Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Pippa
Maria’s engine growls to life, and I’m whisked into a world that is equal parts dazzling and intimidating.
The East Hampton streets blur past us in a glossy rush of sunbaked buildings, boutique windows that sparkle like treasure chests, and shiny sports cars.
Maria chats relentlessly, her voice a constant hum over the sound of the sports car’s tires on the asphalt.
“So last summer,” she begins, her eyes sparkling. “We were on Elliot’s yacht. Do you know Elliot Hawthorne?”
“No. Not personally.” I shake my head.
“He’s the one getting married next weekend? Anyway, the sunset that night was insane. Everyone was drunk on champagne and laughing. The water was glowing like molten gold. And of course, the dress code was black tie.”
I glance out of the window at the sleepy seaside streets. “Black tie … on a yacht?”
Maria snorts. “Honey, that’s the whole point.
Swimwear by day, the skimpier the better.
And at night, you’re supposed to look glamorous and effortless while balancing on a swaying deck.
Someone always trips, someone always spills something, but you smile, you sip champagne, and nobody notices the minor disasters. ”
I raise an eyebrow. “It sounds exhausting.”
“Oh, it is, but it’s worth it,” she insists. “Then there was this other party at Harrison’s place, did you see it on the way in to Rhett’s place? It’s the one with the infinity pool that’s practically an ocean in itself.”
She glances at me, and I realize she’s waiting for me to answer her.
“I didn’t notice,” I say with an apologetic smile.
“Never mind. The theme was old Hollywood glamour. You can imagine the outfits, I’m sure.
Everyone arrived in gowns and tuxedos straight out of the nineteen fifties.
The host insisted on full elbow gloves for the ladies and bow ties for the men.
I wore a strapless silver number that shimmered like moonlight.
And the funniest part? Harrison’s dog somehow got loose and ruined half the hors d’oeuvres table.
People were laughing, and champagne was flowing everywhere.
It was chaos, but in a spectacular, society sort of way. ”
I can’t help giggling. “Your life is insane.”
She leans back in her seat and waves a hand dismissively.
“Insane, glamorous, ridiculous, take your pick. But it’s all about the stories you can tell afterward.
Like the time Elliot tried to impress everyone by jumping from the top sun deck into the sea, and he misjudged the distance.
He hit the main deck rather than the ocean.
He came out of it drenched alright, but not in seawater.
Half of the champagne on the deck ended up in his hair.
Absolute disaster, he carried it off well. And it became a fantastic anecdote.”
I shake my head, laughing, and imagine the scene, feeling both amused and a little overwhelmed. “I can’t imagine being able to do that. I’d have been mortified to have all those people staring at me.”
Maria shrugs. “You get used to it. Or you don’t.
Some people thrive on it; some people hide behind a dozen cocktails.
But by the end of the night, everyone forgets the small disasters.
They just remember the glamour, the fun, the sparkle.
That’s why dress codes matter more than people sometimes.
You have to play the part first, then the rest falls into place. ”
I glance at her, part incredulous, part fascinated. “And that’s … normal for you?”
She laughs, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Normal? Pippa, normal is boring. We want exciting, dangerous, thrilling.”
“Ooo … I’m not sure about that.”
“Trust me, you’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”
I glance down at my Zara dress, feeling both absurd and somehow proud. This is so out of anything I’ve ever known or done, and yet I’m having a blast.
The first boutique we visit is a blush-toned palace of sequins and silk.
I wander in, my eyes wide. A dozen racks of dresses shimmer under warm lights, the hangers sliding past each other like they’re conspiring.
They probably are. Against me. Maria wanders around, eyeing me like a hawk, then turning her eye to the dresses and selecting pieces with the air of a seasoned shopper.
“Try this one,” she says, stuffing a deep emerald sheath into my arm.
