Enter The Black Oak: Chapter 16

AS WE PULL UP TO OUR HOSTS’ BRIDGEHAMPTON MANSION an hour and a half later, I’m once again filled with trepidation at having to mingle with the big personalities of the vacationing New York elite.

I used to take gatherings like these with a pinch of salt and relish conversing with some of the smartest and most accomplished people a person could ever wish to meet, as well as shamelessly enjoying some of the more extreme clichés on display, from closeted politicians with their resentful spouses to fifty-somethings with unusually taut features who check out the asses of folks half their age while discreetly dressed intellectuals look them up and down with disdain.

Stella, Maddie, Kevin and I love observing it all, with Stella not hesitating to make a pass at whatever freshly divorced menu item—as she calls them—is on offer and Kevin making eyes at any man who may look more pruned than average, taking it as a sign that he has chance at a dangerous five-minute back-room fumble.

In my time living in Manhattan, I’ve been lucky enough to be invited to some unforgettably eclectic soirées, mingling with businesspeople, intellectuals, old money, the nouveau riche, trophy spouses, walking midlife crises, smoking hot models, unapologetic creeps and people who have no idea how they managed to get lucky enough to experience it all. I get that I’ve spent so many years in New York that I’m now putting people into simplistic categories, reducing complex people and groups to clichés. My face turns grim as I think about the cliché that I am myself—the oblivious young moron wife with the hot millionaire husband sticking it to half of Manhattan.

I don’t feel confident walking into the party at all. Finding out that Jack has slept with well-known women about town has knocked the wind out of me and left me paranoid that people know, afraid I’ll see pity in their eyes or that I’ll spot a group of people whispering about me, or worse, that I’ll see those two bitches there or some other woman my husband has screwed who wants to check out the wife she’s made a fool of.

I feel naked and exposed with translucent skin that people can see right through. I hate feeling like a weak, wilting spectre instead of the sharp, funny, expressive girl I used to get told I was. I wish I could snap out of the lethal thought pattern I’m still subjecting myself to once and for all and stop reducing my once-rich life to my dysfunctional marriage. I used to be passionate about so many things—about making a difference, helping the community and the environment, educating others. Now the only thing I can think to do is try to keep patching up the broken shards of my spirit and somehow glue them together so that I can function in this world like the productive human I want to be. I am aware that tonight’s guests would likely be unfazed by the predictable infidelities that seep into the very fibers of Manhattan life like rivulets of rainwater burrowing into soil. Jack is discreet, and very powerful—not the type of man that most people would want to get on the wrong side of by gossiping about his sex life. Still, I resent the fact that Jack’s affairs now influence my every move—from the places I go, to the way I feel when I’m at these functions.

To sex.

It doesn’t help that I can still feel him inside me, my body still sensitive and aching from the rigorous assault it took just over an hour ago. I feel shaky, invaded and sore and I need to walk into this house smiling and serene.

As Jack pulls up to the parking spot that the attendant waves him into and parks, he turns to look at me and puts his hand on mine, squeezing it tightly as he leans over to kiss me firmly on the lips in that eyes-closed, last-kiss-ever kind of way that he does several times a day. The irony isn’t lost on me that I now feel safest when in the arms of the very man who hurt me the most.

As I get out of the car, Jack closes the passenger door behind me and interlocks his fingers firmly with mine, walking me possessively towards imposing black double doors framed by a stone archway, the entrance to an indecently sized Tudor-style mansion. Two stocky men and a slender lady with a clipboard stand at the front door to check attendance and presumably to keep out any unwanted element.

“Jack!” A booming shout flies across the marble foyer as we step inside.

Richard, a buff, ludicrously tanned fifty-something day trader turned hedge-fund owner in a white shirt and pastel blue pants comes striding over, arms outstretched, and reaches for Jack, giving him three hard pats on the back with showbizzy aplomb.

“Richard! Thanks for having us. Hi Shelley,” Jack says, leaning over to embrace Richard’s bubbly, tight-faced blond wife whose ample leathery bosom is on unabashed display in an ankle-length peach gown.

And game face on…

“Jessie!” both Shelley and Richard exclaim, with Richard grabbing my arms and planting two kisses firmly on my cheeks and Shelley air-kissing me while hugging me against her jiggly breasts. Over her shoulder, I spot dozens of guests already mingling around the living area and into the garden, encircled by waiters dressed in khaki carrying trays of drinks and fancy-looking amuse-bouches.

“Hi! Thanks for having us,” I respond as warmly as I can muster, a pageant-worthy smile glued to my face as Jack holds my waist tightly while he starts to talk to Richard.

“How are you doing, darling?” Shelley asks me in her Savannah drawl while brushing a wisp of my hair behind my ears with über-confident familiarity.

“I’m… I’m great! It’s so good to be out of Manhattan for a little bit. I feel as though the city’s eating me for breakfast at the moment.”

