Page 71 of Bad Boy Crush

“That’s Ant.”

“That’s Ant?” Her friend’s mouth dropped open before he reclaimed his composure. “I thought you took him out with the trash.”

“That was a mistake,” she admitted. “We have…reconnected.”

“Metaphorically, or slot A, tab B?”

“The second one.”

“I’m going to need details, and another vodka tonic.”

Once Lou and Dolan had caught up, she excused herself to rescue Ant from her dad’s clutches. No sooner had she taken Ant’s hand did they run into two of her friends from college, Cathy and Carrie Paretti. The sisters hadn’t changed much, each having maintained their lithe forms and wearing too much makeup.

“Lourdes Daniels.” Cathy’s plastic smile didn’t budge when she moved in to air-kiss Lou’s cheeks.

“It’s been years.” Carrie mimicked her twin sister’s greeting. They introduced their husbands, one tall and lean, the other stout and bulky. Both men wore linen suits with ties. “Who’s your friend?”

“Anthony Renaldo. He’s a sculptor. We delivered a piece this weekend to Alessandre D’Paolo.” She had no idea if the name drop would garner recognition until Cathy’s mouth popped open.

“That is impressive. Do you do iron work, Anthony?”

“Wood,” he answered.

“He’s a chain saw artist,” Lou said proudly. “He won first place in the Paul Bunyan games in Evergreen Cove this year.”

“How…interesting.” Cathy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Yes, it is,” Lou said, her voice hard. She’d forgotten how unforgivably snobbish the Parettis could be. “He’s by far the most interesting person at this party.”

Carrie touched her husband’s shoulder with a limp hand. “My Brett is a stockbroker.”

“Congratulations,” Ant said drily. Lou pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

“If you’ll excuse us, we’re going to kick off these shoes and run our toes through the sand. It’s positively stifling over here.” Lou flashed her own plastic smile and turned toward the beach, Ant by her side.

When they were away from the Paretti sisters, she let out an exasperated huff. “The nerve of those fake bitches.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he grumbled.

“Do what?”

“Talk me up. Try and impress them.”

“Well, I’m not going to stand there and allow them to insult you.” At the edge of the sand, she slipped out of her sandals. “They’re fake and boring and ridiculous.”

“You don’t have to fight my battles. I’m used to being looked down on by the elite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This party. These people. They know I’m less than.”

She propped her hands on her hips. “You are not ‘less than.’ Where is this coming from? Was my father rude to you?”

“Depends on your perspective.” He slipped off his own shoes and took her hand, walking into the sand with her. The dark ocean waves rolled in, and sand sifted between her toes. The view did little to soothe her frayed nerves.

“What did he say to you?”

“Your dad?”

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