I head to the dressing rooms and strip off hurriedly. I pull the dress over my head and gape in the mirror. It’s … something. The color is flattering, the cut is sleek, but the thigh-high slit is higher than I’m comfortable with, and I’m worried I look more comical than upper-class.
“What do you think?” Maria calls.
“Um … it’s a bit … much?”
“Let me see,” she orders.
I figure I won’t get any peace if I refuse, so I open the fitting room and step out. Maria laughs, but it’s a laugh of delight, not a nasty laugh. She twirls me around and claps her hands with approval.
“Pippa, you look like a million bucks.”
I look at her disbelievingly.
“Trust me. You look hot. Look at yourself.”
I squirm, but I force myself to look in the mirror again, for longer this time. She’s right, the fit of the dress is impeccable, and even though I feel a little scandalous, the reflection staring back at me is good.
“Ok, it’s not as bad as I first thought,” I concede. “But I feel uncomfortable in it, and …”
“Say no more,” Maria says. “You have to feel good to look good. Let’s try on some more.”
I try on a few maybes, but nothing that wows me.
I also try on a few disasters along the way.
A powder pink gown with sequins that scratch the back of my neck.
A silver tulle dress that makes me look like a walking snowstorm.
A black silk number with shoulder pads so massive I briefly imagine myself starring in a nineteen-eighties sci-fi film.
Maria laughs at each failed attempt, and while I’m changing, she chatters relentlessly, telling me more of her stories of misadventures on yachts and parties.
She makes me laugh so hard I almost forget to breathe.
Finally, triumph. I find the ‘one’. A blush-colored chiffon dress cinched in at the waist, and flared just so.
It whispers elegance and class without screaming, ‘Look at me, I spent big bucks on this.’ Paired with a delicate fascinator selected by Maria, a small netted piece that perches jauntily on my hair, and nude patent heels that add just enough height, I feel like I could survive, even thrive, at Elliot Hawthorne’s big wedding.
Maria claps her hands together. “Now you need a cute purse.”
She pushes me toward accessories. Very quickly, I end up with a small cream clutch bag with gold hardware that actually fits everything I might need for a long day.
She encourages me into another two more outfits that she claims I will absolutely need.
One is designer casual, and the other is outrageously seductive.
Quite suddenly, and to my surprise, I find that we have drifted into the lingerie section. My stomach tightens, and I freeze.
“Maria, I … I don’t think …” I trail off.
“Pippa,” she says, smiling. “Rhett gave you his credit card to go wild. The least you can do is treat him back.”
She winks when she says it, and I more than catch her drift.
My heartbeat hammers, and I almost say no, almost cling to the illusion of being George’s faithful girlfriend.
And then I remember that I’m supposed to be Rhett’s girlfriend.
That was our deal. He kept his part of the bargain, and I’m not going to let him down.
Of course, I would want to wear nice underwear for him if that was really the case. And suddenly the idea isn’t embarrassing so much as it would be thrilling if I were really in a situation where I was going to be seducing him in racy underwear.
I end up with a delicate lace set in blush pink to wear with my wedding outfit.
It is soft and luxurious against my skin.
Maria throws in a tiny red teddy with black lace trims. A bit scandalous, if you ask me, but I suppose it’s flimsy, daring, and flirtatious.
I feel my cheeks go hot, but I also feel powerful, like I’m stepping into a version of myself I didn’t know existed.
By the time Maria drops me back at Rhett’s imposing mansion, I’m exhilarated and slightly dizzy from all the retail, the sunshine, and the caffeine from where we stopped for lattes.
The afternoon light glints off the ocean in the distance, the waves curling toward the shore like a silver ribbon.
My Zara dress and flats feel almost comical compared to what I’ve just acquired, but I don’t care.
I approach the mansion, and my stomach lurches.
This is like a scene from a movie. Never in my wildest dreams have I ever imagined a scenario like this.
Me playing pretend girlfriend to a billionaire.
The front doors are locked. The place is silent.
Rhett must still be at the office, and the housekeeping staff must have already gone home.
