Chapter Thirteen
West follows me into the bungalow, and I look at him expectantly.
“What?” he asks.
“You know what.”
He scowls. “I’m not going to sing.”
Housekeeping has come and gone, and I fall back onto our fresh and very neatly made bed. “You made me a medical student and an avid co-exerciser who punishes you with great sex. What’s next? Did I save a bunch of orphans from a fire? Climb Mount Everest?” He walks around the small partition to turn on the shower, and I roll to my side, calling to him, “I toyed with the idea of saying you dressed up in a Breton shirt and beret and mimed a dramatic proposal but that seemed a little too far, even for me.”
He emerges while the water warms, scrubbing his face in frustration. “I think Alex is definitely suspicious.”
“What gave it away?” I ask dryly. “Him specifically asking about our five-year anniversary?”
“I don’t want to be back in this family any more than he wants me here. Can’t he just mind his business for once in his life?”
“Maybe he would if you didn’t antagonize him.” I shake my head at him in wonder. “It seems even less credible having me here if you’re going to act like such a basket case.”
West sighs miserably. “My family brings out the worst in me.”
I make a fist of solidarity. “Keep your eyes on the prize: your inheritance.”
His face does a weird little wince, like I’ve made a dig. Have I?
I must have, because he pauses before turning back to the shower. “It’s not just about my money.”
Rolling off the bed, I walk over to him. “West, dearest! I’m not judging you! We all have things that motivate us. I’d sacrifice a virgin to get my art placed in a big show.” I pause. “Hell, even a small art show. I just want my work out there. A hundred million dollars would motivate the hell out of me. I might even kill two virgins.”
West looks like he wants to say more but doesn’t. “I’m gonna shower.”
He stares and this time, I read the translation: Linger at your own risk.
I walk out to the deck and curl up in a papasan chair, facing the ocean. The sky has grown dark to the north, and I wonder if we’ll get a storm later. I pick up my notebook and pencil, starting to sketch out the horizon when I hear that maddening shower groan. I imagine his perfect Goddamn and have to close my eyes, focusing on the sound of the waves and not on what sexy things might also elicit more sexy noises.
I look down at my paper and begin sketching, not thinking, just drawing whatever runs through my mind. I’m not particularly good at figure drawing, but as the minutes pass, my hands move on instinct. A rough sketch of a chest, the geometric slash of collarbones. My pencil scratches across the page as I shape out bulky shoulders, long, defined arms. A torso narrowing at the muscular hips, with a dark line of hair leading beneath a waistband. I definitely do not think about running my fingertips there, biting his thighs, or wrapping my hand around his long, thick Godda—
“Anna.”
I startle, jolting upright and slamming the sketchbook shut. West is standing in front of me in shorts and what looks like an incredibly soft T-shirt.
“Sorry, were you working on something?” he asks with a smirk.
“It’s nothing.” I sit up, tucking the book behind me. “That was a fast shower.” Though I guess it was long enough to almost sketch a naked version of the man in front of me. “I’m going to take a nap,” I say standing to stretch. “I don’t think I slept very well.”
When I look up, West is gaping at me.
“What?” I point. “What is that face?” Gasping, I ask, “Oh my God, did I snore last night?”
His shock melts into an amused smile. “No, you did not snore. You were… a little cuddly.”
“Cuddly?” I ask, horrified. “Meaning what?”
“Don’t worry about it. Listen.” He sits in the chair beside mine and reaches for my forearm, guiding me back down. “I was thinking in the shower, and—”
“Oh, yes.” I lean forward. “Wait, wait. No.” I settle back and close my eyes. “Start from the beginning. You’re in the shower, the water pouring over your rock-hard abs…”
“Stop it,” he says, laughing. When I open my eyes, he’s gazing at me through long, dark lashes. “You were right last night. We—I mean I, really—need to take this more seriously.”
I shift in my chair, noticing the way West’s honeyed eyes track the movement. I look down and who can blame the man—there’s just so much boob visible in this Band-Aid of a bikini. Vivi and I are going to have a long conversation when I get home about what constitutes a swimsuit so the next time a billionaire asks me to pose as his wife, I’m better equipped for water sports.
“I’m all ears,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to believe me. His eyes linger on my chest.
“I…” He begins, and then rakes his hand through that glorious head of hair, blinking hard and turning his face away. “Tonight is the main welcome party. Most of the wedding guests should be arriving throughout the day and will be in attendance. There will be business contacts of my father’s everywhere. Reporters, photographers, you know.”
