CHAPTER 15
Caroline
I’m exhausted. Not just tired, soul-tired. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and settles there, unmoved by sleep.
The last week, Thanksgiving with my parents in Sonoma, drove me to the brink again and again.
Every conversation felt abrasive, every meal scraped against something already raw inside me.
They circled the same subject relentlessly: “are you dating anyone?,” “how about settling down?,” “what are you waiting for?,” as if my life were a delayed obligation rather than a conscious choice.
I dragged Michael and Mikey along with me - dragged is the right word.
Begging them to come wasn’t hospitality but a calculated survival tactic.
They charmed my parents effortlessly, gliding through conversations like seasoned performers who knew exactly when to laugh, when to distract.
Without them, I would’ve lasted a few hours at most before inventing an emergency and disappearing.
Brad showed up for brunch the day after Thanksgiving. It was two hours of slow, airless suffocation.
Brad isn’t unattractive. He’s pleasant enough.
Well-mannered. Legitimate. Safe. Predictable.
Respectable. A long list of qualities like a checklist. And God help me, he’s bored me senseless every single time we’ve met.
Even Michael clocked it instantly. He leaned over and murmured, deadpan, “How rigid do you think he’d be in bed? ” I nearly choked on my drink laughing.
Mikey had to rush back to New York for an emergency meeting, so my assistant handled the logistics for him.
Michael and I flew out Saturday, then promptly vanished into a gloriously irresponsible day in Paris before returning to London, barely tethered to reality while running high on wine, sarcasm, and all-around bad decisions.
Now, sitting in my car going back to my London home, Michael flashes his phone at me with a conspiratorial wink. “I just texted Mikey the picture of the hot guys from the bar,” He says now, leaning in as my driver takes a turn. “Let’s see what he says. It’s only seven in the evening there.”
“Ha. You’re torturing him,” I snort.
“Look at this guy,” Michael shrieks, shoving his phone inches from my face. “Hot. Straight. My darling, do you want me to text him tomorrow and set up a drink for you?”
“And you can wear some of that sexy lingerie I purchased on your behalf underneath your dress,” he adds, clearly pleased with himself.
He wiggles his eyebrows theatrically. I know exactly what he means by a drink.
Michael entertains himself during the day and shops for both of us while I work, then we reunite at night for our ritual of stupid drinks and unabashedly ogling random men in whatever bar he’s decided is worthy.
He’s almost married, so he lives vicariously through me.
Hence the fixation on hot, straight men. A public service, really.
“Oh, those?” I laugh. “They’re a bit much, don’t you think?”
“That’s precisely why they’re fun,” my menace, my hairstylist, cackles.
“And I won’t even charge you for being your full stylist. Honestly, you’ve gotten so dull with your workwear lately.
Should we fly to Paris one weekend and fix that?
Fun jackets. Cute dresses. Saint Laurent looks criminally good on you. ”
“We’re home, baby.” I open the car door and step out. “And yes, we can go to Paris anytime you like.”
“French guys are cute too,” Michael sighs dreamily, stretching the words, hands dancing in the air. “That accent… delicious.”
“Then why did you fall for Mikey?” I laugh. “He’s the living embodiment of New Jersey.”
“Love is blind and deeply irrational, darling.” He slips out of the car and drapes an arm around my shoulders. “But until you find one or reject one, just enjoy yourself. Anywhere we travel, get a hot guy there. French. Italian. Spanish. We can even go Slavic if that’s your thing.”
We’re giggling like teenagers again when he leans in and whispers, “Get a threesome. Do something wildly fun.”
“Caroline.” The voice cuts through the moment, clean and sharp.
I turn.
Edoardo steps out of a black car. What the hell is he doing here?
I haven’t properly spoken to him in weeks. A polite nod in passing earlier and that was already more than he deserved. I watch him close the distance in long, deliberate strides.
“Who is he?” Michael murmurs near my ear.
I don’t answer. My face feels carved from stone.
“Hi there,” Edoardo nods to Michael, then turns to me. “Caroline, may I speak with you for a minute?”
“Sure,” I reply flatly. “I have a minute.”
He hesitates.
“Here,” I add. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to…” He pauses, jaw tightening. “I want to apologize for what happened between us.”
“Okay. Apology accepted. You can go.” I cut him off without ceremony. Handsome or not, attraction doesn’t excuse carelessness. And after what Clive told me? He could beg if he wanted. I’m done.
“Baby, let’s go inside,” I say, tugging Michael toward the door.
“Hold on,” Michael grins. “This is fun. I’m not missing this.” Then, to Edoardo, “Tell me who you are, darling.”
Oh. Of course.
“I’m Edoardo,” he says, then turns back to me. “Caroline, I know I was wrong to use you to pressure Clive about my guest list…”
“Oh, the brooding Italian,” Michael cuts in, smiling wickedly. “I’ll give you this - you’re very good-looking.”
