I SHOULD BE ABSOLUTELY furious at Weston Fontaine.
I should’ve shoved him in a puddle on the street and told him to go to hell.
But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I let him drive me in his fancy British car and take me to an equally fancy British restaurant, and he kept ordering me these fancy little espresso martinis and now I’m drunk. I’m seeing two Weston Fontaines in front of me, and that blows my mind so profusely I can’t help but start laughing because what are the odds of having two Westons in front of me? Obviously, I’m not thinking straight.
And then I immediately sober up when I realize who I owe this to.
My treacherous, only out for herself, scary as hell mother.
The earlier effects of two and a half martinis consumed are gone in a flash thanks to that horrible realization.
“What’s wrong?”
Glancing up, I find West watching me, his brows wrinkled in concern. This meal with him has been so pleasant. It truly has felt like old friends catching up. We gossiped, we talked about people we knew in high school and where they are now. He knew much more than I did about the various people we went to school with but that’s only because I wasn’t at Lancaster Prep for long. I do love hearing the stories though.
I could listen to him talk all day. That dreamy deep voice. The low chuckles and the flash of a naughty smile. My panties would light on fire if he kept that up, but oops, I’m not wearing any, so I guess there’s no chance of that happening.
I press my thighs together at the thought.
“Carolina.” His sharp voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I just—how close are our mothers?”
His frown deepens. “I believe it’s the ladies who lunch type of friendship. Once my mom returned to Manhattan, she picked up with her old friend group and your mother was a part of that group. They gravitated to each other. I guess they have a lot in common?”
I really hope West’s mother is nothing like mine. “Not many women have things in common with my mother. She’s rather … unique.”
My mother had to broaden her horizons and find new friends to spend time with since she drove away all of the old ones. She’d always gripe that my father got their friends in the divorce, but that’s not quite true. Not really. Yes, he may have kept a few of his old friends and their wives as part of his social circle, but my mother also turned into a raging bitch who did nothing but complain about Father nonstop. Her friends got so tired of hearing about it they eventually shut her out.
I can’t half blame them. I shut her out as much as possible, but I can only do so much since she is, after all, my mother.
“My mom seems to like her a lot.”
“Yes, my mother made it sound like they’ve been spending a lot of time together.” I frown, staring into the half empty martini glass. “I can’t lie, I’m a little wary over them being close.”
“What’s the harm in it? My mom needs as many friends as she can get right now. She still mourns over my father. I even suggested she try dating again, but she said it was much too soon.” He shrugs. “I don’t like the idea of her with another man yet anyway so maybe she’s right. But eventually I think it might be good for her. I can’t imagine her being alone for the rest of her life. She’s still got a lot of years left.”
I need to backpedal. He might ask what’s wrong with my mother and there’s not enough time in the world to list all the ways that Sylvia Lancaster is completely fucked up. “Look I think it’s nice that our mothers are friends, but you have to know that mine is … not a nice person.”
His frown deepens, and I continue on, “She’s manipulative. Scheming. I’d even go so far as to say sometimes even—dangerous.” I sit up straight, grab my glass and drain it of every last drop in one swallow.
“A little dramatic much? You’re being very ominous. I feel like I’m in a movie right now, Carolina.” He shakes his head, obviously amused, and I bang my fist on the table, making the silverware clatter against our mostly empty plates. “What the hell?”
“I’m serious. My mother is not to be trusted.” It pains me to say that. I don’t like admitting to people that something is wrong with my mother. She’s not normal. She’s devious and conniving and I’m worried there’s some ulterior motive as to why she’s become so friendly with Weston’s mother. “Maybe you should warn your mother about her. Don’t tell her I said anything though.”
“I can’t do that. What am I going to say? ‘Hey, Mom, word on the street is you can’t trust Sylvia Lancaster. She’s kind of a psycho.’ She’ll want to know who said that and she’ll want facts. Reasons.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to say much more than that. I’m sure there are plenty of people back home who would confirm that assessment.” I nod.
His expression is incredulous. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not. Please, just—say something to her. You don’t have to get all ominous and warn your mom her life is in danger, because I don’t believe that’s the case. You can tell her that you’ve heard some things about Sylvia Lancaster and that she should be on guard around her. And your mom should definitely not tell her any secrets. My mother could use them against yours.”
He studies me for a moment, like he needs to take the time to think over what I just said. “Are you afraid of her?”
I blink at him, unsure how to answer.
“Like, are you scared for your own safety?”
