Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(4)
The grand, chandelierlit marble hotel lobby was abuzz with activity, but Blair noticed a hush fall over the crowd as she crossed the tiled floor, her clogs clopping noisily, to the overstuffed black velvet chaise where Marcus sat waiting for her. He was so goddamn handsome Blair couldn’t help admiring him, like he was a painting or some rare piece of sculpture, and it was hard to resist plunging her fingers into the thick waves of his golden-brown hair. She was so busy mentally rhapsodizing over her gorgeous English lover that she barely noticed he was holding hands with someone who was definitely not her.
Ding, ding. Hello?
Forgetting the romantic jaunt to Africa, Blair’s eyes narrowed at the horsy blonde holding her boyfriend’s hand. What the f*ck?
“Blair, at last,” Lord Marcus greeted her smoothly, standing but not letting go of his companion’s hand. “This, my dear, is my darling cousin Camilla, the one I told you about. My soul mate. She’s in town for a couple of weeks. We were practically twins growing up! Isn’t that the most marvelous surprise?”
“Marvelous,” echoed Blair, throwing herself onto a nearby armchair. She didn’t remember hearing anything about any cousin Camilla.
But then, listening had never been her strong suit.
“I’m so delighted to meet you,” said Camilla, staring down her long, prominent nose—the kind of schnozz even the best plastic surgeon couldn’t fix. Her pale English complexion was layered with comical amounts of beige powder and primary-red blush. Her legs were clownishly long and skinny, like she’d been stretched on one of those old-fashioned lengthening machines Blair had tried to find on eBay.
“Mimi just turned up yesterday morning, unannounced,” Lord Marcus explained. “Imagine, like a lost waif, with bags in hand.” He chuckled.
“Yes, well, thankfully I can count on my dear Marmar to open up his home to me,” Camilla gushed, casually running her free hand through her long, flaxen hair. Hair that could easily be cut off in the middle of the night.
Wait—his home?
“You’re staying at his place?” demanded Blair rudely, already hating the crooked-toothed Camilla and her ugly yellow Indian silk sundress, which probably cost thousands but looked like a tablecloth. “But I thought there wasn’t room.”
“There’s always room for family,” Lord Marcus answered, squeezing Camilla’s talonlike hand before turning back to Blair. “Not to worry, sweetheart. We’ll all have a grand time together.”
Sure they will.
Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams
one is the loneliest number
“Archibald!” Coach Michaels yelled up at the roof. “I want to hear your lazy ass banging those shingles. Now!”
“Yes, sir,” Nate Archibald muttered as he watched Coach climb into his blue minivan and back out of the short driveway, honking a cheerful beep beep be-beep as he sped off down the suburban Hampton Bays street. Nate could picture him popping Viagra and jacking off to the pornos he probably kept in the glove compartment.
Douche bag, Nate added silently. Sweat stinging his eyes, he ran a hand across his forehead and frowned down at the black-shingled roof. Idiot, he told himself for the hundredth time that morning. It was only nine o’clock, but the brutal sun was pounding down, the scratchy shingles were tearing up his knees, and his back throbbed. Nate straightened up to full height and pulled off his drenched lime-green Stussy T-shirt. Then he dropped his hammer and sat down, even though the roof was so hot he could feel it burning his ass through his shorts.
He dug around in his pockets for the lovingly hand-rolled Thai stick joint he’d been smart enough to stash there the night before. Nate pulled out the yellow plastic lighter he kept tucked into his sock and lit the joint, inhaling deeply.
Wake and bake. The breakfast of champions.
His f*ckup was costing him, that was for sure, but Nate was determined not to let one mistake ruin his whole summer. His days belonged to Coach Michaels, but his nights were still his, and he had his parents’ place on Georgica Pond all to himself, since his folks preferred the splendid isolation of their compound up in Mt. Desert Island, Maine.
Nate flipped open his cell and scrolled through his contact list until he got to the first person he knew with a house in the Hamptons. There was no sense letting the perfect party house go to waste.
Waste not, want not.
“Hey, it’s Charlie,” said the voicemail recording. “I’m out of the country for a couple of weeks, but leave me a message and I’ll check you when I get back. Later.”
Damn. Nate hung up without leaving a message.
He scrolled some more until he came to the number for Jeremy Scott Tompkinson, another friend from school. Nate half remembered hearing something about how Jeremy was spending the summer out in LA, taking acting classes or something lame like that.
The only guy Nate knew for sure was in the Hamptons was Anthony Avuldsen, so Nate tried him too, but he didn’t answer his phone either. He was probably still sleeping; no one with any sense would be awake this early in the morning.
Frowning, Nate took another deep drag on his joint. He could just imagine the endless march of hot, sweaty days and lonely, quiet nights before he would finally pack up and head off to Yale in the fall.
Poor baby.
From his perch on the roof, Nate could see the coach’s wide backyard, the very yard he’d be in charge of mowing and landscaping for the next few weeks. He’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed the best part of the view: the coach’s wife, lying poolside, sunning herself in the bright morning rays, top-less. She was a mom and she wasn’t young, but she wasn’t that old, either. At least her boobs had aged well. He’d seen The Graduate, and he’d never been with an older woman. Shit could happen. Maybe working for the coach without pay wouldn’t be so bad after all.