” I say before he can suggest something crazy like sex in the bathroom and I do something self-destructive like agreeing to it. “I think we should go. Sounds like we’re done here.”
I slap his hand when he grabs my ass.
“I win.”
He’s all over me in the limo.
“You gonna let me give it to you up the—”
I grab his chin. “No.” I wag a finger at him.
“That’s fine. I don’t mind coming in your pussy.”
“You’re going home. I’m going to the office.”
“I’m not letting you go to the office alone, Cupcake.” The switch from man-after-sex to man-out-for-blood is chilling. Gone are the bedroom eyes and the loopy self-satisfied smile. His gray eyes are chilling, his jaw set, his body taut.
“You think I’m going to let you out there at night, alone?”
“You don’t get to dictate my life. Here, you can take Truman.” I hand him the dog. “I have to catch up on work and do press releases.”
“Work from my study.”
“No, I—”
“I’m not arguing with you, Cupcake. ”
“I’m not arguing with you either. To the Prism offices, please.”
When the limo pulls up in front of the Prism PR offices, McCarthy climbs out of the car first.
“I can manage,” I tell him as he takes my wrist, tugging me out of the limo.
He slams the car door. “I told you,” he says, heading to get the office door for me, “I’m not leaving you alone.”
Friends, when I said I was going to the office, I had no intention of actually working.
I was probably going to rub one out in the wellness room then drink hard pear ciders left in the fridge and try to decide whether to spend money on a hotel or accept my lot in life and ask Zephyr to come pick me up and take me back to Mom’s.
Now McCarthy is standing silently in the dim office, two steps behind me to the left, while I fumble around on my laptop and pretend to work.
“What do you have to finish?” he finally asks as I painstakingly type out a social media post caption.
“I have to make sure everyone knows you made a donation. McCarthy does have a heart. Yay!”
I post the photos of McCarthy and Sable at the charity gala on social media then schedule additional posts for the next day too.
I fight the urge to sit and scroll mindlessly through the glitzy posts by the people I went to college with, including all my sorority sisters who dated good-looking, if dumb, fraternity brothers from rich families with nice parents and now have beautiful kitchens and happy children.
“Are you finished?”
“Um, just, you know, revising the ten-step plan. ”
He slams the laptop lid closed and spins me around in my chair, jerking me to a stop with his arms on the armrests.
“You’re not as good a liar as you think you are, Cupcake.”
“Stop doing this to me,” I hiss at him, overwhelmed. “I know you don’t like me. Just call Sable and have sex with her, and leave me out of it.”
“I don’t want her. I don’t want to fuck her. You know why? Because she’s not you.”
“Stop it!” I clap my hands over my ears. “I know you’re just telling me what you think I want to hear just to manipulate me.”
He grabs my head, his hands over mine, and kisses me furiously.
“I’m not trying to manipulate you. You don’t need to be manipulated to give in to me, because I know all I have to do is tell you that I want to fuck you on your boss’s desk, and you’ll say yes.” He laces his fingers with mine.