Chapter 21 Luisa
I make a beeline for the bar, then stand out of view, blending with the other guests. Tripp orders a Blanton’s neat, just as Holly instructed. In an instant, Virginia appears by his side.
This woman is like a persistent rash. I wrap my fingers tighter around my wineglass, pulling myself a little taller. Why am I getting so worked up over this? I need to focus, stay rational, shrewd, and keep a lid on my emotions.
“Make that two,” Griggs tells the bartender, joining them. He kisses Virginia on the cheek, then compliments her dress and orders her a spritzer.
“Reel him in, Tripp,” I say. “You got this.”
Instead, Tripp does what Tripp does best—takes his sweet time.
He laughs cheerfully as Virginia regales Griggs with tales and photos of the derby party, inserting enough anecdotes to quickly cement Tripp into this world.
Then, for what feels like forever, they talk about the upcoming college football season.
Tripp passionately defends “his” Ole Miss Rebels, while Griggs clamors after the Georgia Bulldogs.
Virginia bursts out with a proud “Roll Tide!” that makes everyone guffaw.
Tripp is careful to steer the conversation to topics we practiced and for which Holly provided insight into Griggs’s likes and dislikes: football was first on the list, then golf, skiing, tennis, hunting, fly-fishing, and deep-sea fishing.
Each one of these activities became part of Tripp’s photo reel, a series of AI-altered images of Tripp living the one-percent life, any of which would drive home the point that he’s got trust fund money to burn.
And because I’m an overachiever at heart, I even included a few photos of Tripp’s around-the-world moments: island hopping in Bali, sunbathing on a sailboat in Croatia, hitting the bars in Ibiza, deep-sea fishing off the coast of Mexico.
Right now, he’s casually thumbing over a few of these photos, in blatant disregard of the club’s “no cell phones” policy.
Griggs peers over his shoulder, proffering his own photos, as Tripp searches for the one where he’s pulling the fin of a blue marlin off the side of a charter boat in Cozumel.
I guess like every other entitled man under this tent, Tripp and Griggs assume the rules don’t apply to them.
Virginia, blessedly, has taken a bathroom break.
“That bad boy was almost four feet,” Tripp exclaims. “Took three of us to get him out of the water.” He slides off the screen and tucks the phone into his jacket pocket. “I’m headed to Belize in the fall.”
“Belize?” Griggs asks, seemingly impressed.
“Some of the best deep-sea fishing in the world,” Tripp assures him. Then, lowering his voice, “And the women…” Tripp pauses, chuckles to himself. “Tanned, in love with their tiny bikinis, ready to party. Like shooting fish in a barrel.” Tripp cocks and shoots off an imaginary shotgun.
I barf internally. But Griggs is eating it up. He laughs, because apparently, the sexual objectification of women is so very funny.
“But first, I need to get my shit together,” Tripp says, leaning against the bar.
“Prove to the old man that I can make something of myself, put that trust money to good use. You know?” Tripp takes a long swig of bourbon, and I pray that he’s keeping tabs on his alcohol intake.
There’s no Ginny behind the bar pouring him shots of water, and the last thing we need is a repeat of the derby party.
“I get it,” Griggs says, leaning in beside Tripp.
“This whole family legacy thing can put a lot of pressure on a man. You’re never just you,” he says, eyes distant.
“You’re always part of something bigger, grander.
Something impossible to live up to.” Griggs finishes his bourbon, then immediately orders another round.
I set down my wine and ask a server for a coffee.
“I miss the days when my biggest problem was remembering the names of every girl I’d fuck on Sorority Row.” Griggs laughs at the revolting reminiscence.
“Tell me about it,” Tripp says, leaning in conspiratorially. I catch an almost imperceptible wince in his eyes, a sign of Eli breaking through the disgusting display of misogyny.
Two other men join Griggs and Tripp at the bar. Griggs introduces them as Judge Billy Thacker and Jim Wade.
“I think we’re in,” I whisper to Holly, dropping a sugar cube into my coffee and swirling in a splash of creamer.
Virginia plants a kiss on Granddaddy Thacker’s cheek, then saunters over to Tripp’s side, presenting him like some prize she won at one of the club’s many tournaments.
“I’ll be showing him around the club this weekend,” she squeals—or so it sounds to me. “Giving him a taste of the Peach City’s Southern hospitality.”
I walk away, searching for Holly, unable to handle another minute near this nonsense.
I find her hiding behind a huge wisteria tree, pretending to organize glassware.
