“I CAN’T BELIEVE I let you two talk me into this,” I grumble, glaring at Mom and Dad, who are both eyeing me through the rearview mirror as we pull up behind a freaking Bentley at Uncle Ricky and Aunt Martha’s Victorian mansion. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of someday living in a house like this in the Garden District: the ornate architecture and huge white columns, balconies and courtyards filled with the most beautiful gardens. The homes are like something straight from a fairytale. And even though I know I’ll never have the husband and children to make a house like this a home, I still wanted it. And I have Dillon Bourque to thank for snatching the rug right out from under my feet.
“You and Dillon were so close, honey. It’s been over two years. You need to get over it.”
“Get over it?” I growl. “That asshole ruined my career, Mom! He humiliated me…And not just me, but Spencer too. He didn’t even think about the two of us or what it would do to her children when he decided to—”
“Gina,” my father deadpans. “When that boy was screwing Clarissa Dubois, I guarantee you and Spencer were the last people on his mind. No offense.”
The proud grin on my father’s face has my blood boiling. Dillon never could do any wrong in his eyes. “It’s not funny, Dad. She was our client. What he did was not okay. He fucked her in our office!”
“Oh, come now, Gina. It’s a little funny.” I don’t think my mother has ever had an authentic thought, always echoing Dad’s opinions.
“Ugh,” I huff, climbing out of the back seat of my mother’s Camry. “He got the clinic shut down and destroyed my reputation. Excuse me if I don’t see the humor in that.” I will never forgive him. NOLA Sexual Health was my future. I had a job that I loved right in the heart of New Orleans. Thanks to his inability to keep his dick in his trousers, I lost it all.
“Fix your face,” Mom orders, rushing to my side. She looks ridiculous in her mermaid string bikini. I swear the woman lives to embarrass me. I just know she and Dad will be making out like fucking teenagers once they get a few drinks in. “Ricky is your father’s brother, and he and Martha adore you.” Her hand grips mine, halting my stride. “They’re so excited that you’ve decided to join us today. Don’t ruin it for them.”
“You have to let this go, Gina. You can’t continue to blame the man for doing what men do.”
My father is such a pig. “Daddy,” I say, yanking my wrist from my mother’s hold. “Don’t…Just don’t come at me with your chauvinistic crap today because I will Uber my ass right back home to Cedar Grove.”
“You’re awful—ummm—bitchy,” my mother whispers the last word. “Maybe Dillon could hook you up with one of his friends?” She smiles wide, her green eyes shining with mirth. “Just like old times.” Mom’s brows do a little bounce as she and my father both crack up laughing.
I can’t even count how many times I got busted fooling around with my older cousin’s friends. We really were a mess growing up. And to be honest, I do miss him. But I just may hate him more. Guess I’ll know the answer to that in a few minutes.
“Ginaaa!” my Aunt Martha squeals, shuffling out of the house to greet me. She wraps her toned arms around my chest, nearly squeezing the breath from my lungs.
“Hey, Aunt Martha.” I hug her back, and tears spring to my eyes. I didn’t realize just how much I missed her. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. She smells of cookies and cakes. Martha is your classic fifties housewife. Her long blonde hair is in a perfect updo, her navy shift dress starched to perfection. I swear I’ve never seen the woman not put together. “Still baking?”
“You know it! I made a batch of your favorite cookies and hid a few from these vultures. Had to make sure my princess got hers.” She steps back, sliding her hands down my arms until she’s holding me by the fingers. Aunt Martha doesn’t even attempt to hide the tears spilling down her cheeks. “I missed you so much, child.”
“Me, too.” God, I feel like shit for not coming around to visit her. It’s not her fault her son’s a whore.
“He misses you too, you know,” she adds, sniffling.
A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow that bitch down, forcing a smile and a nod. I know he does. He’s called and left more messages than I can count. I’m just as stubborn as they come.
“Well, come on.” My aunt drops my hands and begins moving toward the door.
When I step into the foyer, I’m hit with a sense of nostalgia. I spent a few weeks of every summer in this house growing up. No matter how awful I was—and trust me I was a hot mess— I was always welcomed back with open arms.
“Gigi!” Uncle Ricky croons intercepting me on my trek to the kitchen. “So nice of you to grace us with your presence.”
“Missed you too, Uncle Ricky.” He lifts me clean off the ground, enveloping me in his big, burly arms, just like he used to when we were kids. My uncle is a mammoth of a man, standing six foot four. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him clean shaven and always loved to tease that I could braid the hair on his arms. He’s truly intimidating to look at, but I’ve never known a kinder soul. Uncle Ricky is a big, old teddy bear.
