Page 14 of Acquiring Ainsley
“I’m afraid he is.”
My thoughts turned to that night at the Whitney Museum. Brooke didn’t know about that—I’d decided not to tell her. She’d just insist to me that what happened that night was all part of Trevor’s grand plan to dominate our family.
I stood from the bench and decided to try something. “You know, Trevor isn’t all that bad.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I—I mean not in terms of looks. Have you seen him lately?” I walked over to my locker, unlocked it, and turned back to her. “Like inForbesor anything?”
“No.” She cocked her head. “Not in a few years.”
I took my phone out of my gym bag and swiped the screen. “We both know that he’s an asshole.Morethan an asshole.” I opened the internet on the device and ran Trevor’s name through Google. A spate of recent photos, most of them taken by New York photographers, came up in the search. I handed her the first decent photo I found, one taken as part of a profile about him inEast Coast Analyst.“But you have to see what he looks like now.”
As she examined the phone, her mouth dropped open, and the color drained from her cheeks. “Wow,” she said when she handed the phone back to me.
Fact was, time had been good to Trevor McNamara. He had the chiseled, hot attractiveness of a Hollywood movie star coupled with the preppy style of a seasoned Wall Streeter. Too bad he was also cloaked in jerkoff fragrance.
“So, yeah, that’s him these days.” I scrolled through a few more photos, then found the one that I wanted. “Check this out.” I turned the screen so she could see the most recent article on him inTech Savvy.
“He’s gorgeous.”
“And that photo is not Photoshopped.” I locked my phone and put it back in my bag. “Could be worse. He looks pretty good for thirty-nine.”
I didn’t add the obvious—a comment about our twelve-year age difference. Other people might have found that odd, creepy even, but I didn’t. I’d always liked older men, and while I didn’t like Trevor, at least he fit my usual age range.
“Yeah, but guys like that are more devoted to their work than they are to the people in their lives. You know this better than most, Ainsley.” Brook released a heavy sigh. “Are you’re seriously considering marrying him?”
I didn’t answer.
“We’re talking about marriage, for god’s sake, not a trip to the salon.”
“True, but—”
“Oh, my god,” she shrieked. “You are?You are.”
“I probably won’t do it.” I took my jacket out of the locker and slipped it on over my soaked tank top. “Come on. Let’s go. I need to get going. I have a few things to do this afternoon before the party tonight.” I slung my gym bag over my left shoulder and slammed shut the locker.
“I’m glad you’re still going.” Brooke stood.
Long before I’d found out about the bankruptcy, I’d bought hostess-level tickets to the Karen Worthington Fund Breast Cancer Awareness charity gala, an event always held at The Breakers Resort during the early weeks of Palm Beach’s winter season. As a result, my ticket also included a preview cocktail party at The Beachcomber Club, a bastion of high society on the northern end of Palm Beach.
“I’ll see you at seven,” I told her as we walked out to the reception area for the yoga studio. Luke Rothschild stood behind the desk; we waved to him and said hello as we crossed toward the front door. I made sure to seem as casual and unassuming as I always had. My family considered Luke a close friend, and I didn’t want him to get the idea that anything was wrong, although almost everything about my life felt that way.
“Let’s just try to have fun,” I told Brooke once we got outside. “I don’t want to think about all of this until tomorrow. I just want one more night of my old life.”
“You’ve got a deal.” Brooke gave me a quick hug. “Just make sure you look hot tonight, okay? At least we have this distraction. Nothing like Palm Beach at the height of the social season. You might as well make it one of the best nights you can remember, right?”
“Right.”
She said goodbye and got in her car, but I took a minute before I got into my own. I just couldn’t seem to shake the heavy feeling that had wrapped around me in less than a week. My life was already different, no matter how much I wanted to deny it. Nothing was the same.
Nothing.
What a mess.
That night, I downed two vodka-soda cocktails and then a chardonnay within a half hour of our arrival at The Beachcomber Club. It seemed like the best way to get through the night.
“Whoa,” Brooke said when I handed the empty wineglass to a passing server less than five minutes after taking it from a different one. “You might want to slow down.”
