Never Say Forever

“So he was rude to you,” she murmurs unhappily.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then I’m confused.”

“Oh, come on! The man would lick himself if he could.” Again, I’m not lying.

“I’m sure he’d never need to.” Her words are heavy with meaning, and of course I bite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Even as my brain lags behind, my body seems to understand as my stomach draws itself into an uncomfortable knot.

“Because of the line of women following him with their tongues hanging out.” As she sets off chuckling, that knot sinks like a stone to my feet.

“Just my luck. I’m living in the home of a manwhore.” A tart with a heart.

Am I being willfully blind and pining after a man who probably hasn’t given me a second thought since walking out of the door?

“I never said he was a manwhore. I mean, the man has to be having sex or else that would just be a colossal waste,” she adds quickly. “You should see him work one of the foundation’s benefits. Women from nineteen to ninety-five literally swoon as he walks past, tittering and fanning themselves with their big old cheque books. They just can’t wait to jot down huge numbers to personally hand their donations over to him.”

“So he’s a manwhore for a cause.”

“Not the way you make it sound. He’s just kind of irresistible to women.”

“And your point is?”

“I haven’t really got one, but I will say while I have seen many a woman cast out her lure, I’ve yet to see him give even the tiniest of nibbles.” Carson nibbles are pretty special, le sigh. “He turns up to our galas dateless, and he leaves alone, which just makes the ladies wild.”

“I really don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” I answer dispassionately.

“I’m painting the picture for you,” she protests. “He’s, like, unobtainable. Which just makes them all the more eager to get their hands on him.”

“Have you thought that maybe he really isn’t interested in women but doesn’t want you to know?”

“You mean gay?” She laughs like this is the funniest thing ever, not at all picking up on the spite in my tone.

I’d almost wish him gay rather than share him with Rose’s rich friends and hobnobbing buddies, the thought of which turns my stomach. But I know that as well as hella sexy, he’s also one hundred percent straight. Not that it stops me from saying, “Just because you think it’d be a waste—”

“He hit on me once.” She halts abruptly, and I think, for a moment, that’s all she’ll say as a fist grips my intestines, twisting them until they hurt.

If the thought of Carson bedding a bevy of anonymous women made me queasy, the thought of him pining for my friend makes me feel physically ill.

“But Lulu said Rocco calls him Uncle Carson.” How does she not see how weird this is?

“It happened a long time ago,” she replies airily. “I doubt he was even serious. But we’re all friends these days, and he’s a great help to the foundation. Even if he does still complain about his crooked nose. You know, after Remy busted it.”

“He doesn’t have a crooked nose.”

Her tone is softer now, teasing put to one side. “You’d have to be blind not to notice how good-looking he is.”

“He is, as you say, very easy on the eyes,” I mutter begrudgingly.

“But don’t let that façade fool you. Whether he runs hot or cold, or his behaviour seems confusing, he’s a good man. A good human. And I swear this isn’t some kind of setup. I might not know what his deal is with relationships, but I do know that when he takes you into his heart, and maybe also into his home, he’ll be there for you in whatever capacity you need. You just need to decide if you’ll let him.”

15

Fee

These tiles are much kinder to my complexion, even if I still look like poo.

After a largely sleepless night, I consider myself in the vanity mirror, my reflection no longer tinged with a Wicked Witch of the West hue of my former bathroom. But there’s no escaping the fact that I still look like crapola.

Damn my lack of sleep and damn Carson Hayes! Why couldn’t he have been a portly fifty-year-old with a taste for twentysomething men? It would’ve made his flying visit so much easier to reflect on because it wouldn’t be scrambling my brain, plus I wouldn’t have been forced to lie to my best friend.

Okay, so forced might be an overstatement, but I couldn’t have told her the truth. She probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway. Not because I’m no socialite or a supermodel with legs up to my armpits, but because in the five years I’ve known her, I’ve shown little interest in dating. When I was younger, sure. As a young girl living “her best life” in the South of France, I’d allowed myself to be dazzled by good-looking men, rich men, caught up in the party lifestyle. But all that was before I’d been burned. Dumped. Passed over. Before I’d been hurt.