Exposed (Ethan Frost 3)

Tori

There are too many people here. Oh, I like a good party as much as the next girl—especially when it’s hosted by none other than the magnificent Ethan Frost—but not when the party is filled with this many people. And more important, these people.

Oh, some of them are cool enough—Ethan has invited his actual friends to this thing, after all. But the rest of the people here? The business acquaintances who are also the movers and shakers of the West Coast business and tech scene? Those people I can do without.

The huge house that I’ve visited dozens of times now to see Chloe—Ethan’s wife, and my best friend—is packed to the brim and I can see the panic in her eyes when she glances across the room at me. My best friend is no candy-ass, no shrinking violet who can’t take care of herself, but this crush is a bit much to ask of anyone who is brand new to the elite California social scene. Hell, it’s a bit much to ask of me and I was born into this world. More’s the pity.

Dropping my empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter, I snag another one and drain it in one long sip. It’s my fifth since I got here an hour ago and it settles the last of the nerves I’ve spent the past sixty minutes refusing to acknowledge. After all, parties like this are a dime a dozen to me. Or at least they used to be.

I watch as Chloe finally extricates herself from a conversation with one of Southern California’s wealthiest hotelier’s, only to be snagged by one of Silicon Valley’s latest tech wunderkinds. She keeps a smile on her face, but as he gets closer and closer to her—crowding her just a little, in the way that only socially inept tech geniuses can—I can see her spine stiffen and her smile droop. Which is all it takes to have me weaving through this monster crowd of pretty people in even prettier shoes.

When I finally get to her, I wrap an arm around her shoulder and steer her—mid-conversation—away from too-touchy tech boy. “Hey, you doing okay?” I ask as soon as we’re clear.

“Of course. Just great.” She smiles gamely at me and I might actually believe her if her skin wasn’t such an interesting shade of green.

“You nauseous?” I ask, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the open patio doors. Not that it’s much less crowded outside—I swear people are everywhere—but at least the air is ocean fresh and the scent of booze somewhat dissipated. “Where’s Ethan?”

“I’m okay. Honest. Just a little overwhelmed by all the attention from all these strangers. And Miles dragged him away for a couple of minutes—I don’t know what for.”

I grit my teeth. Of course, her no-good bastard of a brother was the one responsible for leaving her alone in the middle of the shark tank. Who the hell else would it be? “Miles is aware that this is your wedding reception, isn’t he? And that it’s customary for the groom to stick by the bride?” I give a pointed look at her still flat stomach.

“It’s a party, not a reception.”

“Oh, really?” I glance around the crowded room filled with people in fancy dresses and fancy shoes. “Is there actually a difference?”

“Umm, yeah. About nine hundred people, or so Ethan assures me.” Chloe rolls her eyes at the absurdity of throwing a party for over a thousand people and I can’t help laughing. Anyone else would be counting her blessings. After all, it isn’t every day a girl gets such a reversal of luck—from struggling student to wife of one of North America’s richest men in the course of one summer.

All Chloe is doing is counting the guest list—and the minutes until she can get all these people out of the house she shares with the husband she adores.

“I think you should sit down,” I tell her, steering her toward some of the tables set up by the caterers. “Get off your feet for a few minutes.”

She laughs, but doesn’t resist when I all but shove her into a chair. “I’m not pregnant enough to have to worry about the whole sitting thing yet.”

“Give me a break,” I say with a snort. “If I were you, I’d be working the whole pregnant thing for everything I could get. You’re gestating a human being in there? Why shouldn’t you be waited on hand and foot?”

She laughs, pats my cheeks. “We can’t all be divas, Tori.”

“Now you’re just talking crazy.” She laughs as I intend her to, but she also stays put. Proof that she’s more tired than she’s letting on. I snag another glass of champagne from one waiter, some yummy appetizers from another, and send a third scurrying to bring my best friend some sparkling water. Then I flop down next to her, to give her and my feet—currently encased in a pair of sparkly, five-inch-high Jimmy Choos—a quick rest. Besides, if she’s deep in conversation with me, it should keep the vultures at bay, at least for a little while.

“So, have you told Ethan yet?” I ask, scowling at the ad exec (or lawyer, who can tell) who looks like he wants to make an approach. Normally, I’m all for a quick tryst with a hot guy—it passes the time at events like this—but this is my best friend’s party. There’s no way I’m sneaking into the garden for a quick rendezvous when I can be hanging with her.

“I did,” she answers in a soft undertone. “He’s crazy excited.”

“Of course he is.” Despite the fact that he’s a tech genius and superrich—two strikes against him in my book—Ethan Frost is actually a really great guy. Plus he treats Chloe right and doesn’t seem to mind the fact that we still expect to live in each other’s pockets even now that she’s married, so I have absolutely no complaints. Except for the fact that this party would be a lot more rocking if he’d limited it to seventy-five of his closest friends instead of using it as an excuse to introduce Chloe to West Coast high society, such as it is.

I glance around as I talk to Chloe, noting that a number of my father’s friends are here, as are a few people I went to high school with. I ignore them all, try not to let the guest list bother me. After all, this is Ethan and Chloe’s soiree, not mine, and who they choose to invite means nothing to me. Besides, it’s not like I don’t see these people when I can’t ignore the royal summons home that my father issues at least twice a year.

Ad exec/lawyer guy starts to approach, a convivial grin on his face, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. I very deliberately yawn while looking straight at him, then turn my face away. Needless to say, he gets the hint. At least for now.

Before anyone else can work up the nerve to approach either Chloe or me, Ethan is back. And so is Miles. Sadly. As Chloe’s brother slides his six-foot-three-inch frame into the chair next to me, I take it as my excuse to make a quick exit. He may be the hottest guy at the party—all shaggy blond hair, bright green eyes, and leanly muscled build—but I don’t want anything to do with the creep. Not when he sold Chloe out so completely, just when she needed him most.

She’s too busy blaming her parents to blame Miles for his culpability in the situation, but I’m not. Isn’t that what best friends are for, anyway? To look out for you when you can’t look out for yourself? I know what it’s like to be a commodity to the people who are supposed to love you most, know what it’s like to be sold down the river by the person who’s supposed to take care of you and keep you safe. Just because Chloe is willing to forgive Miles doesn’t mean that I am. No matter how hot he is or how many good deeds he’s done recently trying to make things up to her.

“Hey!” Chloe reaches out and snags my hand as I stand up. “Where are you going?”

I hold up my empty champagne flute. “To get another drink, of course.”

Ethan starts to offer to get one for me, but I slip away, pretending I don’t hear him. I grab that drink, but instead of returning to Chloe’s side—where I’ll be forced to make polite small talk with her douche of a brother—I weave my way through the beautiful people looking for an empty corner to hide in. Normally, I’m the life of the party, but lately it’s getting harder and harder to put on the act. Harder and harder to keep the darkness at bay. And when the crowd seems to swell around me, kicking up the claustrophobia I’ve suffered from since I was sixteen, it’s the last straw.