Isn't She Lovely (21 page)

“You’re on
fire
today with the observations,” I say, going to the closet and pulling out the huge duffel bag I purchased a couple of days ago. I have about four times as many clothes as when I moved in, thanks to Ethan’s shopping spree, and he insisted that I keep them. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with all of them, unless I decide to take on a career as a life-sized Barbie, but I’m not ready to part with them either.

Ethan’s all up in my face, taking the bag out of my hand and holding it out of reach. “I never said you had to move out as soon as the party was over,” he says. “Stay until the end of the summer.”

“Thanks for the offer, but my housing crisis has come to a close,” I say with a timid
smile. “Since I work in the dean’s office during the school year, they’ll let me move into the dorms early for no additional charge as long as I take on a couple of work shifts.”

“You’re leaving
this
to move into the
dorms
early?”

I feel my temper starting to spike at the condescension in his tone. “You want me to stay? As what, your whore?”

His face goes furious. “It’s not like that and you know it.”

“Yeah? What’s it like, Ethan? What is this?”

His mouth twists in frustration, but instead of responding, he tosses the bag behind him like a petulant child, crossing his arms as I stomp over to retrieve it.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice calmer but no less cold.

I throw my hands up in exasperation, abandoning all pretense of packing. “I thought I just did.”

“Only because I asked.”

“I don’t report to you, Ethan!” I say, fed up with his childish reaction. “You can pull the control-freak routine with your next girlfriend, but don’t you dare try it on me.”

His eyes meet mine. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

Exactly
. I close my eyes briefly. “You know what I meant.”

Ethan rubs a hand across the back of his neck, and I hate that I’m starting to adore that frequent gesture. “What about our screenplay?”

“We’ll get it done. We don’t have to turn it in for a couple of weeks, and we have most of the major scenes laid out.”

I haven’t told him, but I added the whole making-out-on-the-couch episode to the scene list—omitting, of course, the abrupt ending. In our movie, the heroine wouldn’t be damaged goods who doesn’t know whether or not she’s ever had sex. In the movie, Tyler and Kayla would consummate. Professor Holbrook had said he’d wanted conflict. And sex would
definitely
add conflict.

I still don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed that that particular plot development won’t be based on a true story.

“What about the ending?” he asks.

“Still open-ended,” I say more calmly, bending down to grab the bag and hoisting it onto the bed. “I thought maybe we could get some inspiration from this trip. Maybe have a big blowup with the ex-girlfriend or something.”

He smiles at that. “You want me to get into a public fight with Olivia for the sake of a two-credit class?”

“Well, we’ve got to have something good for our denouement.”

“You act like I’m supposed to know what that means.”

“The climax. The explosive ending,” I explain. “I know up until now we’ve been loosely basing it on our own experiences, but that won’t work for the final scenes. We can’t just have Tyler and Kayla go quietly into the night.”

“As you plan to do,” he says.

“As do you,” I say, giving him a look out of the corner of my eye.

“Yeah, well,” he says, rubbing his neck again, “I suspect you’ll do it better. You hating the sunshine and all. Creeping in the night is just your style.”

He’s trying to make me smile, but I find I’m not up to it. In fact, I don’t like that description of me at all, and that scares the crap out of me. I’d better not be losing my edge after a few short weeks of wearing high heels and short skirts.

I feel his eyes boring into my back as I turn to load a pile of black shirts into the bag, and I will him to acknowledge what neither of us has mentioned: the fact we’ve now kissed
twice
for reasons that have nothing to do with pretending.

I want him to tell me that the movie’s becoming true. That Pygmalion is falling in love with the girl he created.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he wanders to my nightstand and picks up a picture. “Your mom?” he asks.

I don’t bother looking up. I have the photograph memorized. It’s my parents and me the night of the homecoming game. I’d just been crowned the sophomore homecoming princess, and they were proud. I remember thinking that nothing in my life would ever feel as good as that moment.

So far I’ve been right.

