: Chapter 31

About a year ago, Chad took me to a party hosted by his financial firm celebrating some kind of big milestone. It was at the fanciest hotel in Richmond, and he shilled out nearly five hundred dollars for us to get a room for the night, and we dined on appetizers of mini quiches and shrimp cocktail and got not quite tipsy enough at the cash bar for me to overcome all of those feelings of being in the absolute wrong place.

Tonight is so similar it hurts, but so different at the same time that I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

We’re not in a hotel. We’re at the sea lion pool at Central Park Zoo, with the garden area roped off and guarded by security. Twinkling fairy lights have been added to the trees and bushes at the edges of the walk. The guests at this gala, which benefits an endangered animal foundation, are in attire so fancy that I feel like I’m walking the red carpet at a movie premiere.

Instead of mini quiches and shrimp cocktail, the black-tie servers are carrying trays of fresh-made sushi, but not just any sushi.

Each piece is a piece of art.

There’s also foie gras and caviar and oysters, all in bite-size tarts and puffs and pieces assembled so fancily that I don’t think I could eat it without feeling guilty at destroying the beauty of them. And there’s a glass something that Hayes tells me is a verrine, though I have no idea if the glass or what’s in it is the verrine.

Free-flowing Dom Perignon instead of Costco wine marked up at the cash bar.

A promise of individual chocolate fountains for dessert.

Individual chocolate fountains.

Let’s be real.

That’s what I’m most impressed with.

And dessert is even more fascinating because tonight, Hayes himself is basically the human equivalent of a chocolate fountain.

He’s surrounded by people who seem eager to dip their fingers in him and lick him and use him to finish off their main course of eating the rest of the world alive.

And it’s mostly women.

And that makes me sad.

Not a single one of them knows him. And I’d bet a lot of them wouldn’t even like him. He’s not easy. He’s not agreeable. He doesn’t let people in.

And he wouldn’t like them either.

They all deserve better.

And I might not deserve it, but I want to explore the rest of the park instead of standing next to him, faking elegant, sophisticated small talk when I really want to gush about someone’s earrings or someone else’s hair.

His tight grip on my hand is the only thing keeping me from, well, being totally me.

And also sneaking off to explore the rest of the zoo.

Every time I try to interject something into a conversation, I’m steamrolled by someone else speaking not louder, but somehow more commandingly. I laugh too loud. I get funny looks. I hear the whispers.

He’ll get tired of her soon. You know how Hayes is. Thinks he’s making a point when he’s really just making a scene. Don’t worry. His mom won’t let him actually marry a middle-class suburbanite nobody from—where was it? Does it matter? We know how this ends.

Thank god for the individual chocolate fountains coming.

This is like being back at a party with Chad, but worse.

There, I had a few friends I could sneak away with who also didn’t fit. Even when Chad was sending me the not so loud, Begonia looks, I knew I could find a corner and a shrimp cocktail and a sympathetic ear.

Here, it’s just me and Hayes against the Genteel Army. Keisha’s not here. Uncle Antonio’s not here. All those sweet people on Oysterberry Bay Island who would’ve had the time of their lives playing their violins for this event tonight aren’t here.

I mean, naturally on that last one, but a girl can dream, right?

The point is—no wonder Hayes hates these things.

I’m smiling through it, laughing as loudly as I want without any dirty looks coming from Hayes himself over it—three points to him—complimenting people on their dresses and jewelry and hairstyles anytime I get an opening—seriously, there’s a lot to compliment, but I’m working overtime to find those openings—and sometimes just enjoying watching the sea lions having their late-night swims, when Hayes goes stiff as my former mother-in-law in the presence of a fart joke.

“Hayes Rutherford. Living up to your potential, I see.”

I don’t know who’s talking, but I dislike him on first syllable, and when we both turn to the sound of the voice, the sneer on this man’s face tells me everything I need to know.

True evil does exist in the world, and I will fight to my death to defend Hayes’s honor.

He squeezes my waist in warning and leaps in to speak before I can, which is impressive. “Sturgis. Mrs. Sturgis.”

Oh, fuck.

It’s his nemesis and former fiancée. Would this be like Hayes meeting Chad?

Am I supposed to punch one of them?

I’m pretty sure Hayes would punch Chad. I’ve seen that Neanderthal glower a time or two when I’ve said Chad’s name.

But I’m hardly the punching type.

“I see they’re letting anyone into these things these days,” Sturgis says. I know I could call him Brock, but I don’t want to. I like calling him Sturgis. It makes him sound like he’s related to a fish.

