I don’t know why he’s so far from his Manhattan penthouse.
Alone.
No security. No driver.
Only him.
Either he has a dark side, or there’s something very, very wrong.
And considering he looks decades older than he should—“Are you ill?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer.
Craaaap.
Do I like Oliver?
Not really. Like I said, stuffy, uptight, boring, hurt my sister even if it was several years ago, blah blah, etc. etc.
But nothing about this situation is normal. He should have security with him at the very least.
And right after I woke up, as we passed the sign for Pennsylvania, he giggled.
Giggled.
The Oliver Cumberland that I’ve known my entire life does notgiggle.
He’s either running away to meet a woman, in which case I amabsolutelyjustified in my mission here, given that I overheard him telling his father he’ll be asking Margot out again next week, or he’s having some kind of crisis, in which case I have to make a decision.
Do I help the twat-nugget who doesn’t deserve another chance with my sister, or do I mind my own business?
That decision won’t make itself, so I need more information. “Going to see a mistress?”
He lifts his head and glares at me—understandable, since I think you technically have to be married to have a mistress, and he’s definitely not married, so he knows I’m baiting him—then he leans over again, peering under his driver’s seat and patting around beneath it.
I scooch my butt back another inch and pull my legs tighter against my chest, trying to be smaller.
The sooner he finds my phone, the sooner I can pull up a map, figure out precisely where we are in relation to the closest city with public transportation, and make a plan to get home.
Myrealhome.
The home where my friends are my family and I finally have a job I love and where I’ve been thinking my heart is healed enough now that maybe—maybe—I could get another dog.
That’s exactly where I’m going, provided he’s okay and not in need of some kind of crisis management help.
While I don’t like the man, Idohave a conscience.
And goddess knows there have been good people who’ve helped me during my own crises the past few years.
“It’s pretty fair for me to ask about a mistress, given your plans with Margot,” I point out.
He breathes loudly through his nose. “What?”
“I know you want Margot back.”
“What the actual fuck are you talking about?”
“Margot. My sister. Your former fiancée. About five eight. Light brown hair. Blue eyes. Always wearing power suits. Likes tea. Eats cherry jam straight out of the jar when she thinks no one’s looking. The woman you told your father tonight that you were going to propose to again now that he’s out of prison.”