Ethan isn’t saying anything, and when I turn to make sure he’s not up to his elbows in thongs, I see him still staring at the picture.

“You were a cheerleader,” he says.

“Good eye,” I mutter, resisting the urge to rip the picture from his hands.

“And a tiara.”

I say nothing. I know what he’s thinking:
What the hell happened to you?
Except he already knows.

“Some guys have a thing for cheerleaders,” he says, his voice easy.

I roll my eyes as I start tossing socks into the bag. “Let me guess. You want to know if I still have my old uniform.”

He sets the picture back on the nightstand and moves toward the door. “Nah. Not my speed. But I think I could develop a thing for girls in combat boots.”

I spin around in surprise, wanting to see his face, wanting to know if he means what I think he means.

But he’s already gone.

Chapter Eighteen

Ethan

I’m on a boat with Stephanie again. Only this time the boat is actually an enormous chartered yacht, and the tiny little swimsuit she wore last time would absolutely
not
be appropriate.

My parents aren’t exactly the type to break with tradition, and they kick off their Hamptons weekend spectacle the same way they do every year: a “black and white” cocktail party on a pimped-out mansion of a boat, in which everything from the food to the requested guest attire is—you guessed it—black and white.

I grab two flutes from the champagne fountain, only to realize that I’ve lost Stephanie in the crush. I told her I’d be right back with the bubbly but was stopped by about a dozen of my parents’ already tipsy friends, and I’ve left her alone for a good fifteen minutes now.

Weaving through the crowds, I keep my eye out for her shiny dark head. She’s wearing heels, which means she won’t be quite as minuscule as usual, but she’s still short. A good deal shorter than say, Olivia, whom I’m also keeping an eye out for, but not in the excited-to-see-you way.

My father warned me that she’d be here. I already knew, of course. Although her family isn’t an official co-host, they always host the clambake and bonfire extravaganza that follows this fancy cocktail party. My only consolation is that my mom muttered something about Michael having a conflict. She’d asked me for details—like I’d know.

But at least it’s looking like I’ll have to face only one demon this weekend. Although the thought doesn’t seem as heinous as long as Stephanie is by my side.

The crowd parts briefly and I finally see her, my breath hitching a little in a way that annoys me. If forced to choose, I prefer the swimsuit version of Stephanie on a boat, but this version is pretty spectacular.

Her dress is strapless and white, but there’s a black belty thing just under her boobs to keep it from being too boring and bridal. And I don’t have a foot fetish or anything, but I’m digging the white sandals combined with the black toenail polish. I know the black polish is for the sake of this evening’s theme, but it also reminds me of the dark polish she wore when we first met, and I love the subtle nod to the real Stephanie that’s lurking beneath the good-girl dress and makeup.

She’s talking to some dude our age I don’t recognize, and I can tell from the way his gaze
keeps dropping away from her face that I’m not the only one who appreciates her primping effort. A stab of something hot and bitter creeps up my back, and I recognize it as the same emotion that went through me when I walked into our apartment and saw her and David together.

Jealousy
.

I slide up beside her, putting a hand on her back. She glances up at me as she accepts the glass of champagne, and I can sense the amusement there. She knows exactly what I’m doing: I’m claiming.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” I say back.

The other dude’d have to be a moron not to get the hint.

Our eyes hold for a beat longer than necessary before she puts on what I recognize as a society smile. It’s the same one I’ve seen on my mother and Olivia countless times, and I don’t know whether I’m proud or annoyed that Stephanie seems to have mastered it.

“Ethan, this is Austin. He goes to NYU too.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, extending a hand. “What major?”

“Econ,” he answers as he shakes my hand. He’s friendly enough, but I can tell he’s lost interest after learning that Stephanie’s taken, and after a few minutes of stale chitchat about favorite professors and what’s next after graduation, he moves away, leaving Stephanie and me to ourselves.

She clinks her glass to mine before turning toward the water and bracing her forearms on the railing. “I’ll give you this, Price, you filthy-rich kids certainly know how to do a party right.”

