Chapter 36
“us.” - Gracie Abrams ft. Taylor Swift
Maeve
It’s the beginning of June, and you know what that means.
Well, you would if you ran in our circles.
Every year, my parents usher in summer with an annual house party.
And I know what you’re thinking. You’re imagining something out of Austen or Bronte, where a group of people spend weeks at the same house in the country hunting and playing cards and promenading around the gardens.
This is nothing like that. Well, it’s a little like that, except there is indoor plumbing and everyone goes home after the weekend, thank god.
The party begins on Friday afternoon and lasts until Sunday evening, when everyone makes the trek back to the city. We spend those two and a half days at Belgrave Park, a country estate that’s been in the Wilson family for generations.
It’s a gothic mansion—huge even by our standards—that takes a ridiculous amount of money to keep up.
Built in the eighteenth century, back when men used to play “how big is your dick” by building grander houses than their neighbors, its numerous spires poke at the sky as if they’re taunting God Himself.
The main section has three stories, but the turrets have up to seven.
With thirty-five bedrooms, there’s more than enough space for fifty guests to spread out.
A set of gigantic ornate metal gates swing open as our car pulls up.
The grounds used to span hundreds of acres, but each generation seems to sell off more and more land to pay for repairs to the house and outbuildings.
By the time the property gets passed down to one of my father’s children, the gardens will be the size of a postage stamp.
Vivienne’s obsessed with the place. I have no idea why, except that my sister is a bit of a head case, which you’d know if you’d ever met her.
She prefers the countryside and her horses to the city with its sophistication and parties.
Weird, I know, but that’s Viv for you. If my father has any sense about him, he’ll leave Belgrave Park to her, but more than likely, he’ll make me deal with it as a final “fuck you” from the grave.
All of the Wilson children are expected to be in attendance this weekend, because there is nothing my mother loves more than parading her offspring in front of her insipid friends.
Fortunately for my sanity, I’ve managed to wrangle invitations for all of my own friends this year, something neither of my siblings was able to do, which means Viv will practically be living in the stables all weekend and Bash will be doing god only knows what behind his closed bedroom door.
My mother insisted I accompany her to the house early, though for what purpose I can’t tell you, since she hired an event planner and enough staff to service an entire hotel, but I’m sure I’m about to find out.
I’m nothing if not a dutiful daughter, so I’m riding with her to the Park instead of with my friends.
I will admit, there’s something about the country air. It’s like it lightens you or something. That’s stupid, I know, but I can’t explain it. Wildflowers and freshly cut grass may not be my favorite scents in the world, but they do remind me of summer.
As guests start to arrive, I keep my eyes peeled for a familiar vehicle. I’m excited to see everyone, not just him, obviously. Usually this weekend is a bore. This year it might actually be fun.
When Heath’s Grenadier pulls up in front of the house, I take a steadying breath.
Walker and Saylor climb out, and the guys grab the luggage from the back.
Pierce isn’t with them, and I swallow my disappointment as I greet them.
Moments later, Lux’s Ferrari purrs up the driveway, Slate behind the wheel.
The top is down, and it’s immediately apparent that they came alone.
Once everyone’s gathered in the front parlor and the staff is bustling the luggage to each of the assigned bedrooms, I glance around and say as nonchalantly as possible, “Where’s Pierce?”
“He wanted to drive up by himself,” Heath says.
Before I can ask anything else, my mother waves at me from the entrance. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I set my drink down on the sideboard and move to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve helped my mother solve the crisis of dinner placements, which wasn’t a crisis at all, but some mock disaster she created in the recesses of that terrifying brain of hers.
What does it matter if Freida McIntire sits next to her ex-husband?
Maybe the meal would actually be interesting for a change.
I return to the parlor, and before I see him, I know he’s here. There’s a change in the atmosphere, or maybe my body just responds to his because I’ve become so familiar with it over the past four months.
Pierce is casually leaning against the fireplace mantle, talking to Saylor and Rhett, but the second his eyes land on me, he stops midsentence.
