: Chapter 22

“Good boy,” I say to Marshmallow once again.

He harumphs and sits at my feet, looking away from me like he’s pissed.

Understandable.

He tried to tell us a couple times that I’d knocked the candle over, and we ignored him, because oh my god, Hayes Rutherford is a vagina-worshipping king, which I should not be thinking about while he’s inside the house with the fire marshal and I’m out here on the fanciest patio I’ve ever seen in my life—no, it’s a courtyard, not a patio—chilling in the rapidly cooling evening with sex-hair and a singed silk robe and a pouting dog and, you know, the rest of his entire family, who are all dressed and who all know exactly what we were doing.

“Are penises really worth it?” Keisha asks me. “I’ve never understood the thrill. Plus, you have to put up with the man to get the penis, and I’ve never understood putting up with men either.”

“One or two,” I tell her. “It makes dating hard.”

We stare at each other for half a beat, and then Keisha cracks up.

I was interrupted in the beginning of what promised to be the best orgasm of my life, and I ruined what was left of the cheese rolls in the fire and subsequent dousing from sprinkler water that had clearly been in those pipes for years, based on the smell of me, Marshmallow, and my robe, and so even though jokes about hard penises would be funny in other circumstances, I barely manage a smile.

Liliane Sussex-Williams makes a delicate huff of disapproval.

Marshmallow gives me the stink eye.

Giovanna Rutherford sighs heavily.

And two gentlemen I haven’t met yet cross the courtyard toward the large brick fireplace that Millie’s lighting for us. One is unmistakably Hayes’s father—they have the same gait, the same eyes, and the same twist of their mouths when they’re irritated, plus, he’s Gregory Freaking Rutherford, president and CEO of Razzle Dazzle, so of course I know who he is, even if I don’t read the gossip pages—and the other man must be the legendary Uncle Antonio.

I don’t know if he’s legendary to anyone else, but he’s Keisha’s father, and I know he’s the instigator of today’s house party, so he’s legendary to me.

“Begonia.” Uncle Antonio wins the race to reach me first. “So good to meet you. Never seen Hayes disappear to his bedroom with a woman so fast before. I mean, when he knew people were looking. There was that time in high school he thought he could sneak his girlfriend upstairs, and he was moving pretty quick then too, but he got caught. Pretty sure that boy enjoys the privileges that have come with age. Nice robe.”

“Have some decorum, Antonio,” Gregory Rutherford murmurs. He glances at me, then at his wife, then back to me, before addressing Millie. “Lovely fire. Do you have some clothes Begonia could borrow?”

“Nope,” Millie replies. “I’m naked all the time in the bedroom too, so this is all I brought.”

Marshmallow harumphs.

“I’m okay,” I tell them. “I like the chilly air. It makes sleeping cozier when you finally get to bed.”

Everyone on the patio looks at me sideways.

And thank god, Hayes steps out of the house just then.

His hair still has all the evidence of me gripping it like my life depended on that orgasm he was working on giving me, and I don’t know if he’s walking stiffly because he’s uncomfortable in the jeans or because this entire situation is uncomfortable, or maybe it’s both, or neither.

Everyone’s attention swings back to him.

“Is the house ruined?”

“Did the rug survive?”

“Was it an electrical problem?”

“Is it totally gutted? Can I do a TikTok in there before you have it demolished?”

Keisha’s question comes with a grin that I take to mean she’s looking for a reaction.

“Don’t be uncouth,” Liliane says to her.

“Uncouth is my brand.”

“The house is fine, the bedroom salvageable, the rug ruined, the table questionable, and I never liked the latter two anyway.” Hayes takes my hand. “Say good night, Begonia.”

I lift my hand to wave and parrot a Good night, Begonia to Hayes’s family, because I’m that level of weird and awkward, when Marshmallow growls low in his throat.

A split second later, the “Imperial Death March” rings from Hayes’s butt.

He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “Your mother?” he guesses.

