Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(18)

Rounding the back end of the BMW one-series, I hit the lock button on the fob, averting my eyes at the cheap beep it made. It was bad enough on our tree-lined street where old money kept classic Rolls Royces in their four-car garages. At this address I’m a different kind of pathetic—the sort overshadowed by flashy wallets who see my intro Beamer as what it was—an attempt to sit at the big kids table despite my saggy diaper.

“Elle!” Chelsea called out from a table under a striped umbrella. I waved at her and navigated past the hostess stand and through the crowded street-side patio. On Lincoln Ave, space was expensive, and I accidentally whacked at least two people with my bag before I made it to Chelsea.

“No seats inside?” I tossed the bag under the table and sank into the opposite seat. Grabbing the menu, I fanned at my neck.

“Nope. But the misters are on. Just sit there a minute, you’ll feel them.” She lifted a pale pink concoction to her lips. “I got you a mojito.”

“Great.” I glanced at my watch. “Sorry I’m late. The home inspector didn’t show up until ten and took forever.”

“It’s fine.” Chelsea waved off the ten minutes without concern. “I’ve been flirting with the waiter. He and I are in total agreement that you are a thoughtless bitch, so be sure to play the role up.”

I let out a laugh. “No problem. I’m feeling like a total thoughtless bitch. By the way, you’re buying lunch and I want the tuna appetizer.”

“There’s my bitch.” She smiled at me. “And I already ordered the tuna appetizer so find something else to be difficult about.”

“Hmm…” I crinkled up my nose. “Give me time. I’ll come up with something.”

“Mojito?” The drink was delivered by a very dark-skinned man who filled his green golf shirt to perfection. He smiled at me. “Welcome to Papitos.”

Chelsea tugged on the man’s sleeve, then launched into a detailed quiz about the gluten-free options on the menu. I ordered, then sat back in my chair and took a moment to let out the morning’s tension.

This closing would be the death of me. Two weeks over contract on a house that I desperately needed to sell, and my sellers were being cheap. The home inspection had been one long breath-holding procedure where I waited for the inevitable bad news, then got exactly what I’d expected. Aluminum wiring in the attic and polybutylene pipes in the downstairs bath. It would cost ten thousand to repair, if not more. Ten thousand dollars on a contract where I’d already eaten a grand of commission, just to seal the deal.

“Have you ever been with a black guy?” Chelsea popped the question at normal volume, then stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth. Bread that most certainly contained gluten, despite the interrogation she just put the menu through.

I eyed the bread and considered my own avoidance of carbs, one that was on a twelve-day streak. “Uh—no.”

“They’re gooood,” she mused through a mouthful of bread, the word stretched out and savored, her head turning to watch as our waiter eased by and to an adjacent table, a pitcher of ice water in hand. “Very athletic.”

I tore the teeniest corner off the top of a roll and dug it through the mound of butter, biting back my opinions on the comment. Chelsea had once had political aspirations—a short-term career she abandoned around the time that the first #metoo accusations started to fly. We had sat her down over margaritas and tacos and explained very gently that she was a walking and talking offense and sexual harassment machine. She’d listened to our points with rapt attention, then ordered a round of tequila shots and toasted to promiscuity and world peace.

“Speaking of good…” she held up a finger and swallowed the piece of bread, then continued. “How is that delicious husband of yours?”

“He’s fine.” I set down the cold glass. “Please don’t compare him to any black men you’ve screwed. I’d like to pretend, at least until I get something to eat, that you haven’t slept with my husband.”

It was an ill-timed comment, my airy retort landing square in the face of the elderly man who paused at our table. He hesitated, his gaze darting from me to Chelsea, then smoothed a hand down his tie and began to speak.

“Miss Pedicant?”

Chelsea straightened up in her seat. “Mr. Bronson. How wonderful to see you. Are you with your wife?”

“Sadly, no.” He gave me a polite smile and I half rose in my seat, offering my hand and introducing myself. Turning his attention back to Chelsea, he started to ease past. “Please tell your father that I said hello. We have big plans for next year and will need his station’s full support.”

“I’ll certainly tell him. Please give my best to your wife.”

He nodded at Chelsea, then me, then continued his slow and methodical journey out of the restaurant.

Chelsea waited until he was out of earshot, then spoke. “If you ever want to leave Easton for a billionaire, that’s your man right there. Frank Bronson. His wife’s our age and has breasts as big as your head.”

“Really?” I craned my head to get a final look at the older gentleman. “He didn’t seem like that type.”

She let out a snort as she reached into her bag. “Every man is that type, it’s just a question of if they have the money and the balls to pull it off.” She pulled out her phone. “Let me text my dad real quick. He’s going to want to know that I saw him.”