Chapter Thirteen
Running Into You Again
Ebony
I’m spiraling.
Today, I’m supposed to go on a date with this guy that Leslie swears has “real long-term potential.” Whatever the hell that means.
Meanwhile, I don’t know how I’ll get through the first five minutes when my mind keeps replaying my kissing Lincoln Bridges.
Repeatedly, like an idiot. And with tongue.
Like, did I not just outline Exhibits A through Infinity why we damn well shouldn’t let the ex-monster-in-law win?
And yet I did it anyway.
How could I not?
How could I not tell him about Cornelia’s revenge plot after he rescued me? Well, he scared the hell out of me first. But then, like it was nothing, he swept me off my feet and cradled me in his strong, capable arms. How could I not feel like I was precious to him?
Right then, I knew I was losing my will. And I thought maybe this was just leftover embers still glowing.
But no. This was so much more, explosively new. Somehow familiar and fantastical, watching this rough-and-tumble man so tenderly, so sweetly , bandage up my leg. It would’ve been criminal not to kiss him.
And so I did.
With my heart thrashing behind my ribcage, I succumbed to temptation like I knew I would.
I let him drag his tongue over my lips, teasing and tasting.
I sank into the warmth and wetness of his mouth, loving the way his eyes softly glazed over with lust, and the tiny growl that seeped out of him.
His needy hands set free on my skin, coaxing horny little moans from me, and my entire body vibrated against the thrum of his heart.
All the while, my mind filled in the glorious blanks of what would inevitably come next.
I was at a point of no return—stop, or end up ravaged on the steps of Madison Manor, unable to move again, and be exposed to his entire crew within the next twenty-four hours.
Somehow, my mouth formed the words “We can’t.”
I broke the kiss.
We’d just established we’d both planned dates with other people, so what the hell was I doing?
I take several deep breaths, realizing we’ve been working at the manor together for twenty-three days. Twenty-three long, torturous days of fighting the good fight that…I don’t know, just doesn’t feel that good anymore.
Why can’t I stop thinking about the kiss?
“Pause, peace, power,” I whisper into the air, hoping today it’ll work like a giant sage bundle, clearing my karma and banishing all the bad spirits.
I grab my keys, lock my front door, and drag in a deep breath.
Hopefully, along with the thick humidity, I’ll catch a strong whiff of the gumption I need to meet up with another guy who isn’t Linc, and somehow be witty and charismatic… in two different shoes and no earrings.
Lord.
“Okay, see? No.” I turn right back around, letting myself inside, then lean the full weight of my body against the door. “Snap out of it! It was just a kiss.”
So why can’t I think of anything other than doing it again?
Determined to get my act together and show up for Mr. Long-Term—gracious, elegant, and appreciative of his time—I march into my closet, find a matching pair of heels, swipe on my trusty Red Dahlia lipstick, and I’m ready to go.
For good measure, I grab my empty gratitude journal, determined to get right with the universe, and jot down a single sentence: Today, I’m grateful for self- control.
I slip it into my purse, hoping manifesting really works.
Except when I swing open the front door again, Mom is standing, stone-faced, on the other side like a surprise test. “ Ugh , why are you here? I’m on my way out.” I pout, impishly. “Seriously, I don’t have time for this.”
Her sensibly pink lips purse judgmentally as she steps past me, saying, Make time, without using the words.
With my hand still on the door handle, I let out a huge sigh, already pre-annoyed.
“I understand that you’re busy, what with the wedding, and your new beaux…” There it is. She blinks repeatedly, summoning all the melodrama. “However, Ebony Grace, it’s vitally important that you answer when I reach out to you. Anything could’ve happened to you—”
“Oh my God, Mom, stop!” I release the door, letting it slam closed, and stomp back into the living room, where she’s already made herself at home on the sofa and is reaching for the remote, no doubt to turn on some reality TV show.
Anything could’ve happened.
Ugh.
In other words, he—as in the fake beau that I’ve told her nothing about because he doesn’t exist—could’ve hurt me. I could have been “lying in a gutter somewhere,” as she loves to say.
I’d love to know why this mysterious gutter is always her go-to final resting place for me.
“Yes, I’ve been ignoring your calls for precisely this reason.” I throw up my hands and let them drop limply at my sides. “You never know when to quit. Why should I talk to you when I already know what you’re going to say?”
Mom raises a thick, penciled-in eyebrow, giving me a glassy stare. “I highly doubt you know what I’m going to—”
I clear my throat, interrupting her to get into character.
