Page 52 of Masks and Mishaps

“I have to go back to the dorms.”

“There’s a whole section of my closet for you already,” he informs me as he rolls off the bed and hops to his feet, brimming with energy as usual.

“Pardon?”

He gestures at his closet as he strolls by. “I wanted you to have things here.”

Sure enough, when I enter his walk-in closet, there are a dozen tiny, stunning, and expensive new dresses—mostly green. It’s so thoughtful, and my stomach is fluttering—but I can’t give him too much.

“Thank you, Dalt. All my makeup and stuff is still back at the dorm though.”

Dalton is standing in the doorway, pulling on a shirt. “Fine,” he concedes. He finds his wallet and takes out a credit card. “Add this to your account and request a ride—but we need a better arrangement. You’re sleeping over, and I’m not arguing about it. I don’t want to fuck you, film it, and then send you off in a car. It feels cheap.”

I’m completely fine. I have to keep breaking his heart, but I’m completely fine.

“Most coworkers part ways at the end of a shift,” I remind him, taking the credit card.

But Dalton doesn’t laugh.

He places his hand on my chin, raises my face, and after a pregnant pause, he says, “I’ll see you at brunch,” before he goes into his bathroom and closes the door behind him, shutting me out.

Twenty-One

DALTON

Fucknugget

Talk to me.

I’ve been texting for months.

We have to move forward.

You’re my only heir.

Delete. Delete because my father is a cunt.

Delete. Delete because texting for months doesn’t make up for years of neglect.

Delete. Delete because there’s no moving forward from hurting MomandValeriaandLander—you prick.

Delete. Delete because we’re not goddamn Habsburgs and we don’t need heirs.

I take that back. If Essie wanted to pop out a few heirs for me, I’d be tracking her ovulation and taking shots on goal like a World Cup final, but it’s not like Ineedheirs.

Two hours have passed since Essie left my apartment, and I’m waiting for her outside the restaurant where we’re meeting Mom and Porter for brunch. She rounds the corner at that moment, cheeks pink from the sharpness of the November morning air. The snow hasn’t arrived yet, but I can feel it trying to break through the District’s skies. I’ve always been a slut for snow, but Essie hates it. The way she’s clutching the brand-new wool coat I got for her is quintessentially Californian—not to mention cute.

“Hey,” she greets when she’s in front of me.

With a big ‘fuck you’ to caution, I bend and kiss her cheeks—one and then the other.

“Stop that,” she warns, jolting away. “They’re right inside.”

“This is how they do it in Europe. Mom owns a house in Lake Como, and your dad was on a Rick Steves world tour instead of raising you. I’m sure they’ll approve.”

She shoots me a look. “As if you’d ever touch me in front of your mom.”

“No? Well, to start, Alyssa Cavendish is the most sex positive person on the planet. How do you think we all turned out the way we did?”

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