I hover beside her, looking like any other guest, sipping on my delicious coffee and swaying to the beat of the band’s instrumental jazz intermission.
“I hate that you’re right about Virginia and her granddaddy,” I reluctantly admit. “And who the hell calls Atlanta the Peach City? Is that a Junior League thing?”
“She can call it whatever she wants,” Holly replies, discreetly passing me one of the earbuds on her headset so I can listen in. “Hate to say I told you so, but that woman is our golden ticket,” she gloats. “The universe is definitely out to help us.”
Holly taps her index finger against the screen of her tablet, keeping track of multiple schedules at once, and a guest list of six hundred.
“You’re like a professional juggler,” I observe, nodding toward her tablet.
She tilts her head sideways in confusion, eyebrows raised in a What the heck is that supposed to mean? expression.
“Relax,” I exclaim. “It’s a compliment. Maybe you should consider going on your own.” I gesture at the reception unfolding before us. “Plan events, weddings and such. Work for yourself. Maybe even have your own team.”
Holly stares back at me, a glint in her green eyes. “You really think I could do it?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I nod without hesitation. “You’re in your element, Holly.”
She pauses, considering. “Yeah, but starting a business takes money in the bank and great networks,” she debates. “And that disgusting man”—she gestures toward Griggs—“will demolish both for me unless this plan works.”
Virginia squeals through Tripp’s mic, drawing back our attention.
“So let’s focus on one grand scheme at a time,” Holly says, surprising me once again with her sagacious practicality and intense focus.
“Granddaddy, I told Trippy about the club’s famous course,” we hear Virginia exclaim. “I’m sure he’d love to play a round with you three.”
“Yeah? You up for a round?” Griggs asks Tripp. “Think you can drag your ass out of bed for a seven thirty tee time after all those bourbons?”
I silently thank our lucky stars, San Judas Tadeo, and every single saint that has interceded on our behalf. We. Are. So. In.
“Believe me, I can handle my liquor, but my clubs are back home.” Tripp tosses around that beguiling smile of his, making himself just slightly unavailable. And also, we couldn’t afford a fancy set of clubs. “Wasn’t planning on staying in town this long.”
Griggs puts one hand on his shoulder, and I can feel the tight squeeze as he says, “Tripp, my boy, don’t you worry ’bout a thing. We’ve got you covered.”
As the wedding winds down, I find Eli waiting for me at the driving range. Holly still has another hour left of her shift before we can debrief and go home. I walk toward him, holding a box of wedding cake. “Dessert?” I ask, lifting the box.
“I’m starving,” Eli sighs, offering to carry the cake. “I was so worried that I barely ate. Shame, the food looked amazing.”
“You didn’t seem worried,” I observe, working to sound cool and unconcerned. “You, Griggs, and Virginia looked like you were having a blast.”
Eli scoffs. “That girl’s like a bad tattoo.” He stares past me in the direction of the tent. “She finally hit the dance floor with her girlfriends, and I managed to break free.”
“You handled Griggs masterfully,” I say, more sincerely. “You’re really good at reading people.”
Eli responds with a bashful shrug, his cheeks glowing at the compliment.
“Griggs is the type of man who wants to be challenged,” he says, slipping his hands into the pockets of his tux.
“His whole life he’s been handed everything on a silver platter, so the possibility of risk gets him off.
” The muscles around his shoulders go tense under the jacket.
“I’ll have to prove that I’m my own man, but also that I respect him. ”
“Kinda like the not-trying look,” I tease.
“Exactly.” He chuckles, relaxing a little.
“So what type of man are you, really?” I ask, shifting the mood of the conversation. It’s an honest question, and implied in my thoughtful tone is the need for an honest answer.
Eli holds my gaze as if debating how to respond. I just want the truth, I plead with my eyes. Be honest with me, my heart implores.
“I’ve had to fight for everything I’ve got, Luisa,” he tells me, pronouncing my name the way it was intended. “I’m no Griggs.” He glances down at his tux, adding, “I’m no Tripp, either.”
I have so many more questions, but then his eyes travel back to me, lingering on the bare skin of my exposed collarbone, trailing up my neck, pausing on my lips, stopping only when he’s reached my eyes.
He bites his lower lip, pinning me in place with a gaze that’s deep and burning—it reverberates all the way from my chest to my knees.
I’m both grateful and mildly terrified that we’re all alone out here.
I’m not sure I have it in me to resist this gorgeous man, in a tux, under the moonlight, with the sweet scent of summer in the air and the faint echo of an eighteen-piece orchestra in the background.