CHAPTER 1
SLOANE
I cameto this pool party ready to start a new chapter. Or, as I just told my roommate, to cleanse my chakras.
“Test drive a new joystick. Snake my pipes?”
My roommate, Mel Ortega, sends me a sly grin. “Grease the wheels?” She adjusts her ponytail as she maneuvers her wheelchair away from the window of our shared first-floor guest room. “Find a locksmith who makes house calls?”
We’ve been roommates for three months—ever since I left my ex-husband. I’ve been hibernating that whole time, so today she forced me to drive her to a law school graduation party in some posh vacation house owned by one of her classmates.
We decided it’s time for me to get back on the proverbial horse and then get right back off so I can focus on school again.
“So, which of these guys do you recommend?” I adjust my bikini top and peek out the window at the party outside. “Nobody whose firm might have represented Josh.” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice. I never did get used to life in the spotlight as a hockey wife, and since I chose to be classy and keep our issues private, the press has decided I am a frigid witch.
Mel wheels over beside the bed where I’m sitting. She and I met during undergrad at Michigan in a program for students of color. We lost touch when I moved to Pittsburgh, but I’m so grateful she looked me up when she moved to the city for law school.
"Nobody here knows about that stuff," she says, squeezing my shoulder. "They're all too wrapped up in their own post-graduation anxiety."
"At least they have something to be anxious about," I reply. "They have plans, careers, futures. Meanwhile, I'm twenty-five with an unfinished degree, a divorce settlement I never wanted, and a dried-up vagina.”
"And a killer booty," Mel adds, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't forget your curves, chica."
I roll my eyes but smile. My body is the one thing I've maintained control over during this whole mess. In the months since I split from my marriage, I thickened up a bit, and it’s good to hear Mel’s reminder that my butt is banging.
I try not to focus on the idea that the real way I’d love to gain weight—a pregnancy—is never going to happen for me.
"Come on," Mel says, spinning her chair toward the door. "There's a gorgeous infinity pool with a lift and enough expensive alcohol to lube our spokes."
“Do spokes get lubed?” I frown at her wheelchair, suddenly very curious about her maintenance needs. Mel laughs and rolls down the hall without responding.
Two hours later, I'm floating in the pool, the water cool against my sun-warmed skin. Mel abandoned me to talk to some federal prosecutor, and I'm perfectly content to be alone with my thoughts and the spectacular mountain view. She gave me strict instructions to get my oil changed, but so far, I haven’t found the right mechanic. My third glass of rosé sits on the pool deck within arm's reach.
The buzz of conversation washes over me, all these brilliant legal minds discussing the upcoming bar exam, firms, and cases. I close my eyes against the setting sun, wondering where exactly my life took its detour. Was it when I met Josh? When I dropped out of Michigan to follow his hockey career? Or was it earlier, when my grandmother died my freshman year, leaving me unmoored from the only real family I'd known?
The low rumble of a luxury engine catches my attention as someone arrives up the long drive adjacent to the pool and patio. I hear our host’s exasperated voice greeting the newcomer, but I don't bother opening my eyes.
“Tucker, I begged you not to make a scene.” Our host—his name is Stellan Stag, a guy from Mel’s class—is clearly not happy with the newcomer.
I crack open one eye to see a blond himbo drape an arm around the stern, newly minted attorney. “Chill, cuz,” he drawls. Mirrored aviator sunglasses flash above a blinding white grin. “I will save all these hot men for you and only schmooze with your lady guests. Deal?”
Stellan shoves the muscled arm from around his shoulders. “I hope everyone here sues you,” he mutters, stalking away as Mr. Good Times approaches the pool fence. I am fully alert now, keyed into the one person here who seems ready for a no-strings cardio workout.
Tucker. Something about him is familiar, but I can't place it. When he disappears inside, I find myself watching the door for his return.
"That guy’s a hothead,” says a voice beside me. I turn to find Druj, one of Mel's classmates, sitting at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water. "According to Stellan, he's trouble.”
"Trouble how?" I ask, my interest piqued. I wait for Druj to tell me about all the ladies this guy has deflowered.
"Drives too fast, parties too hard, that whole rich playboy thing." Druj adjusts his glasses. I laugh at Druj’s assessment. And then it hits me. Tucker isn’t just some random rich boy. He plays hockey with my ex.
My insides swirl. I came here for just one thing, but casual sex with Tucker could bring me a very satisfying spite-gasm.
When Druj wanders off to refill his drink, I find myself watching for my mark. Sure enough, he emerges a few minutes later in board shorts and a fitted black T-shirt that clings to his muscled chest. He removes the cotton garment like he’s on stage in a club, and I drink my fill of the show. He slides into the pool some distance away, but I feel his presence like a current in the water.
In my previous life—my married life—I would have avoided him completely. I lived with a deeply disciplined man who believed perseverance and routine would deliver all we need in this world. And look where that got me. Something shifts inside me as I watch this beautiful stranger sip his beer and casually survey the party. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push off from the wall and glide through the water toward him.
"You're not a lawyer," I say, surprising myself with my directness. I can totally play this part.
