I don’t want to get married to this woman.
Not at all.
I also don’t want to piss my mother off. Something I never do. For once, I should grow some balls and stand up to her.
Tell her no.
I’m finally feeling confident in life. At Halcyon. And this situation has to come along and fuck everything up.
This summer was one of the best I’ve ever had. I was in the Hamptons every weekend sharing a house with friends and coworkers from Halcyon.
It makes Winston crazy, that I “fraternize with the help,” but damn, I’ve made friends there. I want to hang out with them. I want to belong.
Something I’ve rarely felt like I do. I don’t necessarily belong with my family. I’m the odd one out, always have been. My friend groups were pretty small and tight knit throughout my school years, and most of those guys went off to college and never came back.
I don’t like to acknowledge it but I feel…lonely. Then I tell myself to get over it and end up at a club, dancing and drinking with nameless, faceless women, flirting with them. Sometimes I even go home with one of them.
Not lately though. And I guess not for a long time, thanks to my recent engagement.
I remember what Mother told me. How I could go about my business eventually, as long as I was discreet. Just the idea of cheating on this beautiful woman fills me with disgust.
Not that I want to marry her, but damn. Is that really the situation I’m going to end up in? Trapped in a loveless marriage, seeking affection and attention from another woman? Keeping a mistress for the rest of my days?
That sounds fucked up.
“I think we should stay in the city once we’re married,” my fiancée suggests to my mother, her voice raising so I can hear her. “Perry works at Halcyon, correct?”
My gaze goes from my mother to Charlotte, back to Mother again.
Looks like she did a little research on me.
“He does,” Mother says haltingly.
“We could stay in my apartment,” I suggest, earning a hard stare from my mother.
“I don’t think so,” she says, her voice clipped. “It’s far too small for the two of you. That’s why you need a house.”
Huh. Maybe she is right. We’d get in each other’s way, and I’m definitely going to need some space if I have to live with a stranger.
“It would probably be more convenient if he stayed here, then, don’t you think?” Charlotte turns to her mother. “We could move into the apartment Grant used to keep…”
Grant. The oldest brother. One of the assholes.
Louisa Lancaster grimaces. “But it’s so old and drafty.”
“Father had it redone, remember? And I don’t mind old and drafty. I love old stuff. You know this,” Charlotte tells her.
She loves old stuff? I wonder if she’s a collector. Or worse…
A hoarder.
A shimmer of disgust washes over me. I like my things new and shiny and expensive, with one exception.
Cars. Oh I like them shiny and expensive, but I prefer them on the older side. Like my Chevelle.
“Charlotte, you can’t bring all of your—things with you when you move in with your husband.” Her mom shoots me a look, and I smile at her, trying to be polite. Her gaze turns heavy lidded and flirtatious, just like that and I briefly glance down at my lap, vaguely disgusted.
What the hell was that all about?
“If he’s to accept me, he should accept all of me.” I glance up to find that Charlotte is now looking directly at me. “Right, future husband?”
“Of course, future wife.” I can play along with this game. “What sort of things are we talking about that I need to accept?”
“Perry,” my own mother admonishes, but I ignore her.
“Books and…oh, I don’t know. Knickknacks. Photos. Little glass dishes and vases. Candlesticks. Statues. Busts.” Charlotte shrugs. My gaze drops to her tits. She has a decent bust all right. “I’m a bit of a collector.”
“So am I.” I lean forward, suddenly eager to talk about my car collection when I realize my mother is sitting right next to me and she really doesn’t know anything about it. I clear my throat and settle back in my chair once more. “I mean…I want to be. Someday.”
“A collector of what exactly?” Charlotte asks, seeming genuinely curious.
“Classic cars,” I answer. “Those souped-up sports cars from the eighties are so—dope. I’ve got a 1969 classic Chevelle that’s orange and badass—”
“Perry.” Mother’s sharp voice silences all of us, including the server who has just approached our table. He slinks away to the table next to us, never saying a word. “No one wants to hear about your so-called car collection right now.”
“I do,” Charlotte says.
Everyone’s head swivels in her direction, including mine. I’m surprised by her show of support when we don’t even know each other.
She offers me a sly smile in return, her attention returning to my mother, her blue eyes going wide. Hmm.
Little Miss Innocent is putting on a show.
“That’s—wonderful,” my mother says stiffly as she sits up straighter. She doesn’t like to be called out or proven wrong. Not that Charlotte proved her wrong, per say. More like she’s agreeing with me when Mother is used to everyone agreeing with her. “Sounds like you two do have something in common, then.”
“I suppose so,” Charlotte says, gazing at me once more. “I guess it shouldn’t be surprising, then, that we could potentially work out. Though really, you’re not my type. I’m usually attracted to dark-haired men.”
“Charlotte,” her mother whisper hisses.
My mother full-on gasps.
I just smile at her, ignoring the oddly possessive feeling I’m experiencing at the thought of Charlotte with another guy. Specifically, a dark-haired man. “From the online research I’ve done, you have no type.”
“Perry,” Mother admonishes.
I don’t say anything else. Neither does Charlotte. The server saves us by returning to the table, a giant smile plastered on his face as he asks for our drink order. I make my request, unable to stop thinking about Charlotte being with someone else.
Maybe my angry virgin isn’t a virgin after all. And she’s being downright sweet, when I know she doesn’t give a shit about me, or our impending marriage.
What’s her motive here?
I’m going to do everything I can to figure it out before the night is over.
*
We’re leaving the restaurant after the excruciatingly long and painful meal we just suffered through. Our mothers discovered they have many common friends and acquaintances, though they aren’t particularly friendly themselves.
Or at least, they weren’t.
Throughout dinner they laughed and talked and compared notes. They drank enough martinis between the two of them to be shit-faced drunk, yet somehow, neither of them are. They’re both composed and laughing repeatedly, sharing phone numbers and promising to get together soon, especially now that they’re going to be family.
It sets me on edge, their easy familiarity. And that’s the key word—easy. It’s no big deal for these two to be friendly. To become actual friends. To share joy over the fact that their children are getting married to each other soon.