Hayes goes impossibly stiffer, and I realize it doesn’t matter how much formal training he has in social situations or how much time it’s been or how immature I’m being in my head.

He doesn’t want to be here and is struggling to not make a scene to get away.

“Hi!” I stick a hand out to the platinum blond woman and smile brightly at the couple. I might not have training, but I’m pretty sure I can do this. “I’m Begonia. Lovely to meet you. I mean, as lovely as it can be, given who you are. Your hair is gorgeous. That must’ve taken forever.”

The last woman on earth that Hayes ever loved looks me up and down slowly, not taking my offered hand. I have no idea if I’m doing the subtle insult thing right or wrong, but Hayes is breathing again, so there’s that. This woman might not be though, and I don’t think it’s my attempt at cattiness. Her dress is pushing her boobs up to her chin and squeezing her waist so tight that her hips jut out oddly beneath the shimmery white fabric. It’s like Elvis’s jumpsuit had a dress baby with a toga and shrunk.

“I see you’re borrowing the Rutherford jewels,” Trixie Melhoff-Sturgis says.

Oh, yes.

I remember her name.

How could I not, when she snuck into Hayes’s heart and planted explosives there and it’s never been the same since? I know she’s miserable—you can just tell sometimes. And I know we’re not going to stand here one more minute. “The jewels are a dime a dozen in this crowd, aren’t they? But the man—Hayes is the real treasure.”

Sturgis snorts. “He’s not worth the bitcoin I mine.”

Oh, for goodness sake. “Are you—are you for real? Do people like you actually say things like that? Oh, sweetie. Good luck with your virtual seven dwarves operation. Excuse us. There’s—” I scan the crowd and almost choke on my own spit. “Someone we need to go see,” I finish faintly.

Jonas Rutherford is waving at us.

Jonas. Freaking. Rutherford.

I grab Hayes by the hand, yank, and wave back at his brother with my other hand like we’ve done this a million times.

Excuse me, but how is this my life right now?

Hayes blows out a slow breath that I feel all the way in my own toes as he trots along next to me.

Am I running?

I might be running.

I hate insulting people. I hate it more when they make it necessary.

“Do not ever change, Begonia,” he murmurs.

“Was I mean enough? I’m so bad at mean. But I hated them on sight. Why are they here?”

“Gossip.”

“For the record, Hayes Rutherford, I am very pissed at you right now.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be related to a movie star that I had a massive crush on for half of my life. I want you to be normal so that I don’t look like I’m only dating you to get close to your brother, because I don’t care who you’re related to, except for the part where I wish it wasn’t him. You really are the jewel here. But oh my god, do you have any idea how much Hyacinth would be wetting herself right now even if she weren’t pregnant?”

I’m pretty sure I’m whispering softly enough that we’re in no danger of being overheard by the fancy clusters of people we’re passing, but I’m also pretty sure the slow grin spreading over Hayes’s face means he doesn’t care if I’m in danger of blowing our story. “I’ll give you five million dollars if you’ll hug Jonas like you’re long-lost siblings.”

“I don’t want your money, you goober.”

“Forgive me, love. It’s been a rough three minutes. But please, sell it well, bluebell.”

It’s the last warning I get before we reach the high table where Jonas freaking Rutherford is sipping champagne, clearly tracking our arrival as he nods to Amelia Shawcross, whom I’m weirdly happy to see, because at least she’s familiar.

The movie star’s full attention shifts, and his grin widens, eyes crinkling at the corners as he sets his drink down. “Hayes! And Begonia. Nice of you to stop by to say hi.”

Oh. My. God.

Hyacinth should’ve come. She would be in utter heaven.

Hayes nudges me. “Go on,” he murmurs.

So I do.

Oh my god, I do.

“Jonas! What are you doing back here already?” I hear myself say, and then I’m flinging myself at my childhood idol, who laughs as he catches me in a hug that feels so awkward I want to retreat back into the sea lion pool—yes, into the actual pool, under the water, and I don’t even care if I have a snorkel or scuba gear—and I want to stay there gripping Hayes’s hand for the rest of the night.

Confronting a boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend and bully of a former best friend?

I’m your woman.

Being normal around his movie star brother?

Why am I such a freaking freak?

“So good to see you again,” Jonas says, much more convincingly than I am.

He’s lanky and reasonably solid, and he smells pleasantly enough, and looking at him is like looking at a god, though I’d expect a god to be like seventeen feet tall, and he’s merely a little under six feet, as you’d expect of a Hollywood hunk, and he is truly a Hollywood hunk, but as a man—blech.

No offense, Jonas.