Her smile reveals dazzlingly white teeth that clash with her deep tan. “I hope your parents are coming, honey?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, you sure about that, Shelley?”

“Oh, come on,” she laughs. “They’re wonderful folks!”

“Special is the word,” I grin. “I’m just hoping they’ll stay off the gin and tonics… and that no one brings up politics.” My parents’ ability to turn every discussion into a defense of their unwaveringly liberal ideals is well known, as is my and my brother’s frequent irritation with it.

“Don’t worry about this lot, sweetie. They can hold their own.”

“I don’t doubt it. But just in case, I have a lot of experience diffusing political debates, so I’ll be on duty if things get too spicy.”

As more guests arrive behind us, Shelley shows us the room set up for coat check and we exchange our jackets for golden tokens which I slip into the second-hand 1950s Chanel purse I picked up at a vintage store a few years ago. We head past a floor-to-ceiling water feature and enter the vast living area with its pristine white walls, expensive art and modern-day interpretation of a ’70s vibe. A dozen plants in tall pots and various orange loveseats adorn the room, and to the left, through large double doors, stands a long bar behind which a barman is serving drinks. In the center of the room is a depressed area, accessible by a mini-staircase. It’s lined with white leather sofas with gold and tangerine accent pillows upon which sit about twenty merry guests. Glass doors line the back of the living room leading to a back garden so long that I can barely see the end of it past the people mingling on the large patio.

As I glance around, I make a concerted effort not to focus on individual faces and as a result, manage to differentiate no one. I’m basically being greeted by a wave of flashed white teeth, gaudy accessories and Martini-drenched olives being sucked off cocktail sticks. This is not the relaxed Hamptons beach vibe. There is a lot of money in this room. And with Jack walking in, there is now even more. A lot more.

When I see some of the impressive bosoms on display in vibrantly colored low-cut dresses, I feel positively shrouded in my graphite-grey strapless maxi-dress with its tall slit down the side that exposes my non-scarred leg and covers my scarred one. My legs are carefully balanced on the low, solid custom-made white heels that Jack gave me two years ago as a present to try to help me feel normal again when I was recovering from my broken ankle. I wonder if tying my hair into a messy bun and accessorizing with the long silver earrings set with turquoise stones that I bought on a backpacking vacation to Costa Rica was really a good idea when I scan some of the stylized hair, sprayed within an inch of its life, and the dazzling array of jewels and gold strewn over heavily tanned skin.

As we make our way through the merriment, I can’t help but smile at the dazzling, in-your-face display of wealth. Holding my hand tightly, Jack flashes a big grin at me as though reading my mind. He always loved the way I could describe the funny little things that happen in a room of people. In the past when we got back from these kinds of soirées, I would start out by recounting my version of the night, and would often end up stood on the coffee table, imitating the most memorable characters while Jack would hold his sides laughing as he watched me from the sofa. The squeeze of his hand warms me to my core. I feel strong with him at my side. The knowledge of how much I need him also sends a shiver through me.

Thirty minutes elapse in a blur of introductions, small talk, cocktails and air kisses. Through regular attempts at centering myself, I slowly regain my confidence as we mingle charmingly, making easy chit chat and generally looking like the perfect couple. I spot men check out my breasts and women check out Jack’s ass. I get hugged by a couple of vivacious ladies who laugh unreservedly, get looked up and down by cold, tight-lipped women who look like they’ve just had an encounter with a particularly sour lemon, and hear loud, verging-on-obnoxious men guffaw at bad jokes while high fiving each other. These are the types I secretly want to gently stab in the larynx with a cocktail stick these days.

Some guests look socially awkward, like they’re suffering from stage fright and want the ground to swallow them up, and others prowl the room with the confidence of wolves encircling a herd of sheep. Jack is perfect as always—a sleek mix of funny, confident, sharp, as poised as a predator and, of course, breathtaking. He’s almost always the tallest and strongest man in any room, with a primal energy that draws people to him like a magnet. Jack always said that it was me people were being pulled towards, but I doubt it. Everywhere he goes, people gravitate towards him—men wanting to shake his hand and bathe in the light of his power, his quick wit, his knowing stare, and women tilting their heads to the side as they try to flirt with him discreetly in front of me.

