Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(70)

Finding nothing in the pantry, I open my fridge. Just yogurt. Gross. What I wouldn’t do for a gallon of cookie dough ice cream.

“I saw a news report of him on the greens at Ansley with your dad,” she continued. “He’d obviously never played golf before. But he was so goddamn adorable nobody cared.”

I sighed. I’d heard that he was going to play golf. At first I was nervous, because maybe I should’ve given him golfing lessons. Turned out he didn’t need me. He pulled it off in fine style. He even ended up with a pretty respectable score. He can do just about anything. Without me.

“Anyway,” she says breezily. “I was wondering if you’d get me a ticket for the New York launch at Fashion Week? I’m going to be in town that week, and I thought I’d stop in and see the sensation strut his stuff in person.”

I nod absently. Even if my father tries to chain me to my desk, I’m going to New York. I don’t care what I have to do, but I will be walking James into the ballroom we’ve rented for the East Coast launch if it kills me. “Oh. Sure.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t get with him.” She sighs. “You had him at your disposal, willing to do anything you said.”

I don’t know why I say what I say next. Maybe it’s because I feel hurt, left behind. Maybe because I know it doesn’t matter, since it’s over. Maybe because she always gets the man, and I want her to know that once upon a time, I was wanted by this amazing, sexy man that everyone desires. “Oh, I did,” I say lightly.

“You did?” I can almost hear her jaw drop to the ground. “Really? When? Spill!”

“In LA. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a fling, like you said. He’s . . . really good.”

She lets out a little squeal. “Oh my god! Is his body amazing? I would totally lick him from head to toe, like a lollipop. Did you?”

“Well, we had breakfast in bed. And there was syrup involved,” I say.

She squeals. “Nice and sticky! So was he yummy?”

I swallow. I’d expected to feel better when I told her.

But now I just feel worse. My stomach roils, which I expect has less to do with the potato chips in my stomach than this topic of conversation. “Um. Yes. He was just like you thought. Amazing.” I sound toneless, dead, my words hollow.

“And?”

I try to summon the details she obviously wants, but I can’t. It’s too painful even to think of, and it’s making me feel more and more like burying my head in the floor, ostrich-style, for the rest of my life. “I’m sorry. Someone’s at the door. I have to go. I’ll tell you more later.”

“Boo,” she says, disappointed. “But I’m proud of you! It must’ve felt good just to break free, just once, for some good old meaningless fucking.”

I end the call and throw my phone down.

I guess I’m the moron. Because that meaningless fucking felt far from meaningless to me. In fact, it felt like everything. I’d never experienced anything like being with James. And who knows if I ever will again?

At that thought, I feel nausea bubbling in my throat. I go to the bathroom and take a shower. By the time I’ve cleaned up, I feel better.

And I’ve decided I need to do something.

I’m my father’s daughter. I don’t just sit around and mope in times of crisis. I always feel better when I’m taking action.

I get into my Audi and drive down to James’s house, not sure what I’m going to find when I get there. I knew he had a late night last night, promoting the line at some high-end nightclub, so maybe he’s home. I pull up to the curb and see his fire engine–red Porsche parked in the driveway. It looks so out of place in this modest neighborhood.

I climb out of my car and knock on the door.

A second later, the door swings open. It’s Charlie. “Hi,” he says, a little confused to see me here. “Jimmy isn’t home.”

“Oh.” I’m disappointed. “Do you know where he is?”

He shrugs. “Big limo came and picked him up a half hour ago.”

I rack my brain, trying to think of his schedule. “Why aren’t you in school? Are you home alone?”

“I have pink eye. I’m contagious. And no, Jimmy got me a nanny.” He rolls his eyes.

“A nanny?” I ask. I’m picturing someone young, blonde, and possibly Swedish.

He nods. “Yeah. We’re also in the middle of packing up to move to some fancy apartment somewhere.”

“Really? You’re moving?”

“To be closer to the private school he got me into.”

“Which school?”

“Westminster.”

I blink. “I went there! It’s an amazing school.” I swallow. “You’re moving to Midtown?”

He shrugs. “And you saw the car.” He scrapes his eyes over it and wrinkles his nose.

“You don’t sound happy.”

“The new school’s okay, I guess,” he says, sniffling. “The problem is my brother.”

“Why?”

“He’s never home. And he’s being a little bit of an asshole.”

“He is?”

“He’s changed. He’s too busy. Too important. He don’t have time for me anymore.”