Revenge Fantasy

Chapter 1

ONE

You need to lighten up.

I’ve heard it, in all of its variations, no less than a dozen times over the last few hours.

Gawd, Millie—don’t be so uptight.

Please, Millie—at least try to pretend you’re having a good time.

Jesus, Millie—don’t be such a downer.

Seriously, Millie—I’m not even sure why you even bothered coming.

The last one is easy to answer: it’s my baby sister’s bachelorette party and I’m her maid-of-honor. As such, my attendance is mandatory.

I can handle 99% of the duties that come with being Gwen’s maid-of-honor—actually more than handle.

I’ve honestly enjoyed the months of planning and organizing that have gone into giving Gwen her dream wedding.

Meeting with florists and photographers.

Caterers and venue coordinators. Having obscenely wealthy parents and a father who says, whatever Gwen wants, has made everything embarrassingly easy…

and fun. It's that last 1% I didn’t have the slightest clue on how to plan.

The Bachelorette party.

When I told our cousin, Paige, that I was thinking of asking my parents if we could use their Hampton House for a long weekend and hiring an army of massage therapists, manicurists, and aestheticians, along with a private chef to pamper the bridal party, the weekend before the wedding, she rolled her eyes.

Throw in a couple hot bartenders to make poolside daiquiris, who don’t mind getting naked, and I’m there.

For reasons I can’t even begin to understand, I agreed—if she handled the naked bartenders, I’d handle the rest.

Paige was all too happy to agree.

That was three months ago, and honestly, I was sure she forgot.

As much as I love her, Paige isn’t exactly detail-oriented.

She’s much more of an impulsive, live for the moment type.

She’s lived her entire life making promises with the best of intentions but nine times out of ten, she doesn’t follow through—and that tenth time, she follows through only because either my aunt has threatened to cut her off or there’s some sort of unavoidable consequence attached.

After agreeing to the task of booking bartenders for the weekend, Paige never said another word about it and neither did I.

I was hoping against hope that she would forget and we could have a nice, quiet, leisurely weekend of pedicures and shiatsu massages between lounging by the pool and enjoying outrageously delicious meals prepared by the private chef I hired.

So, imagine my surprise when she burst through the door to the downstairs primary suite, just a few hours after we arrived at the Hampton house, to announce the bartenders are here—where do you want them to set up?

Letting her drag me into the foyer, I nearly swallowed my tongue when I was confronted by two of the hottest men I’ve ever seen in my life—both of them wearing dark wash jeans topped with Navy blue polos with the logo for some mobile bar service embroidered over their ridiculously chiseled pecs.

“This is my cousin, Millie,” Paige says, practically flinging me in their direction. “It’s her house—she can tell you where to set up.”

Stumbling my way across the floor, I have to put my hands out to stop myself from skidding into the large, round, antique table my mom keeps in the foyer.

Coming to a stop, I throw a brief, withering look over my shoulder at Paige before I re-aim my gaze on the pair of men waiting for me to instruct them.

Focusing on the slightly lesser hot of the two, I offer him a polite, professional smile.

He’s gorgeous—dark hair. Dark eyes. The kind of body that tells me he practically lives at the gym.

“There’s a stationary bar in the pool house,” I say, gesturing toward the back of the house where I can already hear Gwen and the rest of her bridesmaids squealing and laughing by the pool.

When he offers me a polite, sounds perfect, the panic swirling around my gut starts to lose its momentum. “The liquor’s already been delivered, so everything you need to set up should be out there.”

See, you can talk to men.

It’s not that hard.

Turning toward his partner, I’m basically struck by lightning because if his partner is hot, then this man is otherworldly.

Dark hair like his friend but, unlike his friend, his eyes aren’t dark.

They’re the most incredible shade of blue I’ve ever seen, set in a face that makes my knees wobble and topped off with the kind of body that would make a nun question every vow she’s ever taken.

When all I can do is stare at him, the corner of Mr. Hotter-Than-Hot’s mouth twitches in amusement.

“You alright, Princess?” he asks while raking an insolent gaze from my face to my feet before he flashes me a grin that tells me he already knows the answer to his own question. “You look a little flushed.”

“I—” Mortification and pure unadulterated anger wage war in my gut for the space of a breath before I gather both unfamiliar emotions and mentally strangle the life out of them.

Suddenly able to breathe again, I give him the ice queen smile that I’ve used like armor almost my entire life.

“There’s a rollaway bar in the garage—you can set it up wherever you think is best.” Before he can answer me, I turn to Paige in an attempt to dismiss him completely.

“If that’s all, I’d like to get back to unpacking,” As soon as I have it out, I tuck tail and run back to my room, the sound of him laughing at me, while Paige makes my excuses, chasing me down the hall.

