Chapter 3 #2
“Definitely 90210,” Kimber and I say in unison, the three of us falling into a fit of laughter.
“Chardonnay it is,” Betsy tells the server before handing him two twenty-dollar bills. “We need a good buzz. Not the kind we regret in the morning.”
“You’ve decorated homes for everyone important under the sun. Celebrities, athletes, government leaders. It’s a big deal for them to land you, babe,” Betsy continues, and I couldn’t agree more.
“I’m so glad we were able to come out and celebrate,” I cheer.
It’s been too long since the three of us have had a free weekend to just get out and relax a little. It’s true what they say about living in the city—it never sleeps.
I’m always traveling. Always on the go and never at home for longer than a week at a time, most months. And living in the city is not cheap, but it’s a lifestyle I love and wouldn’t trade for anything. Which comes at a higher price tag, unfortunately.
Although I make a lot more than most women in my field and for my age, I had to heavily depend on my savings for big purchases. Since my mom was my sole parent, I never wanted to ask her for anything that the typical parent wouldn’t pay for.
Like a car. Downpayments. All of the things you don’t realize you’ll need to pay for until the time comes.
I got a job at fifteen. Bought my own car.
Paid for insurance. Literally any need I had as a teenager and young adult, I covered on my own.
Hence, the reason my savings are nearly nonexistent.
My income is substantial enough to allow me to live comfortably for the cost of living in Miami, but there isn’t much room for both—living and actively saving.
That’s why I’m nearly working my life away picking up extra flights.
I even considered taking out a small loan for my mom and not telling her where I got the funds. She’s an emergency room nurse, working long hours as is, and unfortunately, underpaid and underappreciated.
But I know how much that house means to her, and I would hate to see her lose it over issues that are entirely out of her control.
“Oh my god, Cove. I totally forgot to ask you. What’s going on with that sugar daddy you flew private for last week? Have you seen him again?” Kimber asks.
Betsy bites her fist, fighting to regain control and not screech. “Nice to see you holding in your slutty comments for once, Bets,” I mumble, casting my pretty friend a squinted smile.
Betsy and I live together by choice. We rent a penthouse in downtown Miami, and it works since we both have wildly chaotic schedules.
We take care of each other. She’s my best friend and all the company I need.
But the one downside of living with your best friend is that they know everything about your life by default.
Betsy calls it a perk; I call it an imposition.
I keep telling her that nothing about my encounter with Stetson Cole was memorable.
He’s just a guy.
Just an older, wealthier, established, likely more experienced, and deadly for my feminine willpower, unfairly attractive guy.
We had a conversation at the airport bar. That’s all there was to it.
“Of course she hasn’t seen him again, Kimber,” Betsy mutters. “It’s Cove we’re talking about here. She’s allergic to men.”
“I am not allergic to men,” I deadpan.
“Well, you definitely don’t like women,” Betsy counters.
I wish I did, Bets. I wish I did. “Trust me. If I had any choice in the matter, I would,” I sigh.
“So, you’re saying you aren’t attracted to Stetson?” Kimber asks, her face in shock at the possibility.
“I’m not delusional, Kimber. Of course I’m attracted to him. What I can’t figure out is how in the hell everyone knows who Stetson Cole is? He’s a cattle rancher in Texas.”
They both laugh hysterically, making my eyes roll with impatience.
“Oh, babe. We had no idea who Stetson Cole was before you. I just took the liberty of looking him up once you mentioned him chatting you up at the bar, and immediately relayed the good news to our dear friend Kimber. We’ve done thorough research. ”
“And hate to break it to you, Cove, the guy is a stud. Like a modern-day cowboy, with forty-year-old washboard abs, looking for a forever wife. Except, he’s never been seen entertaining anyone,” Kimber adds.
Betsy unlocks her phone and scrolls to her Notes app, opening the first one at the top titled Cove’s Biggest Fuckup.
“Please tell me this is a joke,” I mumble, grabbing the phone from her hands and wasting no time reading through her findings.
“I present to you: the research.” Betsy grins.
Stetson Cole - 49-year-old bachelor living in Waterstone, Texas.
Owns Coleson Ranch. Lots of animals and ranch hands on site.
No kids. No wife…no ex-wife. Single bachelor. (undecided green flag?)
No vacation homes. Nothing fancy other than a jet or two to travel (Meets our dear Cove).
Lives on Coleson Ranch alone in a massive estate.
Estimated Net Worth = $400 million.
Jesus Christ. They even completed their little profile of him with a picture. A dirty and horribly attractive shirtless photo.
Cutthroat bitches.
“He has all this money, and you’d never know. Seems like a pretty simple guy,” Kimber notes, and I have to agree.
Everything about my initial judgement of Stetson screamed simplicity. Down to his worn cowboy boots and dark-wash jeans. No one of his caliber would be caught dead leaving the house in anything but their finest.
But not Stetson. Must be the cowboy in him.
“How did you find all this information? And what’s even the point of it?”
“Now, that’s not really an important question, is it?” Kimber says.
Betsy looks at Kimber and grins. “We think you should call him.”
I belt out a laugh. “Good fucking joke.”
They stay silent, waiting for me to keep going, but I’ve got nothing left to contribute. “I’m not calling him, Betsy. You’re insane.” My sights swing to Kimber, finding her with the same expression. “Kimber. Seriously.”
“Why not? He was clearly interested in you. You even said he complimented your eyes and went on with some poetic explanation of how they remind him of cognac,” Betsy adds. “Sounds like one of those fancy people in your books.”
“I hate cognac.”
“And I bet you told him that, didn’t you?” Kimber asks.
I nod confidently. “Sure did. And nothing about it deterred him.”
“And that’s what us smart women call a green flag. Take notes,” Betsy draws out, grabbing me by the hand. “All I’m saying is you should call him. If at all possible, see him again. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
I shake my head repeatedly. “No. I don’t have his number, and besides, I made it clear to him I wasn’t interested. Me flying for him was a one-time thing.”
“But what if it wasn’t?” Betsy questions. “What if you could guarantee you’d see him again? Would you call him then?”
Oh my god. Where is this even coming from? Just because I’m not dating a new guy every week doesn’t mean something’s wrong with me. I’m just not interested in being hurt or getting attached, let alone investing my time in someone of his status.
I’m a thirty-year-old with daddy issues.
It’s pathetic. I realize that.
“Even if I did see him again, it would mean nothing. I would still turn him down and still avoid him at all costs. Sleep with him? Maybe I’d consider it.
But that should have been done the first time we met.
I don’t do second rounds with any guy, and you know that.
It’s nothing personal. But seeing as how I’ve already met Stetson while I was working for him, that would put us on more of an acquaintance level, and to me, that’s no longer strangers.
So actually, no, I wouldn’t call him or fuck him. ”
“Okay, okay,” Betsy mutters, hands raised in surrender. “I’ll lay off. I just wanted to make sure you gave it some more thought. Maybe an older man is the way to go, babe. These young guys can’t find a clit anyway.”
She’s not wrong about that.
“Right now, I just need to focus on getting my mom’s house fixed and stashing away as much cash as possible. In the meantime, if I have to fuck the young ones to get off, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
“You can have the Jo bro,” Betsy mumbles.
“Fair enough,” Kimber chants as the server hands us our wine glasses. “To Cove.” She raises her glass. “May the cash pour in, and the inexperienced dicks perform well.”
“Cheers!”