Page 40 of Cruel Offer
Hesitantly, I go back into the living room, to the door that connects my apartment to Nate’s house. I go down the short hallway and stop at the other end, straining my ears for any sounds coming through the door to Nate’s kitchen. But there’s nothing but silence. Not a sound. Where is he?
Curiosity gets the better of me. Walking outside, I peer through the windows of the garden level to see if his car is in the garage. It’s not. Is he working late? Out with friends?
Hugging myself, I go back inside, disgusted with myself. It doesn’t matter where he is or when he comes home. It’s none of my business. Our agreement is purely contractual. We may have generated a bunch of rumors after our first date, but that date was a lie.
There’s no point pretending that Nate and I might have anything real between us.
17
PIPER-LILY
ThankGod Cleo calls and begs me to come over, so I have something to do besides sit here and stare at the walls and contemplate my shitty life choices.
She’s getting ready for a first date that I’m pretty sure she hasn’t mentioned. She doesn’t openly admit it right away, but I can tell by the mountain of clothes stacked on her king-size bed and the impressive line of shoes set into neat rows on the floor. Nobody spends this much time picking out an outfit if it isn’t for something special.
Her jewelry box is open with an assortment of expensive bracelets, necklaces, and earrings spread across the top of her dresser. I feel a small pang of envy as I survey the room with all its luxuries. It feels like a long time ago that I had a similar life. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I was once among the elite, too.
Slipping my purse from my shoulder, I make a sweeping motion with my arm around the room. “Okay, Cleo. Who’s the lucky guy?”
I know she’s going to deny it, but the twinkle in hereyes gives it away. “What are you talking about? Don’t be so suspicious. I’m just going out.”
It’s a game Cleo has always liked to play. She’s private and elusive about her lovers, preferring to keep them a secret, sometimes hiding their existence for weeks or months before anyone finds out about them. She always tells me first, of course, but she makes me work for it.
“You would have asked me to come with if you wereonlygoing out,” I say.
She gives me a mischievous side eye. “Can’t a strong, independent woman go out for a drink alone?”
I sit on the corner of her bed. “It depends on which establishment this woman might be going to.”
“Probably, a whiskey bar. With smoky, amber lighting and butter soft leather chairs.”
“Hm. A strong, independent woman can’t go wrong at O’Rourke’s.”
The pub gained notoriety during Prohibition as a secret hangout where prominent members of the Mafia conducted their affairs. It was nearly torn down a couple of years ago, but some random investor purchased it and turned it into one of the most exclusive whiskey bars in the city. It’s also Cleo’s establishment of choice for first dates. The dress code is very sexy chic, and so far nothing on Cleo’s bed screams at me as being the right outfit.
“What did you wear the last time you were there?” I ask.
“Just a little black dress. But this time I want to be more…eye catching. I want every guy in the room to notice me.”
My mood lightens considerably as I beganrifling through her clothing. I need this. Helping my best friend get ready for a night out is something I used to do as part of my former life that I really loved. Everything has been such a whirlwind lately that I seriously need something to ground me.
Cleo walks back into her enormous closet, rummages around, and returns with a few more garments over one arm. She sets a slinky eggplant colored dress across my lap.
“What about this one?”
“Too dark. Too winter. If you want to catch his eye, go for red or blue. Something silky.”
“How do you know he’ll—agh!” She tosses her hands in the air. “Okay, you caught me. It’s a first date.”
“Of course I caught you, silly. This disaster you have going on is your M.O. anytime you’re going out with a guy for the first time. Are you gonna tell me who he is now?”
She shrugs and her smile wavers. “Just some Saudi oil prince’s son my mom set me up with. I’m not expecting it to go anywhere. I mean, there’s no way in hell I’m moving to the Middle East.”
I startle a little and nearly slide off the edge of the bed. My early conversation with Nate comes back to me, when he asked how I’d feel being married to someone from the Middle East. But that was only brought up because I’m out of options. There’s no way in hell my gorgeous, wealthy friend with a stellar reputation would ever end up in the same position.
She eyes me curiously. “Are you okay?”
My smile is too perky. It hurts my face, and I don’t even believe me. “I’m fine. Let’s pick a dress. Or what about your wide-leg pinstripe pants with the vest?”
