Page 75 of VOGUEish

Isabella, Chandler, and Annie stood in a rented yacht and watched a chauffeur open the door of the black Town Car that had stopped at the pier. Frankie Peterson stepped out.

“That’s her,” Isabella said dully.

Frankie was tall, slender, and stunningly beautiful. She wore all white. White flouncy hat. White T-shirt. White cropped pants. White high heels.

Frankie’s assistant hurried around from the other side, her arms loaded down. Isabella recognized her. “That’s her assistant, Jane. Actually, her name’s Tabby, but Frankie refuses to have an assistant named after a damn cat. So everyone calls Tabby Jane.

“Good morning, Ms. Peterson.” Chandler offered Frankie a hand to help her into the boat. “I’m Chandler Roman.”

Tabby shook her head. “Ms. Peterson doesn’t talk to anyone until after her third beverage for the day.”

Frankie turned and Tabby handed her the coffee cup she’d been holding. “This is her third. When it’s empty, she’ll be ready to communicate.”

Frankie moved to the front of the boat and settled into a seat. Tabby followed and set up an umbrella to protect her boss from the sun. She also handed Frankie a stack of magazines and a bottle of sunscreen. “I’m to remind you that Ms. Peterson will give you exactly two hours of her time. Not a minute more. She doesn’t tolerate anyone infringing on her time limits.”

Isabella bit back a smile. She knew all of this about Frankie. Had once given a similar spiel to people before about her idiosyncrasies. Isabella glanced at Chandler to see how he handled the queen of entrances…and to check for signs of regret.

He grinned. “We have that in common. Would you please tell Ms. Peterson that her two hours will start when her coffee is finished?”

“Ms. Pet—”

Frankie flicked her wrist. “I heard him. Be gone.”

Annie gave Tabby a sympathetic smile. Much like the one she’d tossed at Isabella this morning as they had exited their taxi.

“Is it okay if we talk amongst ourselves?” Annie asked.

“She’d prefer you didn’t,” Isabella automatically answered before Tabby had a chance to respond. Isabella probably should have warned Chandler and Annie about Frankie, but then why would she? They hadn’t warned her about their canoodling. And it’s not like they’d all been chatty this morning. Other than good mornings, little had been said on their way to the pier. It helped that Isabella had gotten to the taxi first and claimed the front seat. That way she was able to stare out the window and not see anything going on between Annie and Chandler in the back.

She’d wanted to give Chandler the benefit of the doubt, but the fact that he’d never knocked on her door last night to explain the situation left her with only one thing to believe. While he might have been in Annie’s room to break up, that wasn’t what ended up happening. In the end, he’d chosen Annie.

Did choosing Annie have anything to do with Isabella telling him she wanted to someday adopt? Not that that should matter at all because Isabella had only offered him a second one-night stand. Well, first she’d offered a fling. God, was that why he’d said business first? He’d wanted to get away from Florida, away from Annie, and then he could have had had Annie and another romp in the sack with Isabella? Which would make him a player. Or did it boil down to Annie being open to having his children someday should things turn out serious between them?

Was that what it had come down to? Maybe. She’d probably never know. Gah. She hated that this whole thing was spiraling her into an insecure mess. The kind of mess she’d been in high school.

Tabby moved closer to Isabella and stared at her. “Izzie? Is that you? I didn’t recognize you beneath those glam glasses and smart cover up. What the fuck exercise regimen have you been on?”

Isabella took her glasses and hat off. “It’s me. I’ve been go—”

Frankie cleared her throat.

Out of habit, Isabella automatically stopped talking. The woman was ridiculously tough, but no one cared because she was that good. She and Amanda Goldstein were alike in that respect. Maybe because they’d gone to college together. Had been roommates together. Joined the same sorority together. And then, together, fallen for the same frat boy. They were two peas in a pod, other than the fact that Frankie had made it to the golden chair and Amanda had not. Neither had gotten the guy. They were fierce rivals.

Isabella sat in the yacht with the others and held back the tears building behind her eyes. Damn it. She should have cried last night. Gotten all the tears out. Then she wouldn’t be in this predicament of blinking them back with every breath she took. Praise be to the bitches or bastards who invented dark sunglasses.

Instead of crying last night, she’d spent the wee hours of the morning rereading all her posts to see if she’d said anything in any of them that would give away who Chandler was, and thus expose her and Chandler to her colleagues.

And, truth be told, she’d been afraid to fall asleep, just in case he came to her with an explanation. Sometime during all that, it had dawned on her she had feelings for him that went beyond casual. It wasn’t her pride that was hurting. It was her heart.

She shifted, wishing for the hundredth time she’d skipped the bikini this morning. Thong bikinis might be all the rage, but they were not comfortable. Which she’d known before she’d put it on, but by god, if she had to be around Chandler, it was going to be in a bikini that made him second-guess his decision.

“Isabella, you can’t imagine how hurt I was when I learned you’d gone to work for Naked Runway when I offered you the moon at Vogue.” Frankie’s words startled Isabella into the now. “I have to say you’ve disappointed me even more than I thought was possible.” She held out her empty cup to Isabella.

Isabella took the cup while scrambling to find words. “I’m s—”

“I don’t do apologies,” Frankie snapped. “Dear God, do you remember nothing I taught you?”

Isabella swallowed. “Apologies are for the lily-livered.”

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