18. Vivienne
Vivienne
“Do you still like Iron I just wish he’d teach me his tricks.
He navigates the Friday night traffic with ease, as if we’re going fifty miles an hour rather than a breezy ninety-five.
Moving into the next lane, he accelerates, then cuts between cars with hardly twelve inches to spare.
A rush of adrenaline floods my body, but there isn’t an ounce of fear accompanying it.
There’s no one I trust behind the wheel more than Cassian.
An hour later, we park in front of my building. Cass flicks the volume button, plunging the car into silence.
I reach for my door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I’ll help you with your bags.” He’s out of the car before I can object. After grabbing a cart from the doorman, he loads my suitcases onto it.
“I got it,” I say when he starts pushing it to the elevator.
He refuses to let go of the handle. “Let me help, Viv.”
“Fine.” I push the button for my floor, and we ride the lift in silence. The air is scented with his cologne—the one I spent an agonizing hour selecting—and I wonder how long it will take for it to stop breaking my heart every time I smell it.
When the doors open, he lets me exit first, then follows with my luggage. I didn’t bring nearly as much home as I took with me to Belgrave, and I could’ve easily handled it myself, but if Cass insists on doing it for me, it’s pointless to argue.
Lana del Rey is blasting from the surround sound when I unlock the door to the flat.
“Well, Marlowe’s home,” Cass says, pushing the cart inside.
“Sounds like it,” I say over the music. “I guess I’ll see you at dinner?”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he lifts his eyes to meet mine. “Yeah, see you then.” He heads for the hallway, but I grab his sleeve.
“Cass.” He glances down at my hand, and I quickly drop it. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Vivvy.” His voice has grown husky.
I open my mouth to reply, but he vanishes down the corridor. Slipping back inside, I head straight for the music controls and turn down the volume. Three seconds later, Marlowe sticks her head out of her room.
“I was listening to that,” she says, removing a curler from her honey-blonde hair.
“And I prefer to retain both my eardrums.”
Stretching out her arms, she envelops me in a hug that smells of Tom Ford’s Fabulous, with hints of clove and tobacco. “I missed you so much, you have no idea.”
“Great,” I say, pulling back. “Does this mean you’ll let me wear your vintage Hermès slingbacks to dinner?”
Clasping my shoulders, she gives me an unamused look. “Not a chance in hell. But we are having girls’ night in an hour, so go get dressed.”
“I thought we were doing dinner with the boys tonight,” I say as she pushes me down the hall.
She drops her hands, only satisfied once I’m at the door of my bedroom. “That comes after. We’re getting drinks first.”
I turn around to face her. “What happened?” We don’t call last-minute girls’ nights unless it’s an emergency.
“I’ll tell you over drinks. Now go get hot.” She gives me one final shove.
An hour later, Marlowe, Sutton, and I are seated at Olive & Ash with plenty of time to talk before the guys arrive. “Okay, spill,” I say, taking a sip of my wine.
Marlowe scoots her martini away and leans across the bar. “I had my first photo shoot with Valmont today.”
Sutton drains half her water, then flags the server down for a refill. “They’re the ones who make shoes, right?”
Closing her eyes, Marlowe slumps back in her chair. “They make lots of things. Shoes aren’t one of them.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so she doesn’t see me smile. Sutton’s blatant disregard for fashion has always annoyed Marlowe. I’ve never figured out if it’s because she considers it sacrilegious or if she’s just irritated that Sutton can toss on literally anything and still manage to look stunning.
Tonight, Sutton’s wearing a pair of sharp-pleated shorts and a boxy blazer and looks hot as hell. “Oops, my bad.” After her glass is topped off, she takes another drink, but not before I catch the dregs of her own smile.
“Do you want to hear my story or not?” Marlowe asks, pursing her crimson lips.
“Of course we do.” I place my hand on her arm and shoot Sutton a look. “We’re all ears.”
Marlowe takes a gulp of her martini. “Okay, so I get to the shoot, the director walks me through the set, blah, blah, blah. The usual.”
Sutton and I both nod. I did a few modeling gigs when I was younger, before realizing it’s not for me. Sutton wouldn’t be caught dead in a photo shoot that wasn’t tennis-related.
“Anyway, I get into position, and that’s when I look up and see who the photographer is.” Marlowe pauses, her eyes flitting between us while she waits for us to guess who it was. She could’ve been an actress like her mum.
“Just tell us, Mar. I’m starving,” Sutton whines.
Marlowe huffs out a sigh. “It was Finn.”
“Finn,” I repeat, then frown. “Finn as in our Finn?”
“Yep.” Marlowe takes another sip of her cocktail. “Finnegan Sinclair, in the flesh.”
“Shit,” Sutton mutters under her breath. “He’s been gone since—”
Her sentence hangs unfinished in the air, but none of us need her to say the words. That familiar guilt crawls into my chest and clamps its meaty fist around my heart.
“I was as surprised to see him as anyone,” Marlowe says, staring into her drink.
Pushing aside the nausea that plagues me every time I think about that night, I duck my head to catch her eye. “How are you doing?” The emergency happy hour suddenly makes sense. Finn was the love of Marlowe’s life. I’m more concerned that she’s not spiraling than I would be if she were.
“I’m okay.” She nods. “It was a shock, but it’s not like I’m going to see him again. The shoot’s over.”
“Did you guys talk?” Sutton asks, absentmindedly twirling her bracelet around her wrist.
Marlowe lets out an abrupt laugh. “More like yelled.”
“Yikes,” I say.
“Well, I yelled,” she admits. I can’t imagine Finn yelling at anyone, especially not Marlowe.
We continue discussing the photo shoot until Shep shows up, wearing glasses, a cable-knit sweater, and faded jeans.
After he gives each of us a hug, I excuse myself to the restroom.
I’m grateful for Marlowe’s distraction, because now that the boys are arriving, I’m suddenly nervous about seeing Cass again.
After finishing in the bathroom, I see that everyone else is already seated, including Bash, who has never once in his life been on time for anything. Maybe Briar is responsible for the sudden change.
I sit down in the only available chair, which is between Briar and Cass, and turn to smile at her.
She’s wearing a dark green jumper over a taupe short-sleeve sweater.
Her brown hair is pulled back into a half-up bun.
She looks at least five years younger than the rest of us, even though Bash told me she’s twenty-two.
“So tell me what do you do for fun,” I say after the server drops off our drinks. I genuinely do want to know, but I can’t deny that keeping my mind off Cassian sitting only inches away isn’t also a factor. He’s so close the heat from his body is warming my bare arms.
Briar scrunches up her face as she considers this. “I like thrifting and taking photos.”
“What kind of photos?”
She takes a sip of her bright pink cocktail. “I’m a freelance photographer, so I shoot a lot of portraits. Weddings, families, seniors. But what I really like to do is artsy stuff.”
“Like candids?” I say, finding myself intrigued. The only photographer I’ve ever known personally was Finn, but that feels like a lifetime ago.