“Put me down,” I squeal as he throws me over his shoulder and carries me through the house, out the French doors, straight to the backyard. My ass feels so exposed, sticking up in the air like this. As I wriggle around in his arms, trying to tug my short pink dress to cover my exposed bathing suit bottom, we finally reach the pool, and he sets me on my feet right in front of that arrogant bastard Dillon.
“I hate you,” I whisper beneath my breath to Uncle Ricky, who’s got a shit grin from ear to fucking ear.
“Love you too, pumpkin.” He plants a kiss on the top of my head before announcing my presence. “Hey guys,” he says to the group of middle-aged men who were just deep in conversation with he who has been my sworn enemy for the last few years. “Most of you remember our little Gigi, right?”
A couple of heads bob, and I vaguely hear a few greetings. My attention is singularly focused on Mr. GQ himself, with his stupid muscles and too-pretty hair. If he weren’t so damned attractive none of this would have happened, and we could still be best friends.
Dillon’s bright blue eyes widen, as if he’s staring at a ghost. “Gina?”
“I haven’t changed that damn much,” I snark, trying to hide the overwhelming wave of emotion behind my signature sass.
He shakes his head with a laugh. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he agrees, setting his Bud Light on the table and scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, staring me right in the eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Goddamn it. I’m not going to fucking cry in front of all these people. Deep breaths, Gina. Just as I’m about to cave, I spot a familiar face sitting across the wrought iron table from Dillon. An ex-client—none other than Clarissa Dubois. “What the hell is she doing here?”
I ignore the little tramp’s indignant squeal and the snorts of laughter and gasps from our audience, pleading with all that is holy that there is some explanation, apart from the obvious, for her presence at our family Fourth of July gathering.
Dillon coughs. “Uh, I didn’t realize you’d be here, Gigi.”
“Why. Is. She. Here?”
“We’re together,” he mutters. It comes out all jumbled like one long curse, but there is no mistaking what he’s just said.
“I’m sorry…You’re to—what?” He’s got to be fucking with me right now. “You were supposed to be helping fix their sex life, not stealing his wife, Dillon!”
“Can we talk about this in private?” Dillon begs, glancing around at all of our family’s shocked faces. “They don’t—well didn’t—know.”
“Yeah, thanks, Gina,” Clarissa chimes in. “Now they’ll all think I’m a ho.”
“If the shoe fits, lace that bitch up.”
Clarissa looks around, her face growing pinker by the second. “You don’t even know me,” she grits out.
“I know you had a sweet husband who worshiped the fucking ground you walked on. Who cared enough to try to save your marriage by going to freaking sex therapy. Do you have any idea how hard that is for a man to do? And you thanked him by not only fucking said therapist, but leaving him for the therapist?”
I hear Aunt Martha gasp behind me and turned to apologize. The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, my head inches from the pool, with my former client wailing away at me. Her sudden attack takes me completely by surprise, but it’s not long before our roles are reversed, and I’ve got two fists full of her weave, ready to yank it out. How dare she attack me like this?
“Tink?” The lone word stops me in my tracks. It can’t be…
“Jeffrey?” I answer, costing myself a jab to the cheekbone as I search through the shocked faces gawking at us to find the man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the last month.
He rushes over, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m in his arms, my back to his chest and the skank in Dillon’s. My anger forgotten, the only thought in my head is how good it feels to be held by this man again. “You smell like beer,” I mutter, and he laughs. The vibration of his laughter against my back has me turning to putty in his familiar arms.
“Your lip’s bleeding,” he counters, lifting the hand that’s across my chest to touch his thumb to my swollen cheek. “You’ll have a nice shiner here.”
Spinning around in his arms, I touch each of my hands to the sides of his face, relishing the feel of the coarse stubble against my palms. “You don’t drink.” I can’t get past the smell of alcohol on his breath and the overwhelming desire I have to taste it on his tongue. My heart is racing. It’s as if everyone else has just disappeared, and Jeffrey and I are the only two people in existence.
Jeffrey’s head shakes. “I said I don’t drink around my kids.”
Ah. His kids aren’t here—wait…why is he here? “Wh—what are you doing here?”
Jeff pushes my hair behind my ears; his fingers never stop touching me as he speaks. “The girls are with Jessica’s mother for the weekend. So, I went out last night…and ran into an old buddy from college. He invited me over and here I am.”
“Dillon.”
Jeff clears his throat. “Yeah, he an ex of yours or something? What the hell was that?”
“That,” I answer, trailing my eyes back over to Dillon and Clarissa, “is the reason I had to leave New Orleans.”