I’ve always had a particular level of contempt for women that do that, not having ever in my life knowingly flirted with a man who was taken, out of fucking principle if nothing else. Unfortunately, since being with Jack, I’ve been enlightened that this girl-on-girl sabotage is still alive and kicking. So much for the sisterhood, I think to myself depressingly as I cock an eyebrow and watch a newly arrived leggy redhead devalue her self-worth in front of Jack who is standing a few feet away. As she plasters on a series of clown-like smiles and tops them off with an unsolicited touch to his arm, Jack takes a step back and pulls me close to him, putting his arm around me while looking down at the woman coldly. He turns to smile at me and somewhere in there, the redhead gets the picture and moves on, and as I study Jack’s adoring, protective face, I know that I love this man desperately. I know, despite him cheating with those women, that he adores me too. I see it in his eyes and in the tender intimacy of his restrained desire. I feel it in the way his hand grasps mine as if wanting to keep me safe from the world; in the way his gaze follows me when I turn to talk to someone else; the way he suddenly appears, his arm snaking around my waist possessively when another man makes me laugh; the way he leans down to kiss my neck when no one is looking; and the way his eyes watch mine when we are on opposite sides of the room. For a moment, other people barely exist as he stares at my lips indecently while I smile at him adoringly.

A warm rasp cuts through the air. “Where’s my bub?” I hear from ten feet behind me and instantly recognize my mother’s hearty voice.

I turn to see my parents and Stella and exclaim with glee and relief at the arrival of support troops and playmates. Hugs ensue and my mother looks me up and down, expressing approval at my understated ensemble. My parents hug Jack whom they adore and whose indiscretions they know nothing of. Stella, far less than impressed with Jack at the moment, watches him with all the warmth of an alligator who hasn’t consumed food for a month, but moves in for a tense air kiss anyway, presumably for the benefit of my parents.

Even with her freewheeling open-mindedness, being around the man who hurt her best friend is clearly a herculean effort for her. Stella is as open-minded as they come, yet the empathy well is dry when it comes to Jack and the tension between them can be cut with a knife as she stares him down. Jack stares back, unmoved. Although he’s never overtly said as much, I always sensed that he was never too keen on Stella and never fully understood our friendship. Stella is a sexual free spirit that feels little emotion for the men—and occasional women—that she experiences. I, on the other hand, once tried detaching my emotions from sex during an impromptu one-night stand at college, which left me in floods of tears the next day as my body’s hormones tried to make sense of what I had just done. Luckily, the feeling passed quickly and I decided that one-night stands were not my cup of tea.

“How’s my girl?” asks my dad while my mother fawns over Jack.

“In canapé hell,” I sing playfully. “How are you, dad?” I pull him towards me and hug him tightly.

A little bit of a paunch has developed over his once-muscular body and grey strands now dot his thick, once-brown hair, but he is still a mighty fine man even if I do say so myself. Years of organic juicing, yoga and avoiding chemicals and pesticides have left my parents with a bright-eyed, ever-healthy glow. My mom’s skin and body is as vital as that of a forty-year-old woman, her eyes as sparkly and alive as a young girl’s and her crazy auburn locks haven’t thinned a bit with age. She’s no wallflower and hardly needs the striking yellow top and bright green pants she’s wearing in order to get attention, but hey, why blend in when you can stand out, right?

Ten minutes of catching up with my parents leave me wanting to get some air and I enviously eye Kevin who walked past me with a wave a few minutes ago. He’s outside mingling with a group of people on the limestone patio lying between the house and the back garden. When some old friends of my parents drag them onto the sofa for a chat, I see my chance to evade the inevitable injection of some self-righteous social responsibility into these privileged capitalist proceedings.

“God, if I hear the words Media bias, SJW or Big Brother tonight, I’m going to have to get very drunk,” I joke, trying to cut the frosty tension between Stella and Jack.

“Baby, I’m going to go talk to Richard about a work thing,” says Jack, leaning over to kiss me on my lips. “It’ll probably take a while.”

“Sure. Take your time. We’ll be outside.”

“Stella,” he says, bowing his head as he leaves.

Unmoved, she stares back at him as he walks away.

“You could just try spitting at him,” I suggest.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but you know how I get when someone hurts you—violent urges come over me. This is me being restrained.”

“I know. And I love you for it, but he’s making an effort, honestly he is.”

She raises an eyebrow.

I take her by the arm and lead her through the glass doors to the patio bordering the garden. “He’s not speaking to either of those women, from what he tells me. No disappearing acts, no shutting me out. We’re still seeing the therapist.”

“And that’s helping?”

“I think so. I love him, Stella. We have to try at least.”

“I know.”

“I have to try to forgive him otherwise I’ll end up a festering ball of resentment.”

“Hmm. Like every married woman I know.”

Stella gazes at me lovingly before sighing in resignation and brushing a perfectly manicured hand through her fine pixie cut as she beckons a waiter over. I join her in grabbing a very kitsch Martini from his tray, thanking him kindly.

“Thank you very much, young man,” she purrs as she takes a sip of her drink, pulling an olive off a cocktail stick in a way that is bordering on obscene. His cheeks flush and he smiles shyly before walking away.

I bow my head with embarrassment. “Um, that could be considered sexual harassment, madam.”

“Good point. Though the last waiter I blew didn’t seem to mind.”

Through the glass doors, I see Jack holding court with some of his male friends and colleagues. As if sensing my gaze, he turns to look straight at me and smiles broadly. I make a gesture indicating that I’ll be walking around the grounds and see Richard leading Jack towards the bar and out of sight.

