Chapter 4
Nothing kills a sex fantasy like finding said fantasy naked in your kitchen, because he’s screwing your mother.
I stalk to my room and slam the door, anger at Mom’s lack of consideration bubbling over. “Aden” is a huge inconvenience.
Even though I still have my apartment near campus and the country house is staffed year-round, I really enjoy seeking out the quiet comfort of the penthouse. This is where most of my cherished memories with my dad are: counting down to midnight every year from the top of the grand staircase during our New Year’s party, him teaching me Nona Cascarella’s ravioli recipe, our swim lessons at the rooftop pool.
I miss him so much. The silence is my comfort.
And now that silence has been broken.
By Aden Ward.
Unspeakably hot Aden Ward.
My secret lust one night; my mother’s boyfriend the next morning.
I know considering him anything but off-limits is wrong, but he is tantalizing in a way no human being should be.
To make matters worse, every detail of his perfect body is now scorched into my brain. His electric touch ignited my entire body. I’d never felt anything like it, and no matter how much I fight it, my imagination keeps having its way with him. My mind can’t seem to stop envisioning what it can’t have—and what it shouldn’t want.
The fantasies I had before I knew who he was sneak into my mind.
His broad body moving over me… The press of his tongue on my sex… The way his tattoos would ripple when he pinned me to the wall and thrust up into?—
I cough, choking on the madeleines I hide in my bedside table.
It’s settled. These fantasies add up to a very bad idea.
While there’s definitely more to Aden than meets the eye, I’ve learned not to look too closely at anything connected to my mother. I never seem to like what I find.
As if I needed more reasons to resent her.
I reach for my phone and dial her number. The call goes straight to voicemail. I try again, then remember her phone must be off while she’s traveling. Shit.
Stress eating another pastry, my thoughts drift to how my mother and Aden met.
I’d basically become a hermit when my dad disappeared, uninterested in the dinner parties, gallery openings, and island hopping that had filled my calendar when I wasn’t in school.
Mom has done the opposite. She’s rarely home, constantly traveling on secret trips and last-minute vacations. Celeste Wells has always been in demand, but after Dad left there wasn’t an invitation my mom declined if it came from someone who mattered. So long as a host frequented Slate City society, Celeste could be counted on to make a fashionably late appearance.
I owe my name and her access for getting me a job at The Star. A job I’ll lose if I don’t finish this story.
The cursor on my laptop screen shouts its disapproval when I focus back on my work. It hasn’t moved since I created the document. After Dad vanished six months ago, I left graduate school and took this job at The Star as a way to stay connected to writing without the pressure of papers, class schedules, and hall lectures. But his disappearance siphoned away all the words.
I close the file for my Sin Gin article just as my phone rings with a video call. Mom’s back online, and I can’t press the accept button fast enough.
“You invited him to live with us?” I hiss as my greeting.
Her haughty laugh makes me want to scream.
“Good morning, Gabriela. My flight was delayed eleven minutes, but it arrived safely, thanks for asking. I’m just getting settled at the resort.”
“And our houseguest?”
“I assume you’ve met Aden. Isn’t he spectacular? A pretty face, well-connected… he is exactly what I need right now.”
She replaces her designer shades, clearly expecting her explanation to end the discussion.
I can’t let it go, although I attempt to force down my anger. Engaging my mother emotionally never leads anywhere productive. Her narcissism borders on clinical psychopathy. Any appeal I make to her has to be directed toward her self-interests.
“He’s inconsiderate, arrogant, and clearly has no family of note,” I counter. “Do you want the association ladies finding out you’re fraternizing outside of the circle? They’d revoke your presidency.”
“Since when do you care what those boring hags think? Besides, I like him. He’s a good look for me.”
“He’s a good look for anyone,” I mumble.
My mother doesn’t even have the good taste to look offended. Her smile is smug and her eyes dreamy when she says, “He’s glorious.”
“So why not cart him around with you if you need him so damn much?”
“I’m not arguing about this with you, Gabriela. It’s my home, paid for with my money like every other luxury you enjoy.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, none of this is fair. Your father taught me that, but I’m dealing with his absence. You can deal with mine.”
I don’t bother to suppress my anger this time. I hate being dismissed. And she knows how sensitive the topic of my father is.
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve been conducting my own investigation. Our ex-driver Kenneth says Dad was dropped off in the Watershed District the night he disappeared. She also doesn’t know that I don’t believe for a second that he was on his way to the Caribbean with a mistress, as Mom wants me to believe.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to play my hand, until she says, “Gabriela, you’re being a bit melodramatic. I’ll only be gone a week.”
She pauses to wave to someone out of view. “Also, while I have you on the phone, my Ramalda Santini gown is ready two days early. The one on loan from The Allen-Davis Trust. I’d send my assistant to pick it up but last time she draped it over her arm like a beach towel. A beach towel! It was nearly creased in the middle. Needless to say, I won’t be making that mistake again, so I need you to pick that up for me.”
Unbelievable. Once again, she has completely disregarded my feelings. I sigh in resignation. She clearly hasn’t heard a word I said, but there’s no point continuing this argument.
“Fine. Whatever.”
“Lovely. You’re a doll. Pick out something for yourself if you want. I’d prefer if you wore something new as well. I know you’re in your Grey Gardens era, but maybe try to make an effort for the art gala. I have to run, darling. It’s time to get ready for the photoshoot. Final Touch Magazine, can you believe it?”
She plows on without pausing.
“Oh, and Gabriela? While you’re on Diamond Alley, please take Aden to get fitted for his tux.”
So much for my plan to totally avoid him.
I feel my skin warm, and I hope my flushed color is like all my dirty thoughts of Aden: in my mind.
Mom ends the call, and I lean back into my pillows.
The prospect of taking Aden to a tailor should feel like a chore. I’m horrified to realize the only thing I feel is anticipation.