I breathe, feeling a small heartache as I fill my lungs with air that’s infused with him. “I’ll miss you too,” I tell him. “Every single minute.”
There’s a press line outside the venue of the party and we dutifully take pictures. Landon’s hand never leaves the spot he has claimed around my waist as we walk inside together. Inside the venue, a champagne fountain refills glasses continuously, with different colored lights igniting the stacked champagne flutes like muted rainbows.
Near the entrance, a tall, lanky man with a pleasant face and carefully side-swept brown hair, breaks into a big grin when he sees Landon. They shake hands. The man is Steven Yeager, the host, and his smile widens when Landon introduces me as his girlfriend.
The statement causes a warmth to start somewhere in my chest and spread until I’m practically floating. I manage to compose myself and smile pleasantly at Steven. “Good to meet you,” he says, giving me a conspiratorial look. “Hold on to him,” he whispers, inclining his head towards Landon. “He’s a big softie inside.”
“I know,” I respond, laughing. I look at Landon, and he’s gazing at me with a smile. My heart tightens with the magnitude of my love for him, but the moment is broken by other people approaching him. As the evening progresses, I smile and respond to introductions, all the while aware of Landon’s hand around my waist, on the small of my back, his fingers gently stroking me through the fabric of my dress. I don’t mind, I love his possessiveness, and I love his touch.
“Landon!”
The voice comes from behind us. It’s a woman’s voice, husky,
rich and almost certainly the voice of someone who is confident of the fact that she’s beautiful.
We turn at the same time. Landon and I. Landon smiles at the new arrival while I take in the confirmation of all my suspicions from the sound of her voice. She is beautiful. Glossy black hair falls to her back and over her shoulders in soft waves, perfect makeup enhances a face that’s already classically beautiful. Her figure would be like a model’s if not for the extra curviness that’s shown off unapologetically in a sequinned top, slim black pants, and classy heels.
I recognize her immediately. It’s the woman from the picture. The woman Landon had dinner with when he told me he was working. I take a breath and keep the pleasant expression on my face, willing myself not to care, to remember Landon’s assurance that there’s nothing to be jealous about.
“Ava,” Landon’s hand slips from my waist as he steps forward to place a kiss on her cheek.
I feel the loss of that hand like the floor disappearing from under my feet. The woman is looking at me now, one eyebrow raised as she eyes me from my hair to my toes, her lips curled in a supercilious half-smile. Landon is introducing us, and I hear him say her name, Ava Sinclair.
He’s been fucking her for years.
“How nice to meet you,” she says. There is a mocking edge to her voice, barely perceptible, but there.
“It’s good to meet you too,” I reply pleasantly, although my mind is whirling. Landon had been meeting his ex? And even when I’d asked him, he’d conveniently neglected to tell me that she was his former lover. He’d made it seem like I’d been jealous about just another business meeting, with just another associate who happened to be female.
Meanwhile, she was someone he used to fuck.
It gave a whole new meaning to the way they smiled at each other in the picture, the hand she’d had on his arm.
I breathe. “I’ve met your brother,” I tell her, intent on wiping the mocking smile from her face. “Evans Sinclair?” I smile wider. “It was a very… memorable meeting.”
She blanches a little, but she quickly recovers. So she’s embarrassed by her brother? I hold her gaze and take a sip from my glass, and her eyes narrow slightly.
“I thought you’d returned to San Francisco,” Landon says. He seems oblivious to the vibe I’m getting from her, or, I think sadly, maybe he just doesn’t care.
“Not yet.” She does a graceful headshake. “I had a few things to take care of.” She gives me another look then turns to Landon with a dazzling smile. “I want to say hello to Steven,” she says, taking his hand. “It’s been ages. Why don’t you come?”
She starts to move, then stops when he doesn’t follow her. He’s looking at me, and his eyes tell me that he’s not going anywhere without me. I decide to trust that, and ignore the way Ava is holding on to his hand. It doesn’t matter who she was to him, and what she wants now. That’s none of my business. What matters is Landon, and the fact that right now, he’s mine.
“We already saw him,” I hear him tell her. She lets go of his hand and I feel a little triumph. She gives me a quick glance, but I respond with another pleasant smile. She smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Alright then.” She wiggles her fingers charmingly, giving Landon another bright smile, before walking away.
We leave soon after that. On the way to his place, I decide not to ask him about her, or why he didn’t think it was important to tell me that she’d been his lover. I don’t want to trigger any feelings of jealousy that I wouldn’t be able to contain. Not tonight. Not when he’s leaving tomorrow. I don’t want the night to end with us fighting.
If he knows the reason for my silence, he doesn’t let on. As soon as the elevator deposits us in the foyer of his apartment, his lips are on mine, his hunger for me as real and tangible as the naked arousal pulsing through my body. We barely make it to his bedroom before he lifts my dress around my waist and bends me against the wall, ripping my panties and thrusting deep inside me.
He fucks me hard, his hands almost feverish as they explore my heated skin, but I don’t care. I only care about my need to touch him, to feel him, to drive out the thoughts of him with anybody else.
By the time he makes me come over and over, again and again, and I finally fall asleep, sated and pliant, I’ve almost succeeded.
CHELSEA comes through on the dress. A few hours after lunchtime, she leads me up to the Gilt Style floor, where everyone is insanely styled and so incredibly fashionable that they could all be models on a shoot. Nobody pays any attention to us as we make our way to the fashion department. There, we have to go up a flight of stairs to the storage floor, half of which houses the ‘storage closet.’
The doors are already open, and Veronica Short, Chelsea’s friend, is waiting. She’s tiny, about five-feet tall, with a shock of frizzy red hair. She drags on her e-cig and smiles at me. “You’re Rachel?” She looks satisfied. “I love your coloring, and your hair is just perfect. It’s a Midsummer Night’s Dream? So a fairytale? I love it!”