As Stella and I head towards the garden, a voice calls out. “Hey, trouble!”

Spinning around, I see a grinning Kevin approaching with Mason glued to his side.

“Look who’s talking!” I shoot back. We hug and I beam as I see Mason looking genuinely happy to see me again.

“Jess, it’s been so long,” sings Mason. He takes a step back as though soaking in the sight of me or something. “You look… so fucking hot.”

“You can talk. That suit is insanely gorgeous!” Not to mention the shiny brown curls, the gorgeous cocoa skin, the mesmerizing hazel eyes and a body that’s clearly spent a ridiculous amount of time at the gym.

“So, tell me what you’ve been up to,” he pleads as I lead him to the left of the house and out of sight of the glass doors.

A merry fifteen minutes pass in a heady buzz of exquisite hors d’oeuvres, smooth cocktails and silly laughter. Between Kevin’s filthy mouth and Mason’s razor-sharp wit, they’ve made me laugh till my sides hurt and left me feeling giddy and relaxed. It’s so good to catch up with Mason, even if the subjects of Jack and Cameron are avoided like icebergs in the ocean.

We amble over to a huge water feature as Kevin makes his excuses and pops back inside. I glance through the patio doors where I see my parents engaged in animated conversation with a large group of people, but no sign of Jack. Just as well.

“So, are you two dating?” I ask Mason nosily as soon as Kevin is out of earshot.

“Nooo,” he replies. “I mean obviously we’ve fucked.”

My hand stops me from spitting out my drink and I gulp it down before regaining my composure. “You know, you should be one of those writers for Valentine’s Day cards,” I jest. I often wondered what the ambitious and super sharp Mason and the slightly flaky and impulsive Kevin have in common; maybe this is it.

He grins. “But no shackles on just yet. I just broke up with my ex a few months ago. We were together for almost two years.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He was a great guy. We just… drifted apart. It was hard.”

“Well, getting out helps.”

“Yeah. Kev’s been a great distraction.”

As Mason and I catch up between laughter, ribbing and occasional bitchy gossip, I notice him glance behind me for a second and smile. In fact, I notice other heads turn in the same direction, as though peering at something… big. Mason leans past me to grab a drink from a tray and we pivot slightly so that I’m almost facing the house. In doing so, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a group of people on the far side of the huge patio as some vibrant, electric energy crackles in the air, willing me to look, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and goosebumps trickle down my arms. I shift my gaze slowly and my lips part as I meet the unblinking eyes of someone I hadn’t expected to see again.

“Cameron,” I whisper, my heart inexplicably starting to thump in my chest which expands on a deep breath in.

Cameron O’Neill never ceases to be a sight to be seen. He’s standing among a group of New York’s elite—politicians, bankers, billionaires—and from all sides, women hover around him like wasps around a plate of ripe fruit.

Zoning out what Mason is saying, my eyes collide with Cameron’s again. His gaze is forceful but the rest of his face relaxed, a glimmer of a smile caressing his lips. He is a man in total control—poised, graceful, elegant and deliberate, with the type of fierce masculinity that makes both men and women go weak at the knees. His neat hair must have been trimmed slightly since I saw him on the roof, and this time he is immaculately shaven, with the sharp lines of his cheekbones and strong jaw on breathtaking display. The aura of power radiating off him and the fervor in his deep brown eyes send a rush through my body, hastening my breathing and leaving my nipples hardening under my dress. With eyes firmly trained on mine, he bows his head ever so slightly in a gesture of greeting. I swallow hard, my cheeks flushing as I nervously acknowledge him back in the same way. My lips part without my consent.

God, this is ridiculous, I groan internally.

I can’t fathom why the man that used to be one of my closest friends—a man I never had a single romantic or sexual feeling for and that I fell out with so bitterly—is suddenly making me so jittery. Reconciling the memory of my funny, playful friend with the reality of this confident demi-god will clearly take some time.

“Jess? Are you with us, honey?”

“Huh?”

Mason’s voice snaps me back to reality.

“Uh, sorry, I— Where’s Stella?” I ask.

“She’s in the little girl’s room. I’m gonna join her. Can you watch our drinks?” He gestures to two cocktails standing on the side of the granite water fountain next to us. “I’ll be back in five.”

“Sure, sweetie.”

As Mason heads towards the house, my awareness of Cameron leaves tingling imprints on my skin. I sense his gaze track my profile, but don’t dare turn to look at him again.

Finding myself alone, I decide to take a few minutes to myself and regain my composure and venture behind a sculpted eight-foot-tall hedge that creates a barrier between the house and the right side of the garden. As I step behind it and out of sight of the house, I find myself in the company of one of the most splendid bonsai trees I’ve ever seen. It’s much larger than most and clearly very old—a hundred years at least. It’s standing on a stone column about three feet off the ground in a rectangular terra cotta pot. I reach out my hand to touch its trunk and feel the energy of this majestic being and to find a pocket of peace amongst the voices and bustle of the night. As I close my eyes for a second, an unexpected voice shatters my tranquility.