But there’s still the Hollywood hunk factor short-circuiting my brain.

“Kindly remove your hands from my girlfriend,” Hayes says mildly behind us.

“But she gives the best hugs,” Jonas replies.

“You’re decent, but you’re no Hayes,” I tell him, which, yes, is a variation on another of the most popular lines ever used in Razzle Dazzle films, and yes, it’s the first thing that comes to mind, and yes, I am cringing so hard to myself right now. My chin is hanging on his shoulder, and my voice is a little croaky with the strain.

I am the biggest goober known to gooberdom.

This is where I will actually die of mortification, and I do not embarrass easily.

I’m attacking my fake boyfriend’s movie star brother, and he’s letting me, because it makes it look like we’re besties, even though we’ve never met, which means he knows.

He pats me on the back and releases me, giving nothing away, because he’s a freaking actor. Of course he’s giving nothing away.

Maybe he doesn’t know.

Maybe he’s playing along with Hayes dating a middle-class, suburban nobody because it amuses him and he likes to irritate his mother.

Maybe he’s a good brother.

Hayes slips his hand to the small of my back, his body close enough to make up for all the heat that’s left my body as my blood cells flow to my brain to make sense of all of this. “You’re back early,” he says to Jonas.

“Peyton loves the sea lions.”

“Who wouldn’t? They’re such cute bundles of flub.” They’re such cute bundles of flub? Shut up, Begonia. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Hayes rubs my back. “Not nearly so much as you, bluebell. Minus the flub, though you’d be absolutely perfect with or without it.”

His eyes are twinkling.

Hayes.

Hayes Rutherford.

Grump supreme. Hater of people. Bigger hater of peopling with people.

And his eyes are twinkling as if he knows he’s genuinely funny.

“Are you enjoying this?” I whisper to him while Jonas turns to take another glass of champagne from a passing server.

“I enjoy everything about you, Begonia,” he murmurs back. “Everything.”

I glance behind me, where Sturgis and Mrs. Sturgis are eyeballing us, and a wave of utter gratitude washes over me.

Hayes is safe here.

Even with the freaking sharks circling.

Jonas is here and has his back.

I have his back.

“Begonia.”

Amelia’s saying my name.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I forgot she was there, and it’s making me cuss in my head now.

Also? Amelia would have Hayes’s back, I’m pretty sure.

“Amelia!” I leap for her and hug her too, trying for a dainty socialite hug, and instead, our jeweled necklaces get caught up together and our faces are stuck mere inches apart like we’re debating kissing each other.

“Um, good to see you,” I say.

She smirks. It might actually be a warm smirk. I can’t tell, because I’m a little out of my league has just changed to Hayes will never take me out in public again, which means I’m useless as his fake girlfriend, and this is all over. He has to dump me now, because I got his family’s jewels tangled with Amelia’s.

“You’re quite the breath of fresh air,” she murmurs while she reaches behind herself, bringing her face closer to mine while she fiddles with the clasp on her necklace. “These events are rarely so entertaining.”

Filed under the world is so unfair: my deodorant is failing, while Amelia’s lifting her arms and all I can smell are fresh flowers and baby powder and maybe warm chocolate chip cookies?

How do people get to be rich and have their armpits smell like warm chocolate chip cookies? And I really want to know what kind of toothpaste she uses, because her breath is remarkably pleasant too.

“I thought that’s what the sea lions were for,” I say. “For entertainment.”

“You get tired of them after the first seven galas of the year with them present.”

“Oh my gosh, I could never—”

“I’m aware, Begonia,” Amelia says, but there’s no snark in her voice. It’s all warmth. “I only wish I could’ve counted on you to slice and dice Brock and Trixie Sturgis’s livers.”

“I tried, but I don’t know if they were smart enough to get the insults.”

She makes the same kind of noise in her throat that Hayes has made several times tonight. The kind that made me wonder if I was amusing or annoying him.

Warm hands settle at my neck, igniting goosebumps all over my skin, and I’m suddenly free.

Amelia pulls back too, dangling our intermixed necklaces in hand. “Shall I send yours back once my assistant has solved this little issue?” she says to Hayes.

Not to me.

To Hayes.

We can be friendly, but I get it. We’re not friends. And I’m clearly borrowing jewels, because I don’t belong here.

“Begonia would love to have her necklace back,” he replies. “Thank you.”

“Begonia!” Peyton joins us. Yes, Peyton Baker, Jonas’s movie star wife who won a Golden Globe and an Emmy this year, which I know because awards shows sometime get exceptions for my no-gossip rule. To my utter astonishment, she grabs my hands and pulls me in to kiss my cheeks in turn, executing the move so flawlessly she manages to make me look like I know what I’m doing with air kisses too. “We were so sorry to miss you at the wedding, but completely understood. I’m so glad you’re here. How’s Hyacinth?”