“I do not know, but I believe you.”
He smiles, but it vanishes quickly. “I think we need to be… affectionate.”
I’ve said as much myself, but hearing it from him now makes my confidence wobble. In what universe can I be closer to this man and not end up slobbering all over his chest? I barely kept it together this morning at his insinuation that he betrayed our routine by going for a run without me, and I punished him with some good old-fashioned anger fuckin’. I imagine him looking at me tonight with feigned love in his eyes at the party and my hands gravitating to his crotch like twin magnets.
I hold up my fists and give a silent cheer. “You know I’m down for whatever the job requires.”
West’s gaze dips to my boobs again and he squeezes his eyes closed. “Great.”
“So, the Operation Inheritance plan for tonight is to be more affectionate,” I say. “More of a team vibe and less of a ‘throw each other under the bus’ vibe.”
“Right.”
“How affectionate are we talking? Like we just had crazy sex, or like we’ll have crazy sex later? Or both?”
He rubs his hand through his hair, this time with a groan. “Do you really have to keep saying the word sex?”
I open my mouth to say it again just for kicks, but the sound is drowned out as an amphibious plane comes in for a water landing.
“I think you better give me a rundown of who’ll be there that you want me to charm,” I yell above the noise.
“Right,” he says again, his voice rising as the plane lands smoothly on the water only a couple hundred feet from our bungalow. “Well, the best ones to read up on a little are Danny Shoe, Patrick Lemon, and Nicola Ricci.”
I see movement behind him and stand up in shock, because a toddler—who must be two-year-old GW—has somehow walked along our narrow bridge all the way out to our bungalow?
“Sweetie, what are you doing?” I run over to him, picking him up, and immediately West is there, too, taking him from me, holding him tight in a panic. This tiny human just walked out ALONE along a bridge with NO RAILS built directly OVER THE OCEAN.
It hits me like a slap: what the fuck kind of place builds a long-ass bridge to a bungalow and has nothing but a flimsy rope for a handrail? Does no one ever bring children or disabled or elderly people here? Are the guests who come here so obsessed with capturing the perfect *vibes* in their Instagram post that they don’t want fucking guardrails ruining their shot?
West walks in a few circles, hugging his nephew and talking quietly to him and I’m temporarily distracted from my disgust. My ovaries stand up and exit my body with a forlorn salute, launching themselves into the monster soup.
“Is he okay?” I ask, coming up and resting my hands on GW’s shoulders. “You okay, buddy?”
“He seems fine,” West says, and meets my eyes. “I’m sure he has no idea how dangerous that was, do you, kiddo?”
“This bridge is so treacherous,” I whisper to West. “What are they thinking, putting the kids in a bungalow?”
“It’s fine,” West mumbles back, and I’m sure he’s seen a million private islands with all kinds of inaccessible features. I’m sure this is nothing. “They just have to keep a closer eye on him.”
GW snuggles into West’s neck and says, “I went for walk.”
“Yeah, you did.” He looks at me over his nephew’s shoulder. “I’m going to take him back over to Alex and Blaire’s. I’m sure they’re freaking out wondering where he is.”
I EXPECT WEST TObe back and hanging out on the deck when I come out of the shower, but the bungalow is still empty. I do think he’s right, though; if the most important thing in our plan is to be convincingly married so his family has no reason to start digging into our lives, then we need to step it up a bit.
I’m not sure, but I think women in rich circles are good about knowing things about the people they’ll meet at parties. At least that’s the way it goes on Real Housewives. The Wi-Fi on the island is, perhaps not surprisingly, incredibly slow but it works, and I pull a page from my sketchbook, writing down information on the names I remember West saying: Danny Shoe, Patrick Lemon, and Nicola Ricci.
But I don’t just go to their LinkedIns or Wiki’s; I dive deeper. If there’s one common skill every adult woman possesses, it’s how to scope out a friend’s prospective or cheating love interest on the Internet. This knowledge is half of why I have zero Internet presence. (The other half is laziness.)
And thank God I dive deeper, because after some Instagram cross-referencing between West, Jake, and Charlie, I realize that Danny Shoe is in fact Danielle Xiu. She posted an airport selfie yesterday with the caption IAD > SIN, along with several airplane and bridal emojis. She is also quite the Barbie aficionado, and I send a silent thank-you to the universe that nobody keeps anything private anymore.