“That’s my phone?” I squeak. “Why is my phone in your—oh. You saved it from the fire. Thank you.”

Marshmallow growls harder and stalks Hayes’s ass.

“Marshmallow! Back. No.”

Hayes pulls out my phone, with its sparkly purple case, glances at me, and once again, Marshmallow does what he does best.

He steals the phone and darts off into the night.

“Marshmallow!”

“Dear god, what is wrong with that dog?” Giovanna says.

“He’s a well-trained support dog who saved our lives by pulling the fire alarm outside our bedroom,” Hayes answers. He whistles, and the “Imperial Death March” gets louder, like Marshmallow is actually returning to us.

“If it’s not your mother…” he says to me.

“Ex-husband,” I whisper.

He stares at me for a beat, the piece still humming along on my phone, before his lips quirk up in an unexpected smile that takes my breath away. “How appropriate.”

“I thought so. I’m still looking for the right ring tone for my mom.”

Marshmallow trots back onto the lit patio, phone clenched in his jaw, murder written in his eyes.

He and Chad met once or twice.

It didn’t go well for either of them.

“Give me the phone, Marshmallow,” I order.

He ignores me and approaches Hayes instead, growling low.

Hayes snaps his fingers and holds his hand out.

Marshmallow growls again.

The phone stops ringing, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Marshmallow, hand me the phone,” Hayes orders.

Marshmallow drops it at his feet.

“That is the coolest dog ever,” Keisha whispers.

“Broken therapy dog for a broken woman,” Liliane murmurs.

“Liliane, kindly see yourself out,” Hayes adds as the “Imperial Death March” starts playing again on my phone. “And tell your parents that our engagement is over, much as it has been since the sixth grade.”

Marshmallow growls.

I lunge for the phone.

And Hayes holds it out of my reach as he swipes to answer it.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

“Begonia, don’t say a word,” my ex-husband’s nasal, annoying voice says over the speaker. “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have bitched about your credit card bills, and I shouldn’t have told you that your clay art shit was ugly, and I shouldn’t have used you to warm my hands up late at night when you were sleeping. I can’t offer you a billion dollars, but you know he’s just playing with you. If you come back now, I can—”

“You can leave her the fuck alone is what you can do,” Hayes interrupts. “Lose this number. If Begonia wants to talk to you, she’ll be in touch.”

Chad sucks in an audible breath that carries across the patio. “You can’t talk to me—”

Hayes points to my dog, who’s baring his teeth at the phone. “Your turn, Marshmallow. Tell him what happens to anyone who hurts your mama.”

The bared teeth turn into a hair-raising growl.

“Good boy.” Hayes hangs up the phone. “Now sit.”

Marshmallow plops back on his haunches, happy as my stepfather in a pool of bacon.

“Why don’t you ever do that for me?” Keisha whispers to Millie.

“You don’t have any dick ex-wives because I haven’t divorced you yet.”

Hayes grabs my hand again. “Once again, say good night, Begonia.”

This time, we make it into the house without interruption, with Marshmallow trotting along.

“Are you all right?” Hayes asks me.

“A little mortified, a little grateful, and a little turned on, if I’m being honest.”

He steers me through the kitchen to a stairwell leading downstairs. “We’re in the last of the guest quarters for tonight. And we’re going to have to get engaged.”

I almost trip on the stairs. “Engaged? Are you crazy?”

“We’ll update the agreement. Do you have plans after this weekend? We should extend our arrangement too. We might even have to get married. Amelia in Maine. Liliane here. The fifty women in my office. An engagement or marriage is the only thing that will stop this.”

I stare at him.

Does he want to get engaged because he likes me, or is this all part of the ruse?

I don’t want to get married again. Not for real. I’m still finding me. This is an adventure on that path, not the end goal.

And the sex—yes, please, but also, did he do it for me because I asked him to, or because he likes me?

I know he likes me. We’re friends. With hopefully more benefits.

“Begonia?”

“Is there more wine in the guest quarters?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I think I need it.”