I let myself in with the key he gave me, and decide to have a look around.
I wander through the house, hearing my heels click and echo across the polished floors.
The interior of the place is breathtaking.
Marble floors stretch beneath my feet, reflecting the afternoon sun streaming through enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a private beach.
The living room is an expanse of cream sofas and glass tables, punctuated by bold art pieces that make me feel sophisticated just by standing near them.
The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and polished counters.
I try to picture Rhett here, aproned and cooking with an effortless flair, and I just can’t.
He must hardly ever use this house. It is immaculate and devoid of personal touches or photos. Almost as if it is a show home.
I wander upstairs. The guest rooms are spacious, each with its own view of the ocean.
I guess Rhett has chosen to give me the first one I come to because my suitcase is there waiting for me at the end of the bed.
I open the huge walk-in closet, hang up my three new purchases, and put my accessories beside them.
They look so lonely in that massive space.
I lift my suitcase onto the bed and unpack the rest of my things, hanging my normal dresses alongside the new designer pieces.
Small touches make me feel like a visitor in a world I’m not fully equipped to navigate.
Plush throws, scented candles in thick glass jars, delicate objects-de-art on plinths that I don’t dare even go near in case I clumsily fall against them and break them.
But the panic from earlier today has faded, replaced with a thrill, a sense that maybe I can do this.
Maybe I can belong here during this short trip.
Maybe it will be the adventure of a lifetime.
After organizing my things, I give up my heels for flip flops and go back downstairs.
Sliding back the tall glass doors, I slip out to the beach.
The ocean is endless, wild, and reassuringly impersonal.
The sand is deliciously warm under my bare feet, and the sound of the waves is hypnotic.
I walk along the shoreline, letting the salty breeze whip at my hair.
How absolutely wonderful a dream to have a private stretch of beach to yourself.
I think about the wedding, about George, about Rhett. About how far I’ve been pulled into a life that is overwhelming, but utterly intoxicating.
By the time I turn back, the sun is lower in the sky, casting long gold streaks across the water. The mansion looms behind me, welcoming and daunting in equal measure.
Rhett is in the kitchen when I walk back in.
He’s leaning over a pan, stirring something that smells incredible.
The golden light from the windows catches his hair, his strong jawline, the line of his shoulders.
I couldn’t picture him cooking before, but he looks effortlessly domestic and devastatingly attractive all at once.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, turning with a smile. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I could eat a horse,” I admit, smiling back at him. “What have you made?”
“The only thing I know how to cook. Chicken with lots of garlic, rosemary, and a big splash of cognac.”
We sit at the kitchen island, the scent of garlic and fresh herbs filling the air.
“You survived Maria?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.
I nod and laugh. “Barely. She’s insane, but in a good way. I feel like I’ve run a marathon just keeping up with her conversation.”
He laughs and nods his head. “That’s Maria. She’s a trust fund kid, and she’s got enough money to buy the whole city, and she’s not scary, is she?”
No,” I admit sheepishly.
“And did she judge you?”
I shake my head. I tell him about the shopping trip with Maria - the disasters, the triumphs, the blush dress, and yes, even the scandalous teddy. His eyes widen at the mention, but he says nothing.
“So?” he prompts, leaning forward, elbows on the counter. “Do you still want to leave?”
I shake my head, and I am pleased I do because I see Rhett’s shoulders relax.
“I’m ready for the wedding,” I say. “Well … mostly. I feel … more prepared. More like I can handle your world, at least for a few days.”
He smiles, satisfied, and reaches over to brush a loose strand of hair from my face. The touch is casual, effortless, and yet it makes my skin heat up. I can’t help it; his presence is magnetic, a current I can’t resist.
We eat the garlic-infused chicken with creamy mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, and the world feels almost normal. The waves crash softly in the distance, the kitchen smells divine, and for the first time since we arrived, I feel like I belong, just a little, in Rhett’s world.