“A pleasure to meet you, Halston,” he says. “We hope you’re enjoying yourself so far? I know my daughter, Bristol, was looking forward to meeting you. She’s around here somewhere.”
“This is a beautiful venue,” I say. “And I look forward to meeting her as well.”
Mason rests his hands on my hips. I brush them off without making a scene.
Every few seconds, I can’t help but to scan the room, looking for Kerouac again. I’m not entirely convinced I wasn’t daydreaming a little while ago.
He was there, stepping off the elevator in a navy suit, his hair slightly grown out. Our eyes locked for an endless second. And then he was gone.
My body’s acting like I just finished a marathon, heart racing, adrenaline pumping, mouth dry, so I take another sip of champagne to quell my nerves, but I’m going to need something stronger.
“Mason!” A girl with long auburn hair, dressed in head to toe Lilly Pulitzer, squeals before running toward us and wrapping her arms around him. “How have you been? Oh my gosh. Is this her?”
I lift a brow while maintaining a graceful smile.
“Hi, I’m Bristol,” she says, hesitating before giving me a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Shooting Mason a look, I pretend to be amused. “And what exactly has he been saying?”
“Oh, Aunt Constance!” Bristol rises on her toes, waving to another guest across the room. “I’m so sorry. I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?”
With that, she’s gone, and I reach for Mason, pulling him close so I can whisper in his ear.
“Why the hell does everyone think I’m your girlfriend?” I ask. “I’m your wedding date, Mason.”
He wears a shit-eating grin, smoothing the lapels of his suit coat and straightening his shoulders.
“It’s not funny.” My brows narrow. The last thing I need is for Ford to hear through the grapevine that I’m a taken woman.
I’m not taken. At all.
I’ve been waiting for him all these years.
“It is funny,” Mason says, taking my hand and placing it on his chest. “And it’ll be even funnier fifty years from now when we’re telling our grandkids about it.”
Pulling in a sharp breath, I let it go and finish the rest of my drink. “You promised you wouldn’t do this. I agreed to come with you as your friend, your date. Had I known you were going to pull some stunts—”
“Forgive me.” He moves closer, placing his greedy hands on my waist and tucking his chin against his chest. His hooded eyes relax. “I am completely and utterly obsessed with you, and not being able to snap my fingers and get exactly what I want isn’t something I’m used to. I don’t mean to be aggressive, I just find it difficult to contain myself when I’m with you.”
If my sympathy is what he’s looking for, he’s not going to get it.
I don’t particularly have a soft spot for spoiled tech-y billionaires. And his Mexican beach house, his New York brownstone, his Silicon Valley estate, and his fleet of Italian sports cars might be enough to win over most women, but not me. I need more than good looks, a nice wardrobe, and a bottomless bank account.
Take all of that away, and Mason is mind-numbing, clichéd, and uninspiring at best.
He hasn’t read a book since college, and my research on him has led me to conclude that he didn’t get to where he is because he’s gifted or inventive. He got there because he’s resourceful. And lucky.
There’s nothing sexy or extraordinary about a man whose mother gifts him ten million dollars in his early twenties, which he then uses to pay some of the world’s most in-demand software developers to whip up a bunch of apps and games for a flat fee, which he then goes on to sell and take all the credit for.
“I’m going to grab another drink.” I step away before I say something I’m going to regret. The weekend is too young to go there with him, and I’ve got more important things to worry about.
Like finding Ford.
A few minutes later, I walk away with a gin and tonic, heading into a sea of unfamiliar faces. Men stare when I walk past, old and young, single and married. Over the past five years, I’ve completely transformed myself, graduating at the top of my class at Welsh Academy, finishing my bachelor’s degree at the University of Illinois two semesters early, and starting a PR business with my best friend, Lila Mayfield.
And in the process, I traded in my wild blonde mane for something sleek and more refined. I learned how to do my makeup, dress for my body type, and walk in six-inch heels. I know how to eat lobster and oysters, how to prepare challenging French dishes with perfection, how to make the perfect pot of tea, and entertain guests with polish and poise.
I’m still me. I’m still Halston. I’m just older and wiser. More confident.
Unstoppable.
I grew into my skin. I reinvented myself. I became the girl that everyone wants instead of the one that everyone wants nothing to do with.
And for that, I’ll never apologize.
“There you are.” Mason takes me by the arm, catching me off guard and nearly spilling my drink. “Thought maybe you’d dodged back to your room.”
Stirring my drink with a little straw, I take a sip. “Not yet. But I will soon.”
“We’ve only been here an hour.” He pouts, because Mason Foster does that. He’s a thirty-three-year-old man who pouts when he doesn’t get what he wants.
“I’m exhausted and my head is pounding,” I say, scanning the room for the millionth time.
He’s here. I know it. I saw him.
I feel him …
… that electric charge in the air.
Mason exhales, lifting his hand to my cheek before smiling. “All right. You get your rest. Tomorrow’s the clam bake at Aunt Cecily’s. You’ll meet everyone else then.”
Before I get the chance to rebuff him, he presses his lips against my forehead.
Fucking jackass.
“Mason.” I say his name through gritted teeth, trying not to make a scene and keeping my hands gripped tight around my tumbler so I don’t accidentally wring his neck.
“It was an innocent peck,” he says, sweeping my hair over my shoulder and drinking me in like I’m a work of fucking art.
And I am.
“The more you push me away, the more I want you,” he says, head tilted as he studies me. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who hasn’t thrown herself at me.” Mason exhales. “You drive me crazy, Halston. I’d give you the world if you asked me to.”
“I know.”
He could give me the world and it still wouldn’t be enough.
It still wouldn’t be Kerouac.
Chapter 47
Ford
“You’re not eating. Why aren’t you eating?” Nicolette pushes my breakfast plate closer, as if that could possibly bring my appetite back. “You’re going to be starving later. The clam bake takes all day with all those stupid games and stuff they make us play. We won’t be eating until later.”
“I’ll live.”
Arlo digs at his soggy Frosted Flakes. The hotel boasts a five-star restaurant with a celebrity-chef prepared menu, but this kid wanted cereal.
Nicolette clears her throat. Then again. Her eyes darted over my shoulder as if to point in that direction.
“Mason,” she says under her breath.
“So?” I shrug, trying to ignore the palpitations reverberating against my chest wall at the thought of seeing her again.
When I first saw her last night, I was angry. All those emotions I’d buried so long ago, the ones that had settled to the bottom in hopes they’d someday be forgotten, were stirred, rising to the surface to be experienced all over again.
A couple drinks later, my breathing had returned to normal, but I was still seeing red, still ensuring I kept my distance if only because I didn’t trust myself not to say something—or do something—I’d later regret.
There were things I wanted to say to her, things I’d harbored for years. Things I’d written a hundred times in letters that were eventually torn into a hundred pieces, burned in fireplaces and left in trash cans in hotels around the world.