Page 113 of Masks and Mishaps

“Oh,” Weston says, wiping his smug mouth with the back of his hand. “We were—”

“Fucking in my house,” I fill in, giving him the stoniest expression I know. I come to a stop in front of them before I click my tongue and cock my head toward the stairs.

The woman takes the hint.

“Not you,” I snap when Weston tries to follow.

Weston begrudgingly faces me and layers on a placid expression. It’s fake.

I take him in while I continue unbuttoning my shirt. “You have a hickey.”

“So do you.”

I know I have a hickey. I have, like, sixteen.

Keeping my eyes locked on Wes, I finish unbuttoning my shirt and take it off. His eyes widen when he sees my full chest on display.

Breathe it in, bitch.

“Essie told me something interesting,” I mention while I pretend to fold my shirt. “Said you asked her out.”

He shakes his head without missing a beat. “No.”

“She lied to me?” I ask, stepping forward and putting my face near his.

His lips part. “Well, I don’t know what she saidexactly, but—”

“Something did happen.” I tilt my head. “Was that a smart idea?”

His weight shifts back, but I lean in—no reprieves until I get answers. “I thought she wanted it,” he finally responds.

Letters have legitimately never been put in a more rotten order in the history of the English language, but I manage to keep my expression flat. “That’s the story you’re going with: Essie was so interested inyouthat she would risk a full-time job at the bank to sample you.” I chuckle. “Have you ever looked at yourself?”

Weston has to tilt his back to see me when I’m standing this close.

“Because I see you,” I state. “You’re mediocre in every way.”

“The hell…” he murmurs.

“I said,” I return, enunciating the words, “you aremediocre in every way. You’re an objectively untalented banker. You’re lazy. You’re a worse conversationalist than the cum in the socks you pretend are the pussies you can’t pull. You’re a DC six and a New York four.” His jaw finally lowers. “And I dare you—I fucking dare you—to blackmail my sister again.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Weston snaps, squinting his blue eyes. “She’s not your sister. She’s not even your stepsister anymore.” His face contorts. “And do you think my father is going to let you speak to me like this?”

“Tell him,” I goad. “But before you do, ask him about the first time he said I was the son he never had. It’s happened more than once, Wes.”

Weston’s expression is grave. I may have crossed a line—and the thought thrills me. Because when he propositioned Essie and threatened her career, he crossed my goddamn line.

I move like I’m about to pass him, but stop abruptly and say, “If you ever threaten Essie again, I’ll macerate your tongue, spread the remains from here to Wall Street, and sprinkle glitter in it so people find traces of your sorry existence for all eternity.”

And when I get to my bedroom, I’ve barely started rinsing my shirt in the sink when Essie comes barreling in and wraps her arms around my neck, murmuring, “I saw you shirtless.”

We never make it back to the party.

Forty

ESSIE

AtHannington-HaleonMonday,my messages go unanswered in favor of staring at Dalton across the expanse of the bullpen. At this particular moment, he’s reclining into the ergonomic back of his chair with a phone against his ear, twirling a pen around his fingertips and watching me. He winks.

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