“She’s like a Thanksgiving turkey with her popper thingie stuck in the wing instead of the thigh. Ready to pop, but not fully baked.”

Peyton Baker knows who I am.

Peyton Baker. Hollywood’s biggest badass leading lady.

She knows who I am, and she knows my sister’s name, and that my sister is pregnant, and I just made the very worst comparison ever to turkeys and pregnant woman and I am making no sense, but everyone’s still smiling kindly at me.

Good gravy.

Whose life am I living right now?

Why can’t Hayes and I dash off to a little cabin in the woods and read and do clay art and talk and get naked and just have fun? How is he related to these people?

More importantly, how did I forget that he’s related to these people?

Breathe, Begonia. They run out of toilet paper at inopportune times in their bathrooms too. Just regular people. Regular people. Regular people.

“We’re so excited for her,” Peyton says. “And where’s Marshmallow tonight?”

“H-Hayes assigned Nikolay to guard him so he doesn’t ruin Françoise’s kitchen or redecorate the family portraits.”

Jonas laughs. “I love that furry beast.”

“He’s worth the daily Benadryl.” Hayes slips his arm around my waist and squeezes lightly. He’s been talking about me. He’s been telling his brother about me. And I don’t know if this is an act or if they’re all merely kind, but I’m getting a warm, squishy feeling in my heart.

They’re doing it for Hayes. Not for me.

I know they are.

But I love that he has people who’ll look out for him like this.

“Have you gotten to explore the city yet?” Peyton asks me.

I shake my head. “Just a little with Keisha.”

And then I remember who I am.

Am I world-famous and sophisticated and comfortable here? No. But I’m a people person, and these are people. “And what about you?” I ask. “How was the honeymoon?”

Her bright brown eyes light up. “Everything we needed it to be, though unfortunately too short.”

“We’ll take another one at Christmas,” Jonas tells her.

“You should try the Maldives,” Amelia says, reminding us all, again, that she’s still here. “They’re beautiful at Christmas.”

“Thank you. We’ll add that to the list to consider.” Peyton smiles at her, and my heart suddenly aches for Amelia. She’s being dismissed. Politely, but still dismissed.

And even I can see it.

No wonder Hayes doesn’t want to be here.

Even with the kindest of people, there are subtle social hierarchies and digs and rules.

And are Jonas and Peyton kind?

I don’t know.

I really don’t.

“Excuse us,” Hayes says to Amelia and his family. “I promised Begonia front-row seats to the feeding.”

“You won’t really have to fight the crowd,” Amelia says.

“Do they do tricks?” Peyton asks. “We’ll come with you. Jonas. Where’s your phone? Show Begonia the video of the sea lions from our trip to San Francisco when we were filming Deep in Love. Amelia, so good to see you again. Have your assistant ping mine. We’ll do lunch next time I’m in town.”

They do the cheek-kisses, and once more, I get a pang for Amelia.

I shouldn’t. She’s one more of the women watching Hayes like he’s a golden ticket, and even knowing she doesn’t want him for him—Hayes told me she’s involved with someone her family doesn’t like—I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

How lonely must it be to not know who your real friends are, and to be hunting for a husband for convenience instead of love?

I want to hug her and tell her to say fuck the world and go after what she wants, but it’s not my place, and I don’t think she wants to hear it from me.

Also, it’s not like I don’t know how hard that is.

I’m dating a billionaire myself, and my mother is still holding my ex-husband in reserve as her plan for my future when I screw it up with Hayes, which she’s convinced I’ll do.

And she’s not wrong.

I mean, that’s actually the plan.

Sigh.

Why can’t the world support people doing what it takes to make them happy, instead of what it takes to make other people miserable?

“Do you think they know how lucky they are?” Hayes murmurs to me a few minutes later as we’re watching the zookeepers tease the sea lions into doing tricks for fish.

“The zookeeper or the sea lions?”

“Yes.”

I slip an arm around his waist and squeeze it too.

He gets it.

He really does.

“I hope so,” I whisper.

Once the sea lions are fed, which involves a lot of squealing and pointing on my behalf and a lot of unexpected smiles on his behalf, he tugs my hand. “The interminable self-congratulating about saving a single sea turtle is about to begin,” he whispers. “Come with me.”