This is a tricky question. “Not really. Not for myself. If anyone should be scared, it’s my sister.” I wince. “Sylvie refuses to spend time alone with her.”
“What the fuck? Why?”
“It’s a long story.” I can’t get any more into it without making my entire family sound like a bunch of lunatics, so I wave a hand, dismissing the conversation. “You never told me about one person in particular.”
He raises his brows but says nothing about my subject change. “Who are you wondering about?”
“Mercedes.”
“Ah.” West leans back in his chair, his shirt molded to his lean torso, my gaze lingering there, wondering what he looks like under those clothes. Just as good as he did when we were younger? I’d guess even better. He’s bigger. Broader. “She’s in California.”
“Wait, seriously?” Jealousy rises, making me see green, and I mentally tamp it down. “Why?”
“Her dad was in tech, remember? She got kicked out of Lancaster Prep but ended up graduating high school when she went back to California, then went on a European vacation over the summer, started at Berkeley her freshman year and then flunked out during the first semester. She hooked up with a musician soon after that, and got into heavy drugs. Then I guess she got clean and now she’s living with that guy in Oakland and pregnant with his baby.”
“What?” I’m shocked. Positively floored.
“Right?” He’s nodding, his eyes half-lidded, giving him a sleepy/sexy look. He hasn’t drunk as much as me, one and half martinis to my three, and he’s consumed nothing but water for the last thirty minutes at least. Bet he’s trying to sober up since he drove that fancy Aston Martin here. “I never thought she’d end up like that.”
“I hope she’s miserable,” I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. “I hope she’s a huge disappointment to her parents and that she regrets all of her life choices.”
My words, my tone are both vicious, and I see the worry flicker in West’s gaze. “You’re still pissed at her. So am I.”
“Of course, I am. She got us suspended from school, West. She shared that video of us together with everyone she knows and she encouraged them to share it. She’s a horrible human. She’s getting exactly what she deserves.” I won’t back down from my feelings. Mercedes is a nasty person and I hope I never see her again.
“She was pretty shitty for what she did,” West agrees. “It just feels like so long ago now.”
He’s not wrong. It was a long time ago. A lot of things have happened, most of them good, at least for me, and I guess it’s easier to forget about that one horrible thing that happened to us in high school.
But being in front of West, remembering how devastated I was over the incident and how he handled it. How angry I was at him.
God, that hurt the most of all.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew she recorded us?” I ask, my voice small.
“Ah, Carolina.” He runs his hand over his jaw. His cheek. Like my question made him uncomfortable. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who calls West out for his bad behavior. “I was dealing with a lot of shit because of my dad. Remember when I disappeared for a couple of days and I saw him? He told me then he was dying but made me promise I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. He even lied to my mom and said he was in remission. He lied to the entire board at Fontaine. The staff, everyone he worked with, even those closest to him. They all believed everything was status quo, and then I went to Napa on November first and was put right to work on the second. And it wasn’t a normal ‘bring your son to work day’ either. The writing was on the wall. I think they all realized it then, just like I did. And not even three weeks later, he was dead.”
I didn’t realize his father burdened him with that secret. How unfair. Our parents act like we owe them for raising us, but a lot of the time, they take advantage of us and do their damage just because they can. They think they have the right to control our lives and make us miserable because they “made” us.
If I ever have children, I will never do that.
“This is a heavy conversation and I didn’t mean for it to get so serious.” He smiles, his gaze appreciative as it drifts over my face. “I like having you sit across from me.”
I say nothing. Just press my thighs together again because I can’t handle it when he looks at me like that.
“I’m probably asking for too much, but I want you back in my life, Carolina. I know you have your career here in London, but things are happening in my own life that will allow me to do pretty much anything I want here soon. I can live anywhere, go anywhere. My freedom is just on the horizon,” he explains.
I’m filled with both joy and dread at what he suggests. I love my life here in London. I really do. But I don’t know what it would be like to have him in it. I don’t know if I trust him. After everything he did, how he just up and left me …
What’s to say he won’t do it again?
“Why is your freedom just on the horizon?” I ask, using the exact words he just said.
He sits up straight, looking pleased with himself. “We’re currently brokering a deal to sell the House of Fontaine. A large luxury conglomerate has made an offer we can’t refuse, and it’s going to be announced soon.”
“That’s wonderful.”
He nods. “It’s not what my father would’ve wanted, but I’ve discussed it with my mom and she approves. I was never interested in running that company. And the money is hard to resist.”
“When you sell it, what’s next for you?”
“I don’t know.” His gaze locks with mine. “It depends on what you want.”