“Jessynia!”

Shit.

I open my eyes and try not to curse out loud as I see Chad Baker bounding towards me. Chad is a thirty-something hotshot lawyer and world-class asshole with receding strawberry-blond hair, overly groomed designer stubble and a slightly chubby, always-shiny face, whom I met doing an internship a few years back. He flashes his trademark slimy grin as he approaches, hugging me too tightly and kissing me on the cheek before sweeping his eyes down to my chest with indiscreet relish. I immediately have a flashback to that month-long internship I did at his firm and the number of ways his behavior wandered over into inappropriate. I’m hoping the guy has reeled himself in a bit since then.

“Hey, Chad. Long time no see,” I manage breezily, trying to conceal my irritation at his presence.

As good-looking as he is, the lecherous come-ons and cheap one-liners I’ve heard him inflict on myself and too many women detract from his natural charm, and his inability to have a normal conversation with a woman without either being domineering, condescending or lecherous means that he’s the last person I’m in the mood for making small talk with right now. Not to mention that Chad is the type of guy that goes into shock whenever a woman—however politely—fails to fall for his sleazy pick-up lines, which can cause him to shift from being sickly sweet to a pissed-off, aggressive prick in the blink of an eye.

“Wow! Nice dress.” His eyes widen as he once again runs his gaze greedily down my body to my legs, up to my waist with a final irritating pause at my breasts.

I muster my most sincere-looking smile, hoping to humor the guy for a minute before going back inside to find Jack. Seeing Chad has taken the edge off my champagne-infused giddiness and made me realize how perilous talking to Mason was when Jack is nearby. “Thanks. Same to you. Your suit, I mean. I’ve yet to see you in a dress, Chad, though I’m sure you’d look lovely.” He manages a smile at my clumsy verbal diarrhea. “So how’ve you been keeping, Chad? Still at the same place?”

Chad continues his impersonation of the type of Wall Street movie throwback I thought were extinct by now. “Yeah, I’m a partner now. Got my office all done up last week—antique desk, new electronics, the most expensive fucking wallpaper you’ve ever seen in your life.” His eager eyes dart all over me as he runs his sausage-like fingers through ruddy hair and flashes a chunky gold bracelet under the cuff of his too-tight light-pink shirt.

“Wow, sounds amazing…”

“Yeah, you should come and see it sometime, for sure.” He moves a step closer and touches my arm unnecessarily.

My smile is now forced and I take a step back as subtly as possible, not wanting to awaken the ego beast. “Yeah, I’ll have to.” I glance in the direction of the house which is out of sight behind the hedge. “Sorry, Chad, I’m going to have to nip inside to—”

“Are you still with Jackson Wilder?”

I lift up my hand and flash my ring finger in an in-your-face gesture I would never usually pull, designed to get the obtuse Chad to get the hint faster than usual. It’s very obvious he’s never met Jack, as if he had, he would not be trying it on with me now.

“Wow. Lucky guy,” he says, scratching his chin in a way I’m sure I’ve seen a baboon do on the Discovery Channel.

I smile and take a step towards the edge of the hedge in the direction of the house. “Well, I’d better—”

“You know, I’d like to get together sometime, talk about some of the volunteer stuff you’re into. I wanna add something like that to my profile on our website—come across as someone who helps the community and all that do-gooder shit you like so much.”

I blink at the horse’s ass slowly. “Chad, I honestly don’t mean to be rude, but volunteer work’s a serious commitment. You have to be passionate about the cause in question. You have to find a group that means something to you. It’s time-consuming. You have to really be ready to take something like that on.”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t need life lessons, Jessynia. I’m doing pretty fucking well for myself if you hadn’t noticed.”

Yeah, so the gesticulating sack of wind is still about as desirable as a bout of hemorrhoids. He takes a step forward again, invading my personal space to an unnecessary degree as I recall him doing for the entire month that I was interning at his firm. I breathe out heavily, irritated that I’m going to have to be flat-out rude like I learned to be when dealing with his intense behavior. As his stocky frame makes another unwelcome advance toward me, I ready myself to attempt a third goodbye that I just sense he will try to block or be an ass about. As I shift from one foot to another, taking a step back to invite some more space between us, I feel a crackle of energy rush through my body as the form of a tall man appears at my side, stepping very slightly in front of me and extending his arm out to shake Chad’s.

“Hi. Cameron O’Neill. It’s Chad Baker, right?”

Chad’s eyes light up as he shakes Cameron’s hand, clearly in awe at being in the presence of what is as close to Manhattan royalty as you can get. Just judging by the guppy-fish expression on Chad’s face, it looks like he’s dropped about thirty IQ points in the five seconds he’s spent in Mr. O’Neill’s company.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right, Cameron. We, uh, met at that gala for women’s problems or whatever that thing was.”