“‘Ebony, tell me about your new fella.’ ‘How’s everything with Cornelia…and Julian?’ ‘I know you said you didn’t plan on attending the cotillion, but…
’” My smile slips. “Fill in any number of reasons you’ve come up with as to why I need to be there. ”
“Well, it’s a time-honored tradition,” she reasons.
Proving my point.
Snapping my fingers, I flash her my but wait, there’s more stare.
“Still a hard no on the cotillion, but…we can’t forget my personal favorite Mom-ism, the one you were likely planning to throw in a the end—like that wasn’t the entire reason you called.
Wait for it… ” I dig deep, twisting my face into a mask of shame and hopelessness.
I definitely get this from her. “‘Did you hear that Julian and that hussy are expecting?’” A smile stretches across my face as I curtsy like a good little debutante.
In classic Eleanor King form, Mom’s brown eyes snag on my not-so-sensible red lips and bright yellow sundress.
On the thin straps and the deep neckline exposing as much of my gold-glitter-dusted cleavage as I can get away with at brunch.
A sneaky bout of joy nestles in my chest as her expression tightens, her laser vision measuring the inches between my hem, barely brushing my thighs, and my knees.
Oh, she’s itching to pick apart every detail of my look, but she hits me with the deadpan, supposedly unimpressed “I resent that.”
“So do I.” I laugh.
For all of five seconds, she sits there, beautifully fuming in opulent jewels and a pristine pink Cornelia-esque jacquard dress like it’s not a gazillion degrees outside, before she proves me right. “Well, are you going to tell me about your young man, or not?”
Or not would be so amazing right now.
The last thing I want to do after posting about dating online is fess up to fabricating a pretend suitor, then be forced into a deep dive on the seriousness of lying to a loved one.
No thanks.
Plus, it’ll only prolong the inevitable questions about my dates. I’ve already seen—and memorized—her dummy alphanumeric PopShot handle. Who else is out there with a faceless account, faithfully posting old debutante photos of me, Mom? Try harder.
“It didn’t work out,” I say simply, casually. Just one of your run-of-the-mill, surface-level situationships.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue.
Then again, Eleanor King has never been direct about her disappointment.
So, naturally, instead of asking about Julian and Nora, she again reaches for the TV controller on my coffee table, aims it at the television, and, after it turns on, says into the remote, clearly enunciating, “ Luxe Ladies of Ellswood .”
There is no way…
On the screen, the first season’s promotional photo pops up, featuring seven glamorously styled and profiled cast members dressed in varying shades of rose-gold and posed against a lush, opulent wall of deep ruby and blush-colored roses. At the center of the women is Nora Whitfield at her peak.
America’s favorite hussy of a news anchor.
I’m speechless. Did Mom really come into my house and turn this on?
“Well, it’s a shame it didn’t work out with him,” she says, and part of me wants to believe we’re still talking about Faux Beau or AI Linc. But deep down, I know we’re always talking about Julian Livingston III. “There’s still a handsome, wealthy, eligible bachelor with your name on him.”
She whips around, and I’ll admit, I resent the gleeful twitch of her lips.
My mother’s never subtle. Everything she says, and doesn’t say, has meaning.
Nora may be having his baby, but I’ve still got his last name.
Despite everything—infidelity, public shame, the divorcétante, Cornelia—he still wants me.
It’s what everyone’s saying.
I’ve seen the million-view PopShot videos of him on the news when his co-anchor asked what he thought about my dating again. Commenters dissect the emotions that played on his face, weighing in on every minute detail. There are Julian-and-Ebony stan accounts popping up everywhere.
“Ebony Grace.” Mom deepens her stare, without words telling me that all I have to do is…say the word? Pretend he wasn’t unfaithful? Forget about his unborn child? Forget about the pieces of me I’m only just rediscovering?
Live my life on their terms.
She doesn’t say that, but it’s what I’d need to do. Forget about the loss of love, the emotional turmoil and resentment, my low self-esteem, and the fact that I’d never be able to really trust him. All I have to do is put on my crown and smile for the people.
I won’t do it.
“No.” My face contorts with annoyance. “Just any random handsome, wealthy, eligible bachelor, huh?”
Something about hearing those words aloud irks me. That’s always been it, hasn’t it? Looks and money. Easy enough for Julian to check both boxes. But no, my mother isn’t concerned with shared values, intelligence, capability, tenderness, or loyalty.