“You don’t think it’s pretentious?” I ask, turning to mimic her posture.

Stephanie snorts. “Of course it’s pretentious. But it’s also pretty damn nice.”

Her voice is devoid of scorn, and I’m oddly relieved that she can hang in this world without feeling disdainful of all the opulence. Because even though it
is
opulent, and completely, disgustingly over the top, it’s also my world. It’s my future. One day it’ll be me hosting Hamptons parties on behalf of Price Holdings.

I drain the rest of my champagne, letting the flute dangle from my fingers by its stem over the water. “You know, now that I’m here, I feel a little foolish that I was so scared to face this alone. I don’t know why it was so important that I have a girlfriend. There’s no shame in a twenty-one-year-old coming to his parents’ party alone, you know?”

She glances at my profile, and I can tell she’s surprised by the admission. And perhaps a little irritated, seeing as I’ve dragged her out of her element when she’s undoubtedly wishing she were lurking in some little hole-in-the-wall theater in Soho right now.

She bumps her hip lightly against mine. “You saying you want me to leave, Price?”

Now it’s my turn to glance at her profile and her turn to stare at the water. “No,” I say slowly. “I don’t think I’m saying that at all.”

It’s the closest I’ve come to admitting that there’s something between us other than the plan, and I can tell from the flush on her cheeks that she knows it. I should let it go, but I’m suddenly desperate for reassurance that I’m not alone on this limb. That I’m not the only one who wants to make this weekend more than a good-bye.

Because I suppose that it
will
be a good-bye. There’s no future for the heir to an empire and a girl who simply wants to be left alone.

But I also want to show her that I’m more than the Price Holdings heir apparent. That there’s more to what I feel for her than a stupid agreement. And that there’s more in the balance than a stupid screenplay.

So I push her. Just a little. “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” I ask softly. “I can get you back to Manhattan within a few hours, your part of the bargain completely fulfilled.”
But tell me you want to stay
.

She says nothing for several seconds, and my heart starts to thud in panic that I’m wrong. That she’ll take me up on my offer and be on the next jitney back to the city before I’ve had a chance to …

Shit. I’m not even sure
what
I want out of her this weekend.

It’s not sex. I mean, it’s not
just
sex. At least not until she gets answers from that asshat ex-boyfriend of hers. I meant what I said that night. Stephanie deserves answers.

But whether or not she and Caleb had sex that night, she doesn’t remember it. Which means that whoever she sleeps with will essentially be her first. And she deserves her first to be someone other than a guy who’s more or less paying her to pose as his girlfriend.

But still, I want her to choose to be here.

Choose me
. I don’t say it. But I want to.

“I don’t want to go home. Not yet.” She says it so softly that I think at first I’ve imagined it. But then she turns to face me, her blue eyes shining with support and friendship and something else neither of us will name.

I take her free hand and lift it to my lips. Not because anyone’s watching. But because I want to.

“I’m glad.”

The moment is mushy as hell and out of character for both of us, but neither of us moves for several minutes, and it’s just us, the lights reflecting off the water, and some Frank Sinatra song from the band.

There’s a shift happening, and it’s crucial and dangerous, yet I want it anyway.

I kiss her hand again, letting my teeth lightly scrape her knuckles and smiling in
satisfaction when she sucks in a breath.

“Don’t you dare try to seduce me on this boat, Price,” she says, plucking her hand away from mine. “Not until I get to try some of this caviar you’re always rambling on about.”

I grin, letting her lighten the mood. “You’ve never had caviar?” I say in mock affront. “What are you, an animal?”

“Well then,” she says, letting me link fingers with her, “educate me.”

And I want to. In more ways than just caviar.

But then we turn in the direction of the buffet table, and all my plans go out the window when I spot the tall blonde staring at me with wounded green eyes.

And suddenly I can’t breathe.

Olivia
.

Chapter Nineteen

Stephanie