Cameron’s face is like stone. “The benefit for research into reproductive cancers.”

“Yeah, that’s it. What a drag, huh?”

Cameron stares back at him icily.

“I’m glad I’ve bumped into you actually, Cameron. I’m partner now at—”

The shutdown is merciless. “Listen, Chad. I need to have a chat with Jessynia in private about a work thing.”

Chad’s beady eyes shift from Cameron to me. “Oh, uh. Sure thing, Cameron,” he replies, patting him on the arm as if they’re old friends. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“I appreciate it,” says Cameron smoothly, his expression almost unreadable but for a flicker of annoyance.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I finally see the back of Chad. “Thank you,” I breathe.

“I thought you could use some help there.”

“You were right. I was fast working my way through my A to Z of how to extract yourself from inane come-ons.”

A look of irritation sweeps over his face as he glances at Chad, now on the other side of the garden. His gaze softens as he turns to look down at me before leaning forward to greet me properly, his lips touching each of my cheeks softly and causing my breathing to quicken once again as the contact with him sends an unwanted jolt of warm pleasure into my core, which travels through my body all the way to my tingling fingertips. His eyes devour mine as I try to swallow, my mouth apparently now filled with invisible cotton balls.

“I thought my days of rescuing you from immature sleaze-balls ended when we graduated,” he smiles.

“You can talk. I seem to remember saving you from the grasp of more than a couple of overenthusiastic ladies, sir. Or maybe saving is the wrong word?”

“No, I think it applies. And it was greatly appreciated… ninety percent of the time.”

I beam at the memory of Cameron giving me subtle eye signals when he needed help extricating himself from some of the shameless one-sided flirting sessions with one of the ever-present groupies that flocked around him at college, desperate to land this hot commodity. Perhaps because of his incomparable looks, charm, money and power, he was never the type to be impressed by cheap come-ons from over-eager women. In fact, he was in a committed and monogamous relationship for more than half the time that I knew him.

As if on cue, a tall, curvy platinum blonde in an almost indecently low-cut fuchsia dress and matching lips, looking several years older than Cameron and myself, appears before us, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his sculpted cheeks.

“Mmm, you smell lovely, Cameron,” she purrs, placing a keen hand on his arm. “I was hoping to see you here.”

“Hello, Brandi. Meet a friend of mine, Jessynia Avery.” Cameron seems to be blocking out the fact that I also added Jack’s surname to mine when we got married. “Jess, this is Brandi… with an I. Brandi’s one of the event planners for tonight, I believe?”

She nods in confirmation.

“Nice to meet you, Brandi,” I say warmly. My smile is genuine—a reflection of my mild amusement at the all-too-familiar split-second glance and the lukewarm “Hi” that madam accords me before turning her attention back to Cameron. I also have to stop myself from smiling at the overly contoured, trowel-like application method she must use to plaster her make-up on, which seems to have aged her about ten years and turned her from a natural beauty into something akin to a wax model.

“I see it’s hard to catch you alone at these things, Cameron.” Her look of irritation at my presence is bordering on comical.

Cameron smiles back at her indifferently. To the outside world, he looks collected and content, but I know him too well; I can see the almost imperceptible hint of irritation in his face.

The ghost of déjà vu makes my insides quiver as I think back to the glorious care-free college years we shared in our tight-knit group of friends, and remember the pleasure of being in the company of this charming and self-deprecating man. As Brandi embarks on some monologue, Cameron glances at me and a faint smile forms on his mischievous lips. I feel sure I can read his mind. As often as he used to help me out from unwanted flirting sessions, I also recall the various ways I used to try to extricate him from these situations, constantly trying to top myself in the inventiveness stakes.

He didn’t need my help. Cameron isn’t shy about making himself clear to others. I think he mainly just enjoyed watching my imagination at work. It’s not that Cameron didn’t like women. Actually, he adored them—a testament to the loving and supportive way his mother, Valentina, raised him and his two sisters whom she doted on, though was careful not to spoil despite their indecent wealth and privilege. Her exotic Spanish features gave Cameron the shock of wavy dark hair and the perfect golden tan that made him stand out from the rest of the extensive O’Neill clan with their paler Irish coloring. Valentina made it her life’s work to bring up her children with a sense of social responsibility and awareness of how lucky they were, despite all the gifts that being born into one of the richest families in the state—if not the country—offers.

I often used to wonder how Cameron could remain such a fan of everything female while witnessing women objectifying themselves in front of him on a daily basis, which is why I would inflict so many conversations on him about how those women didn’t represent all women out of fear that he may turn into one of those men who saw women as good for only one thing. He knew it without me needing to say it. The close and devoted relationships he maintained with the women in his life and his ability to surround himself with strong, accomplished, über-smart platonic female friends, colleagues and confidantes kept him grounded and balanced and remarkably uncorrupted by the brazen propositions he received so regularly.

