Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(87)

When I finally made it to the front of the crowded bar I blindly asked the first bartender I could find for a double vodka, straight up.

And when he handed me my drink, and I finally looked up to hand him a tip, I found myself looking into the coldest brown eyes I’d hoped to never see again.

“Thomas.” My voice caught in my throat, barely a breath, but he heard it and smiled. My skin crawled.

“Hello, Natalie, it’s been a long time.”

I instinctively tugged at my dress, pulling it a little higher across my cleavage, a little lower across my bottom. “What are you—”

“—doing here? What the hell does it look like? I’m serving the masses. There are so many drunk women here tonight I might get lucky.” And he waggled his eyebrows at me.

I was frozen. As the familiar scent of his cloying cologne reached my nose, it was all I could do not to burst into tears right then and there. How could he still do this to me, after all this time?

I’d sacrificed everything for this man: gave up my family, gave up the time in my life when I was supposed to be the most free and adventurous, gave up my dreams.

I wanted to say something worthy of who I was now, one perfect, cutting sentence that would eviscerate him for what he’d done to me. But no words could ever bring back all that he had taken. So like before—I walked away.

And walked right into Oscar, who was pacing at the edge of the crowd, looking at his watch like he couldn’t wait to get out of here. And when I saw him, saw the irritation he still so clearly felt with me and at being here, in this world, my world, and hating it, it all became very clear.

I’d sacrificed everything for a man once. I’d never do it again.



Neither of us spoke in the car on the way back to my place. I should say, neither one of us spoke actual words. There was sighing, there was restless movement, there were lips bitten and tongues bitten, for that matter, and none of those things were done in the usual Natalie and Oscar fashion.

The car pulled up in front of my place, and like a shot, Oscar was out of the car and around to my side, as though refusing to let me get the jump on him again. I was angry. I was angry at how I’d handled things with Thomas, of course, but more important, I was angry at how Oscar had been behaving all night. I knew how to compartmentalize Thomas and would deal with that later. But I hadn’t built up any defense against Oscar.

I’d never thought I’d need to.

I stormed past him, clicking up the steps to my apartment while he slammed the car door shut behind me. I turned the key in my lock as if the door had done something personally to me. I sort of wished it would, so I’d have an excuse to break something.

What the hell was happening? Hours ago, we’d been making out behind the stall at the farmers’ market, hardly able to be near each other without wanting to bang our brains out. Now there was this horrible tension, like waiting for a balloon to pop.

I heard him come in behind, heard him shrug out of his jacket and felt his hands near my neck, ready to help me out of mine. I whirled on him suddenly, no longer willing to pretend I wasn’t angry.

“What the hell is happening?” I demanded. “I mean it, Oscar: what the hell?”

“You want to talk about this now?” he asked, tugging my coat off and hanging it carefully next to his.

“I think we’d better, don’t— Hey, don’t walk away from me!” I shouted as he walked toward the kitchen.

Spinning on his heel, he held his hands in the air as if to say no big deal. “Just getting a drink, baby. That’s all.”

“Don’t f*cking call me baby. I hate that. You never call me baby,” I sputtered, still standing in the entryway, getting angrier by the second.

“What do you want me to call you? Honey? Sweetie? Tell me exactly what you want to be called, so I can make sure to address you correctly.” He disappeared around the corner and I could hear him opening the fridge, the ice tinkling in the glass.

I stomped down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He poured a scotch, then waved the bottle around dramatically. “It doesn’t mean anything. Why does everything have to mean something?”

“It doesn’t, normally. But when someone’s acting like an *, then yeah, things tend to mean something.”

“An *?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shook my head in surprise. “You don’t think so? ‘What do you want to be called, tell me exactly what you want to be called so I can’—what did you say?—‘address you correctly’? Asshole works, but I’m thinking jerk, dickhead, and straight-up motherf*cker sound pretty good, too.”

“You’re pissed at me,” he said.

“You’re damn right I’m pissed at you. Your behavior was totally out of line tonight. First at the restaurant, and then at my mother’s art opening. I think out of line is an understatement.”

“Your mother was nice. Your father, too. But the rest of those people?” He tossed back the rest of his scotch. “They were all *s.”

“I’m sorry?” I asked, fire creeping into my face.

“I’m sorry, too. Your little social circle is filled with jerk-offs.”

“You don’t even know them. How can you make judgments about people you just met?” I asked. “I’ve known some of these people for years. Maybe they’re not close friends, but I’ve spent time with them. We see each other at all the same parties, all the same restaurants, all the same events. Maybe they’re a little snooty at times, and a bit judgmental, but . . .”