The Devil Wears Black(10)
“Thanks, I owe you one,” I said.
“Don’t mention it.”
The kid in her hand was now tugging at her hair, yelling his mother’s name.
“Ground control to Martyr Maddie, are you there? I asked you if Sven read you my text,” Layla said, ignoring the ball of commotion in her arms. I hated that nickname. I also hated that I kept earning it by never turning people down when they asked for favors. Exhibit A: attending my own fake engagement party in the Hamptons this weekend.
“Yup.” I plastered a cheerful smile on. “Sorry, I drifted. He did. You’re insane.”
“And you look like you’re on death row.”
“I feel like it too.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I know how devastating it is when a gorgeous, well-bred gazillionaire whisks you off for a weekend in the Hamptons after slipping a four-hundred-fifty-K engagement ring on your finger. But you will survive it.”
Let the record show I hadn’t been the one doing the investigation on how much the ring cost. That was Layla, over a bottle of wine (okay, spiked Capri Sun) the minute Chase left my apartment building. I’d summoned her to an urgent meeting, during which she browsed Black & Co. Jewelry’s website and concluded the engagement ring was a limited edition and was no longer for sale.
“You know what it means.” She wiggled her brows then, pouring a shot of vodka into a cup and squeezing the Capri Sun into it. I’d shut her down immediately.
“Yes. That he wants to make sure his family thinks the engagement is legit. That’s all.”
Now, I was still trying to douse her optimism with a good portion of reality.
“Really, I prefer to look at it as being kidnapped by a cheating, lying, arrogant piece of sh—” I eyed the kid, who went completely silent, bug eyed, waiting for me to complete the sentence. I cleared my throat. “Sheep.”
“She said a potty word.” He pointed at me with a chubby finger.
“No, I didn’t. I said ‘sheep,’” I protested. I was arguing with a four-year-old. Ethan would have had a heart attack on impact had he found out.
“Oh.” The kid poked his lower lip out, mulling it over. “I love sheep.”
“Apparently, we don’t love this one, Timothy.” Layla patted his head. She closed the door half an inch. “Can you promise me one thing?”
“Do I have to?” I sulked. I knew she’d want me to be positive and optimistic.
“Try to make the most out of it. Instead of thinking about who you are going to spend the time with, think about how you’re going to spend your time. The one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar property you will be staying in on Billionaires’ Row, eating clambake delicacies, sipping wine that costs more than your rent. Bring your sketchbook. Take a breather from city life. Make this trip your bitch.”
“Potty word!” Timothy perked again.
“I said ‘beach.’ Surely you like building sandcastles.”
“Uh, duh, I do.”
I loved my best friend, but she was a role model to children like I was a can of soup. She didn’t even want to have any (children, not soup. Layla loved soup). Nevertheless, Layla had a point. I was going to attend my fake engagement party with the man of my nightmares, but I was going to do it in style. Chase and I had spent Christmas at his Hamptons estate before we’d broken up. It was the kind of place you only got to see on HGTV or celebrity Instagram stories. Problem was, Layla was a notorious commitment-phobe. Spending time with the man who’d broken her heart would never pose a problem, because her heart would never get broken.
“You know what? You’re right. I’ll do just that. High five, Timothy.” I offered the kid my open palm with a smile. He stared at me vacantly, unmoving.
“Mommy says not to let strangers touch me. I could get kidnapped.”
Not if the kidnapper knows what your lungs are capable of.
“Well, then it’s settled. You’re going to have fun, not overanalyze every moment, and allow yourself the luxury of an oopsie hate flock without getting attached.”
“Hey! You said—” Timothy started.
“Flock. I said ‘flock.’ Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.” Layla slammed the door in my face before I had the chance to moan about my upcoming weekend.
That was when I noticed Layla’s word of the day.
Birthday: the anniversary of the day on which a person was born, typically treated as an occasion for celebration and the giving of gifts.
It was his birthday when Chase had cheated on me.
And just like that, my mood turned sour again.
Chase was five minutes late. Deliberately, no doubt. Punctuality had always been his forte. But if riling me up were an Olympic sport, he’d have an array of gold medals, a book deal, and a steroids scandal by now.
He double-parked in front of my building, blocking traffic with the nonchalance of a psychopath who truly didn’t care what people thought of him. He got out, rounded the car, and wordlessly pried my suitcase from my fingers before throwing it into his trunk. People honked and shook their fists out their windows behind us, yelling their opinion about his poor driving skills while wishing him acute injuries in various creative ways, their heads poking out of their cars. He slipped back into his vehicle and buckled up, in no hurry. I was still glued to the sizzling curb, trying to come to terms with the idea of spending time with him. He rolled the passenger window down, giving me that barely patient smile he awarded his employees that made you feel so stupid you needed to wear a helmet indoors.