In a light blue sweater, navy trousers, and white sneakers, he looks more relaxed than usual.
His gaze wanders lazily over my face, as if he’s memorizing it and has all the time in the world.
My cheeks heat under his attention, and I quickly retrieve my now lukewarm glass of Long Island iced tea, draining it in one go.
His eyes are still on me—I can feel them as easily as I would his fingertips—but I know he’s covering his tracks well.
While it may feel like he’s staring, it’s only because I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes.
He won’t be careless enough to let anyone catch him looking.
Lux is interrogating Walker about her wedding gown, insisting she let her commission a designer from Paris.
I pretend to be listening, but it’s hard to focus when the only thing I can think of is Pierce.
We’ve only been together a handful of times since he took me to the art gallery, and that was two weeks ago.
Our date that night was actually kind of wonderful, at least until I realized just how hot the water I’m standing in is.
We were having fun, the kind of fun you have with someone you like.
And I don’t like Pierce. I can’t even tolerate the guy.
Doing those things with him, spending time with him like that—it messed with my head.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since.
I know I need to stop—that this whole fucked-up situation needs to stop—but I don’t know how.
I don’t know how I’ll get through shitty days when my dad is yelling at me or my mum is nagging me about still not having found anyone who wants me without knowing I can see Pierce in a matter of hours.
He’s the rock that’s getting me through the storm right now, and I just don’t know how to let him go.
I don’t want to let him go.
“Maeve?” Walker asks, giving me a weird look. “You okay?”
Shaking my head, I try to remember what they were talking about. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”
She doesn’t appear convinced. “You were kind of spacing out there for a second.”
“I’m just tired.” I wave my hand as though it’s no big deal, and my eyes catch Pierce’s at the same moment. “In fact,” I say, hoping his telepathy is working, “I should go see if my mother needs any more help.”
I shoot Walker and Lux both apologetic smiles and risk one more glance at Pierce. He raises his tumbler to his lips, giving me a subtle nod.
My heart racing, I slip back through the crowd congregating in the parlor and front hall, hoping Pierce will somehow be able to figure out where I’ve gone. This is crazy—the chances of getting caught are way too high—but I’m desperate enough to try it anyway.
When did I become so reckless, so willing to abandon everything for a few stolen moments? It’s not like me, and that thought alone should stop me in my tracks, but it doesn’t.
I don’t pause to catch my breath until I’m in the north wing of the house. Sagging against the wall of the corridor, I glance up to find the eyes of some long-forgotten ancestor staring at me from the oil painting hung on the opposite side. His beady black eyes mock me with their all-knowing stare.
Footsteps sound down the hall, and I turn to find Pierce walking toward me. I get the strange urge to run to him and throw myself into his arms. What the hell is wrong with me?
Before my malfunctioning brain can get any ideas, I reach behind me for the closest doorknob. I turn it and stumble into the library, Pierce right behind me.
The second the door is closed, he grabs my face and kisses me deeply. “God, I’ve missed you,” he breathes out. He threads his fingers through my hair and tilts my face up to his.
“No, you’re just horny,” I say, unwilling to consider the possibility that he might be right, because if he’s right about missing me, that introduces all kinds of problems that I don’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with right now.
He doesn’t say anything, just hikes my dress up and lifts me into his arms. Seconds later, I feel the bookcase at my back, the wooden shelves pressing into me from behind, Pierce pressing into me from in front.
“Are you ready for me, baby?” he asks in a hushed voice laced with restraint.
I can feel his erection against my stomach, hard and throbbing, aching for me. For three whole seconds, I allow myself to imagine what if. What if we didn’t have to sneak around? What if we could do this whenever we wanted? What if I acknowledged out loud that he’s become my safe place?
But I push those thoughts aside and nod. “I’m so ready.”
He growls in my ear. “That’s good, because I’m about to fuck you so hard the entire house hears you screaming.”
* * *