While the crowd around us drifts toward the tables set up on the other side of the sea lion enclosure, Hayes guides me away from the light. It’s a gradual departure, when no one’s looking, as if he’s done this before. He slips behind the catering truck, where there’s a break in the security line, and then we’re sneaking deeper into a darker part of the zoo.

Nothing is fully dark—not in the city—but the noises of the party are fading behind us, and I can feel the tension leaving him with every step we take away.

“How many times have you disappeared to hide at events like this?” I whisper.

“All of the times.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you wanted to sneak away and be alone with me and do something naughty but absolutely irresistible.”

He turns me against the back of a building, replies, “Bluebell, for the first time in my life, that’s exactly what I want to do,” and then he’s kissing me.

Everything that’s felt messy or awkward or off-kilter tonight fades away into the utter bliss that comes with his mouth on mine.

My own shoulders relax as my clit throbs and my breasts tighten. He grips my ass through my dress, and I curse the material for being so form-fitting.

Even if I wanted to rip the material and wrap my legs around him, I would’ve needed to be doing some kind of Amelia Shawcross workout to make it happen.

“Fuck, I needed this,” he says.

“Your crowd is hard.”

He tilts his hips against me, a rueful smile crossing his features in the dim light. “Not as hard as I am.”

I arch my belly into the thick ridge of his erection. “You can’t possibly go through the rest of the night like this. Whatever shall we do?”

“Begonia—”

I tug at his belt. “Shh. Everyone’s at the party.”

“Just when I think you can’t possibly get any more perfect.”

“There aren’t any reporters stalking in the bushes, are there?”

“Not if they want to live.”

“Security?”

“Even if we’re caught, they’re discreet.”

That’s all I need to know.

I tackle his pants with more enthusiasm.

He tries to tug my dress up.

“Won’t work,” I whisper as I plunge my hands down his pants and grip his rigid length.

He groans into my neck, bracing himself with his hands planted against the building on either side of me. “Sweet holy fuck, your hands.”

“You have the loveliest penis in the world.”

He huffs out a short laugh as his cock pulses harder in my hand. “Your compliments are beyond compare. Dear god, do that again.”

He thrusts his hips into my hand as I cradle his balls with the other. He’s hard and long, hot and silky smooth. Unintelligible sounds come from his throat as I stroke and tease him, brushing the moisture from the tip of his blunt head, and touching him isn’t enough.

I love turning him on.

I love making him feel good.

I love knowing that he’ll take care of my needs too, not out of obligation, but because he seems to genuinely enjoy making me feel good.

And I’ve never gone down on a man in public before, and the thrill of it makes pushing his pants down off his hips and fussing with my skirt so that I can drop to my knees a no-brainer.

“Jesus, Begonia,” he pants as I lick the underside of his cock, then suck his broad head into my mouth, twirling my tongue around the silky ridge and tasting his salty flavor.

He grunts like he wants to moan but is trying to be quiet, his hips and thighs quivering. He’s still bracing himself against the wall behind me, and my one regret is that he’s not gripping my hair.

And that last thought makes me smile around Hayes’s cock.

Hello, old Begonia.

I feel so alive right now.

Powerful and desirable and free and open to taking the opportunities the world offers.

No regrets.

Especially with Hayes gasping and groaning softly while I lick and suckle and tease his thick length, sucking him as deep as I can, swirling my tongue around his shaft, and taking him deep again while I play with his testicles and his thighs shake against my arm and hand.

I’m driving him wild, and it’s making my clit achy and my panties soaked and my breasts so hot and heavy that there’s not enough room in this dress for me to breathe.

It’s exquisite, to use one of Hayes’s favorite words.

I feel like a freaking goddess.

“Begonia,” he grunts, and I know he’s close.

I can hear it.

I can feel it.

I roll his balls in my hand and suck harder, and just as he grunts with his release overtaking him, lights flash.

Then more lights.

He’s coming down my throat and the sky is lit up with cameras popping, and oh my god.

“Fuck,” he grunts, pulling out mid-orgasm.

He twists, but not before I feel a hot, wet stickiness land on my chest.

And then my face is buried in his ass as he barks orders. “Cameras. Hand them over. Now.”

No, not barks.

Snarls.

“Holy shit, it’s really the weird Rutherford brother,” a guy says somewhere nearby.

I try to move, but Hayes blocks me. “I said, hand over your cameras.”

“Not a fucking chance, bro. Thanks for the shot.”

He starts to move, then freezes, like he’s torn between chasing away whoever’s dashing off with photographic evidence and exposing me to more visibility. “Robert,” he barks, and when a tinny voice answers, I realize he’s on the phone. “We have a problem.”