Don’t mind her—she’s always like that. I think she’s allergic to fun.

I’ve been tied in knots ever since.

“You know, you can’t hide all weekend,” Paige whispers in my ear before she skirts around me to throw herself onto the lounger next to mine. “You’re going to have to at least look at them at some point.”

“I looked at them,” I remind her. “And I’m not hiding.” I sound cranky when I say it, like a sullen child who didn’t get her way. Probably because Paige is right.

I am hiding.

I finished unpacking before sitting on the edge of my parents’ bed to wait it out.

As soon as more than enough time had passed, I pilfered a bottle of 2005 Chateau Margaux from my father’s wine cellar and snuck off to the lower deck.

From here I can hear Gwen and her bridesmaids laughing and talking, the sounds of it mingling with the music pulsing through the house’s sound system.

They’re having a good time. Making memories.

Rather than be the dour-faced spinster sister, watching and disapproving from her designated corner, I opted to take my wine and go into hiding because I don’t want to be a downer.

I can’t help but be uptight, I can’t pretend to have a good time and I certainly can’t leave.

“Yes, you are.” She gives me an exasperated sigh. “They’re just men, Millie,” she tells me in a conspiratorial whisper. “And rented men, at that. They won’t bite unless you pay them to.”

Looking at her, I can feel some of my frustration give way to the usual envy I feel whenever she’s around.

Gorgeous, pale blonde hair. Brilliant blue eyes.

A body that was made for the runway. A face that would make Michelangelo cry—my cousin wouldn’t have to pay either of those men to bite her.

Matter of fact, if money were exchanged, I’d be willing to bet she’d be the one getting paid.

On the tail end of that envy comes more than a little guilt.

Because Paige is not only my cousin, she’s my best friend—has been my best friend for as long as I can remember .

It's not her fault she’s beautiful, and it’s not her fault you don’t know how to have a good time.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have any cash with me,” I tell her dryly before taking a careful sip of my stolen wine.

It was one of the few stipulations my father put on our using the house for the weekend—please try to remember that we’re hosting your sister’s reception there next weekend so keep the damage to a minimum and for God’s sake keep them out of the wine cellar.

I don’t think he’ll miss a bottle.

Or two.

Maybe three.

I’m going to need them if I’m going to survive this weekend.

“I think the cabana boy takes Venmo,” Paige tells me before snatching my wine glass out of my hand and draining it dry.

Standing, she lifts the half-empty bottle from the small table between us before tucking it under her arm.

“If you want a refill, your bottle will be waiting for you behind the bar.”

Scrambling to my feet, I give her a panicked head shake. “Paige.”

“Millie.” She widens her eyes and laughs. “I’m getting you laid this weekend if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I can’t do that.” Still shaking my head, I frown at her. “You know I’m seeing someone.”

“Who?” She says, still laughing. “That banker guy? What’s his name? Abner? Andrew?”

“Allister,” I correct her stiffly. “His name is Allister.” He’s thirty-two, works for my father, and is so good-looking that when he asked me out, I thought it was some sort of joke.

Turns out it wasn’t a joke. We had dinner at Davino’s—my favorite restaurant.

The week after that, he took me to the theater.

The week after that, a gallery opening in SoHo.

He asked me to go sailing with him this weekend, but I had to decline.

When I said no, I felt a sort of fluttering panic in my belly because I was sure that he’d be offended that someone like me would say no to a man like him, but he wasn’t.

He just said, it’s okay. We have plenty of time.

When I sputtered out an invitation to be my plus one at my sister’s wedding, he readily accepted.

Paige gives me another exasperated sigh, the sound of it telling me that I’m sorely trying her patience. “Well, you’ve been on exactly three dates with Allister—I wouldn’t call that a committed relationship.”

“I didn’t say that it was.” Still stiff, I make an awkward grab for the bottle she took from me. When she laughs again and moves out of reach, I let out a short, frustrated scream. “Paige—please. I don’t want to mess this thing up with Allister. He’s nice and—”

“Boring.” She says it as if it's some sort of terminal illness. “Sorry, Mill.” She shakes her head, giving me a flat smile. “I can’t let you settle for some boring banker guy when there are two living gods up there, more than willing to make all of your dirty little fantasies come true.” When I open my mouth to tell her I don’t have any fantasies, dirty or otherwise, she points a finger at me.

“And don’t tell me you don’t have dirty fantasies because I know you do—I’ve read your diary.

” Wagging the bottle at me while I stare at her, open-mouthed, she keeps smiling.

“Like I said—this will be waiting for you behind the bar. It's a good vintage—don’t let it go to waste.”

Before I can say anything else, Paige re-tucks the bottle under her arm and walks away.