“That’s enough,” I snap. “Apology accepted. There’s nothing else to discuss.” My voice sharpens, each syllable honed. “Michael. Inside.”
Things only deteriorate when Michael begins circling Edoardo like he’s inspecting a particularly intriguing cut of meat.
“Darling, you go inside,” Michael says sweetly. “I’ll keep Edoardo company for a moment.”
I sigh. I know that look. His wicked imagination is already engineering something that will absolutely come back to haunt me. I turn on my heel.
“Caroline,” Edoardo calls urgently. “I’m really sorry. And I need you to know that I didn’t pretend. Not once.”
I wave him off, not slowing, but Michael’s arm shoots out, stopping me.
“Let me go,” I hiss.
“I was wrong to use you at first,” Edoardo continues. “But I didn’t lead you on. I backed down not because I didn’t want you,” His voice drops. “… I was attracted to you. I still am.”
Michael looks between us. Then he laughs.
“You two are ridiculous,” he says. “Like children.” He grabs each of us by the shoulder. “Come inside. Five minutes.”
He shepherds us through the gate, and pushes us through the front door, completely ignoring the warning look I give him.
***
Edoardo
The moment I step into the foyer, a bucket of water crashes down on me.
I try to dodge - too slow. The water hits full force, cold water knocking the breath from my chest. Before I can even regain my footing, a second bucket empties over my head, relentless and merciless.
“What the - ”
Caroline yelps next to me. “God, I’m going to kill you, Michael.”
I turn. She’s soaked as well, water dripping from her hair, her expression caught somewhere between shock and incandescent fury.
Her butler rushes forward with towels. “Wait – wait - you’re dripping - ”
“I’m aware,” Caroline snaps, wrenching one free and blotting at her clothes.
Michael stands there, laughing without restraint. I glance down at myself, then back at Caroline. Water pools across the marble floor, spreading around our feet. The butler hovers, visibly torn between alarm and barely suppressed amusement.
Michael laughs harder. Caroline exhales, sharp and exasperated, still not smiling, but something in her has loosened.
Then Michael tosses the last remaining water at us.
We both jolt and collide. Caroline slips.
I reach for her and miss, and we go down together. She lands squarely on top of me.
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” Michael gasps, still laughing, nearly doubled over.
The butler tries again with the towels, but neither of us takes them. I can’t stop myself. I start laughing too. At myself. At the sheer absurdity of lying drenched on the foyer floor, with Michael wild and infuriating and laughing himself hoarse, and Caroline once again landed on top of me.
A small smile finally curves Caroline’s lips.
Michael, damn him, has cracked something open. A narrow, unexpected opening.
I meet his gaze. He winks.
“Alright, wet puppies,” Michael declares. “Go dry yourselves.”
Ignoring Caroline’s protests, he herds us toward her bedroom.
“Clean up,” he says brightly. “And good night.”
Then he shuts the door behind us, sealing Caroline and me inside the quiet aftermath of his reckless, well-meaning interference.
Michael gave me an opening and I’m taking it. At this point, there’s nothing left for me to lose.
I step closer, even though I don’t fully know what I’m about to do, only that I need to hold Caroline tonight. If she pushes me away… fine. I’ll take it. I’ll let her hit me if she needs to. Let her unload every ounce of anger she’s been carrying.
“Caroline,” I breathe.
She just looks at me. She doesn’t retreat. There’s a trace of amusement still lingering from Michael’s chaos, but it’s already fading.
“I meant it,” I say, quietly but firmly. “Clive asked to meet you when I barely knew you, so I said ‘yes.’ But every time our paths crossed, it became more and more clear that I wanted to be with you myself.”
“Then why tell me now?” she asks, holding my gaze.
“Because I was afraid. I met you when I was still in a relationship. I fell for you while I was trying to untangle my life.” I don’t pause. I can’t afford to. “I didn’t know what to do with you. Or with myself.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“I started seeing another side of you. One that I couldn’t get out of my head, I still can’t. I realized I liked you, a lot.” I let out a slow breath. “I sound like a coward, don’t I?”
Her lips press together.
“I usually know exactly what I want, then I figure out how to get it.” I continue. “But somehow, you dismantled everything I thought I knew about myself.”
“Yes,” she says calmly. “You were a coward. And a cocky one.”
She strides toward the bathroom, but I step into her path. She arches an eyebrow.
“I’m getting a towel,” she says coolly. “We’re dripping everywhere. You’re welcome to stay in your wet clothes, but I’m drying off.”
Only now does my brain register how soaked we both are. But instead of logic, my thoughts fracture into images - Caroline in the rain, Caroline in that white silk dress.
The idea of peeling away wet fabric. The warmth of her bare skin. The smoothness of it.
My body moves before my mind can stop it. One arm pulls her toward me until we collide. The other lifts, angling her face up as I press my mouth to hers desperately, finally done pretending restraint was ever an option.