PAIGE
The next few minutes are some of the most humiliating in my life, and that’s saying quite a lot.
I didn’t know they were arriving so early today.
I keep lying on my stomach, because I’ve tossed my bikini top aside, and there’s no way to sit up and say hi without flashing my new sister-in-law and her fiancé. It looks like the same man who served as witness at the courthouse.
So I give an awkward little wave.
This isthesister he mentioned earlier. The one my uncle antagonized to get beneath Rafe’s skin, to get payback on the Montclairs.
Terrible strategy. Vindictive, small-minded, and yet another reason why Ben can’t remain in charge of Mather & Wilde. I already knew I’d done the only thing I could to save the company. But this is further proof it was the right decision.
Rafe leaves to greet them, and I watch them all disappear inside the house.
I pull on the shirt Rafe left on the chair. The linen is buttery soft, and I turn to face the lake so I can work on my bikini top beneath it. Coming outhere was impulsive.
Raphaël Montclair has seen mecry.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t run from that fact, and I hate it. One point for him. I spent the morning distracted from work by the feeling of his hand running over my hair and being held while I cried.
Now he has the upper hand.
And I want to change that.
Being wild and crazy means not thinking about your own muddled feelings, and it works every damn time. Including today. I lay outside his window and basked in the power of luring him outside.
If he is attracted to me, I can exploit that. It’s a leg up. But then our argument devolved into barbs and trades, like it always does, and I taunted him about the sunscreen.
And his hands felt good on my back again.
I walk down to the dock. The lion statue sits where I last saw it, dutifully holding a mooring ring through its mouth. I walk down the stone steps and into the cool water of the lake. It laps at my feet, cold compared to the sun warming my body.
I shrug out of Rafe’s shirt and dive into the water.
It’s freezing cold. So cold it stings my skin. I hate it. But it helps chase away the nerves of the last fifteen minutes and calms the storm inside.
I turn around and float on my back. Let the cold pass through me and over me. Even in the middle of July, the lake doesn’t get warmer than this. Maybe it never does. I read that it’s one of the deepest lakes in Europe, at over a thousand feet at the center.
That’s what happens when you’re shaped by the Alps.
This entire place is bigger than me, deeper than me, older than me. The city of Como itself was founded by Julius Caesar, if my Internet research is to be believed.
I spread my arms out in the water. The sky above ispainted with thin, wispy clouds. They’re far, far above me, governed by forces outside everyone’s control.
My breathing starts to slow. Maybe everything will be all right.
There’s a splash nearby. I look up to see a woman walking down the steps and into the water. Her brown hair is tied back, and she’s in a navy blue swimsuit with white stripes. The giant sunglasses are gone.
Nora.
Rafe’s sister.
I’ve seen pictures of her in magazines, on billboards, where she modeled Maison Valmont’s luxury brands. She has a sharp elfin chin and high cheekbones, and she’s intimidating in a very different way than Rafe.
I shift in the water and tread below the surface. “God, it’s cold!” she says.
“Yeah. Is it always like this?” I call back.