Just as I wrap up my glacially paced but successful googling, an email pops up from my manager, Melissa.
Dear Anna,
Amazing news! I have placed three of your paintings at a gallery showing in Laguna Beach! They will need to be picked up tomorrow; I’ll send a courier. What is a good time to meet at your apartment?
The price will be set at $200 each—how does that sound to you?
Call me if you have any questions.
Best,
Mel
I stand up, do a few circles in place, not sure what to do with my hands, my feet, my face. Excitement is helium in my bloodstream; I feel jittery, high, floating outside my own body.
Where is West? Did he go and sacrifice a virgin on my behalf? If so, it was not necessary but so appreciated. This is not the kind of email one wants to receive alone! This requires celebration, shouting, maybe some hot making out—no, Anna, stop that. At the very least, I need a high five.
I high-five myself, and then type out a quick reply.
I’m out of town but will make sure my roommate is there to meet the courier. This is so exciting! The price sounds perfect. Thank you, Mel!
xo
Anna
I text Lindy and ask what time she can be home tomorrow and whether she can bring the three paintings to the living room. She replies immediately, and I forgive her for eating my tagine. Ladies and gents, things are looking good for Anna Green!
With West still MIA, I have nothing to do but venture out to the beach to potentially get accosted by a member of the Weston family or get dressed for the cocktail welcome party tonight. Everyone will be excited for their first day here, so I decide to go all out.
By the time West’s footsteps sound along the bridge, I’m finishing the final curl in my hair. My initial primping enthusiasm has worn off and now I fear my vibe is less “beachy hot” and more “desperate D-lister on red carpet.”
He rounds the corner, already speaking. “Sorry! Sorry. I got caught by Blaire—she slapped my ass three times when I—” West stops abruptly when I step out from behind the half wall behind the bed. “Holy fuck.”
“It’s overboard,” I agree immediately. “I went overboard, right? With the curls? And the winged liner? And who needs lips this pink? Definitely not me.” I turn to go grab some toilet paper to wipe it all off. “This is not a beach vibe.”
“Don’t you fucking touch the lips,” he says, voice hoarse. “You look amazing.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I am hot all over. “Thank you. You’re good at this game.”
He drags his attention from my toes, up my legs, over my breasts, along my neck, to my eyes. My dress reminds me of something a flapper from the 1920s would wear: square neckline, thin black straps, falling straight to midthigh and covered in long, rectangular silver sequins that shake like fringe when I boogie. “Yeah. This is a good look for you.”
“You have horny eyes,” I tell him.
“Yeah? Well.” He squeezes them shut.
“I will need you to zip me up, though.” I turn around, pulling my hair forward and looking back at him over my shoulder. “Please?”
He takes a deep breath. “Sure.”
Am I imagining that the air warms when he steps up behind me? I feel the slightest touch at the base of my spine as he reaches for the zipper, and then the slowest, softest, graze of his thumb as he pulls it all the way up.
“There.” Another deep breath, and when I face him, he turns toward the closet. He looks winded. “I can change really quick.”
“Don’t go changing,” I sing, “to try and please me.”
“Well done.” West rifles through his clothing options. “You’ve doused the horny fire by singing my mother’s favorite song.”
“I just want you to know that unlike some roommates of this bungalow, I’m here to serenade whenever you feel the need.”
“Noted.”
“Okay. I’ll step outside while you change.”
“It’s fine,” he says, and looks back at me. “You were right. At some point, we just have to say fuck it, I think. Besides, there’s no mystery left after that bikini.”
He’s right. But I still want to pretend to be respectful. I spend the next ten minutes studying my notes on Dani, Patrick, and Nicola. I am ready for these bigwigs.
A hand comes over my shoulder, and I turn to see West in a crisp white shirt and heathered gray pants he’s rolled at the hem. I didn’t think a man could dress up for a beach party without looking like a knob, but West has done it.
Also, those pants do amazing things for his…
Goddamn.
I clear my throat, but it doesn’t matter. My voice comes out like the mewl of a cat in heat anyway: “You look very nice.”
He laughs, pulling on a sport coat. “Thank you. Eyes up here, Green.”
I drag my gaze away from his crotch. “Right.”
“Ready?” He holds out his arm for me.
“Ready.”