A subtle narrowing of his eyes and an almost imperceptible wink by Cameron spurs me to action.

“Brandi?” I interrupt with a smile. “Cam and I were just going over the final plans for our friends’, Ronaldo and Geraldo’s, surprise engagement party that we’re throwing tomorrow night.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a smile form on his face before he bows his head as if attempting to conceal it.

“We were just debating what outfit the third stripper should wear and I need to call to let the guy know in the next fifteen minutes, so he can get it lubed up for tomorrow. Would you mind terribly if we finished off our conversation? I’ll send Cameron off to find you as soon as we’re done.”

Her gaping mouth stays open for a few seconds and her eyes dart between me and Cameron whose gleaming eyes are betraying his amusement.

She breathes out with unconcealed irritation. “Okay. Whatever.” She turns to the man she so clearly desires. “Cameron, come and find me.” She oh-so-casually touches his arm as she pivots on the type of scary-high diamante heels that keep chiropractors in business.

As soon as she’s out of sight, a broad grin lights up Cameron’s face. “Ronaldo and Geraldo?”

“Sure,” I smile, a wink escaping me by accident.

“They sound like fun.”

“They are. They’re a very open-minded pair.”

“So what would you give her?”

“Give her? Some make-up remover? Lessons in subtlety?”

He shoots me a playful smile that should probably be illegal for the sake of women’s sanity everywhere. “Out of ten… on the brazenness scale.” That’s the scale we used to refer to when categorizing the different levels of audacity on display when women—and occasional men—would try it on with him.

“Oh, that. Um, I think madam deserves a solid six out of ten for effort. What do you think?”

“Sounds about right.”

“And a lesson in female solidarity, perhaps,” I add.

“I imagine she’s a little jealous that I’m clearly talking to the most beautiful woman here.”

My cheeks flush and I shake my head with a nervous smile. “Please tell me nothing has topped Miss Ten out of Ten—that brunette that straddled you at that house party in Greenwich?”

“I’m not sure you want to know,” he answers, apparently having experienced something more outrageous than that in the years since I last knew him well.

I shake my head and smile and as his unyielding eyes lock with mine, I find myself studying his stunning face. His beauty is different from Jack’s savage, primal, animalistic beauty. Jack looks like what would happen if you took the world’s hottest firefighter or marine or lumberjack or convict, then groomed him meticulously, put him through finishing school and into a designer suit. In a different life, away from Wall Street, he’s a man you could imagine shirtless, sweaty and chopping wood, or fighting in a ring flecked with blood, or covered in tattoos and breaking up a bar fight. His energy is wild, dangerous, physical, and so damn male that he can leave you breathless with one intense stare.

Cameron’s beauty comes from generations of rich and powerful blue-blooded men breeding with only the most beautiful women. He was gorgeous at college but seems to have grown into his features so exquisitely in the three years since we were studying together. His nose, which once seemed a tad too large for his slim face, is now perfectly proportioned with his more prominent cheekbones, his slim, oval face having become more filled out and heart-shaped with time. It’s an insanely beautiful face. The thick mass of unruly hair that he had in college has been cut shorter and waves of shiny brown tresses now frame his prominent hairline. He looks like the kind of man that belongs on a billboard or some otherworldly place where magic men exist that you never see in real life.

Like Jack, the man is dangerously hot, but by far the biggest change in Cameron is the way he carries himself. Apart from the first few months I knew him when he was dealing with some personal issues I could never get him to talk about, he was always a warm, calm, self-deprecating personality. We were never single at the same time, but even if we had been, I only ever thought of him as a platonic friend—someone I felt safe with, could laugh with, travel with, without the crackle of fierce sexual tension that spiked my relationship with Jack.

Although at first glance, he looks like the same person, the man standing before me is a completely different animal altogether: the warm stance has morphed into supremely self-confident poise, and where once there were soft, inquisitive, playful eyes, I now gaze into intensely dark, knowing wells of experience… and lust… and restraint. His features are fine compared to Jack’s rugged beauty, but he is just as intensely masculine and certainly as breathtaking. His shoulders are broad and his muscles obvious even under his white shirt and light-grey pants. His whole being screams sex and the way his confident eyes contemplate my mouth unabashedly as his lips curl into a subtle smile feels indecent. This is not the playful young man I once knew; his energy is forceful and palpable.

This is a man who is experienced. And devastating. And dangerous.

“It’s really good to see you… and even better to see you smiling.” Cameron’s voice seems richer and deeper than it was when we were last friends. “You’re looking better than… that night…” He frowns. “Maybe it’s not a great memory to bring up?”

A chill runs through me as I recall the turmoil I was in that night at the gala, just days after finding out about my husband’s affairs.

