Page 6 of One Wealthy Wedding

“I was traveling,” he says absently. He drains the shot, and I mock cough while I finish mine. “What happened?”

I shake my head.

“So secretive. Do you need me to say please?” His voice is taunting. My head jerks up. I’m trapped under his scrutiny, like a bug under glass.

“Since when do you say please?” I slide him another shot. One more of these, and he won’t be able to stand, much less keep prying.

“I say please all the time. Please, don’t stop.” He grins. “Please, rough like that.” His voice is husky, tugging at my insides. “Please, I’m gonna—”

“Finish and leave you unsatisfied?” I say, raising my brows expectantly.

“Not likely.” He winks.

“Please, don’t leave,” I continue, affecting a deep, desperate voice that sounds nothing like his. “I know I said seven inches, but I promise I can please you with two.”

I’m rewarded with a laugh, his head tipped back, the column of his throat bared. His amusement is beautiful. Theo has always been like this—the first one to make a joke, the first one to laugh, incandescent in his joy, so much so that you want to burn right along with him.

I shake myself. I’d do well to remember that he’s all flash, no substance. Theo might be irreverent and fun, but he’s not loyal.

He might have been the one to walk away, but it was for the best.

“I have to head out,” I say, pulling the shot glass toward me.

“Fine. Keep your secrets, Catherine. At least for tonight.” He stands, digs in his wallet, and slaps a hundred-dollar bill down on the bar. “For the shots.”

“I’ll get you change.” My insides pinch at the thought of this being our last interaction for the next ten years.

It’s a good thing. I need a clean break with the past.

“No change needed.” His green eyes glint. “I’ll be back. You’re hiding something, and I intend to find out what it is.”

So much for a clean break.

Shit.

3

Theo

The thing about having a fall from grace is you don’t realize it’s happening until you’ve hit rock bottom.

I must be there now, because self-awareness is creeping in around the edges of my consciousness on Saturday morning.

As it turns out, rock bottom feels like a bad hangover and a crawling sense of dread. I open my eyes to my nearly dark bedroom. Where am I? This isn’t my apartment in London. The drapes are thick, the fan overhead is silent, and there’s no street noise, even in the middle of the city.

I’m home. Right. On 5th Avenue. My first night back after a year of traveling, except for a brief stint at Christmas. So hungover and jet-lagged.

My head is fuzzy and my eyes are gritty. I need to stop doing this. Not the partying, but the waking up and feeling like crap. The admonishments from my brother Cole, to always have one water for every drink, echo in my head. Or is that the pounding behind my temple that sounds like a bass drum? My phone lights up with messages, and I press a hand to my eye, turning the green velvet drapes and the rich wood tones of my bedroom into a blur. It’s seven a.m. Too early, but I’m shit at sleeping late, and I’m still on UK time.

Why did I get so drunk last night? Snippets of the evening drift lazily. I grasp for them, coming up with a clear picture of the game, at least. The Royals won. We were in the owner’s box. Cole’s friend Rose was lamenting the lack of single lesbians at hockey games. I suggested we go somewhere else. And then I took them to Sylvia’s. Why? It’s not the straightest bar in Midtown Manhattan, but it’s close.

Cat. I sit up. Cat was there. Bartending? No, that can’t be right. Memories flash like a red-carpet camera. Cat making drinks for us. Rose’s hand on my shoulder. Cat’s face. Her jealous face. Or was I imagining that? Cosmos. Why? I hate cosmos. Vodka. My thumb brushing Cat’s hand.

I curl my fingers into my palm and let my lids drift shut. If I think hard, I can remember how she felt. Warm, silky skin. The way she trembled under my touch. Just like she did at nineteen when I kissed her. My cock twitches. I bite my thumb.

I actually fucking bite my own thumb before I rip my hand away from my face like I’ve been burned.

I stumble out of bed and into my walk-in closet. I need to work out.

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