“It was… just one of those days,” I shrug.

The solemn look on his face suggests he isn’t buying the cover-up.

“Are you staying nearby?” I deflect.

“With Mason, just for a couple of nights. I’ve spent most of the week at our Redwood house.”

“That’s the one near Oyster Bay, right?” I ask.

“Good memory.”

“Is your whole family staying there?”

“My mom and uncle and some cousins left a couple of days ago. Lottie’s still there.”

“Really? Oh, I miss her.”

Cameron’s ballsy grandmother, Lottie, is matriarch of the O’Neill dynasty and someone I used to be very close to before Cameron and I fell out. “I’d love to see her again one day.”

“She’d love that. She asks after you all the time.”

“I think my mom saw her at some party a few months ago. She said she was drinking everyone under the table.”

Cameron grins deliciously. “Yeah, that sounds like Lottie for sure.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s had some issues with her knees, but otherwise she’s strong as an ox.”

“Good. And your mom?”

“She misses you too, very much. So does Lauren.”

My heart sinks a little as Cameron says his younger sister’s name and not that of his elder sister, Evelyn, whom I loved and spent so much time with when I was at college—that is until I started dating Jack and she suddenly cut off all contact with me. I was sure that Cameron was behind that and could never comprehend how she could cut me out of her life so coldly without even explaining why.

There’s so much I want to say to Cameron, so much I need to talk about—our falling out, his family, his father’s death and so much more. But this isn’t the time or the place. Plus Jack may look for me in the garden and finding me in this little enclave with Cameron would not go down well.

As if reading my thoughts, Cameron’s face suddenly morphs, as if a storm cloud has settled overhead. “You’re here with… Jack?”

The way he says Jack’s name does nothing to hide the contempt he feels for him. The tone he uses and the coldness in his usually lively almond-shaped eyes jolt me back to reality—the reality of his hatred of Jack, a hatred that caused months of agony, screaming and fighting between me and my old friend. His eyes turn cold, his breathing heavier. I stiffen, walls rising up around me as I frown back at him, stabbed by the memories of the painful breakdown of our friendship. I need to stop this conversation. I can’t have Jack seeing me with Cameron, for the sake of this party if nothing else, and after the disaster with Sean, I don’t want to encourage any other grey areas with another man. Plus, I’m not sure if I can ever really forgive Cameron for not contacting me when I was so ill after my accident. And before that, for the way he opposed my relationship so violently. I recoil as I remember his unwillingness to do the bare minimum and just tolerate Jack’s presence in my life for my sake and I still resent him for allowing his hatred of Jack to become stronger than his love for me.

Cameron can read my fiery eyes well and pain taints his face as I try to stop the unexpected hurt I feel towards him from welling up from beneath the surface of my composure. As the awkward silence between us starts to verge on uncomfortable, a voice cuts through the air.

“Hey, kids. There they are,” sings a giddy Mason, followed by Stella as they join us behind the hedge. “We’ve been looking for you. What happened to the drinks you were supposed to watch?” Mason’s delectably bitchy tone—most probably a by-product of spending too much time with Kevin over recent months—suggests he’s oblivious to the palpable tension between Cameron and me.

I suddenly remember the task I was entrusted with. “Shit, sorry, are they gone?”

“Uh, yeah.” He holds up a new cocktail that he’s procured from somewhere. “No worries. I’m a homing pigeon when it comes to alcohol.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” I mutter.

“Hi, Stella,” Cameron says as he leans over to kiss Stella on both cheeks. “Hope you’re keeping my boy out of trouble?”

“Hello, handsome,” she coos. “You’d need an armed guard for that, Mr. O’Neill.”

This is my opportunity to leave before I get into any further trouble. “Guys, I’m just going to use the washroom. I’ll be back.” I don’t wait for an answer and walk away, turning to shoot a glance backwards that finds Cameron’s hungry eyes on mine again, leaving my heart inexplicably stalling.

I make my way back to the house where I wave at my dad who is engaged in lively conversation with a group of people next to my mom. He smiles back and I head past the living area and into a long hallway to the left of the bar and into the ladies’ washroom. The house is so massive, so obviously made for entertaining, that there are three elegant floor-to-ceiling cubicles inside the washroom which is lit in soft tones with gentle relaxation music emanating from speakers stashed away somewhere. I freshen up, wash my hands, and spray a little of the lavender aromatherapy scent I bought at our local farmers’ market onto my neck, inhaling the soothing essential oil.

As I exit the room, a gentle gasp escapes me as I find myself caught in Jack’s wicked stare as he leans against the wall opposite the washroom door. Without speaking, he snakes a strong arm around my waist and starts walking me down the hallway, away from the living area to the quiet recesses of the house.

“Jack!” I protest, glancing behind me to check that no one can see us.

The coast is clear, but in his steadfast grip, I have no idea where I’m being taken.