“Yes, you are.” She gives me an exasperated sigh. “They’re just men, Millie,” she tells me in a conspiratorial whisper. “Andrentedmen, at that. They won’t bite unless you pay them to.”
Looking at her, I can feel some of my frustration give way to the usual envy I feel whenever she’s around. Gorgeous, pale blonde hair. Brilliant blue eyes. A body that was made for the runway. A face that would make Michelangelo cry—my cousin wouldn’t have to pay either of those men to bite her. Matter of fact, if money were exchanged, I’d be willing to bet she’d be the one getting paid. On the tail end of that envy comes more than a little guilt. Because Paige is not only my cousin, she’s my best friend—hasbeenmy best friend for as long as I can remember .
It's not her fault she’s beautiful, and it’s not her fault you don’t know how to have a good time.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have any cash with me,” I tell her dryly before taking a careful sip of my stolen wine. It was one of the few stipulations my father put on our using the house for the weekend—please try to remember that we’re hosting your sister’s reception there next weekend so keep the damage to a minimum and for God’s sake keep them out of the wine cellar.
I don’t think he’ll miss a bottle.
Or two.
Maybe three.
I’m going to need them if I’m going to survive this weekend.
“I think the cabana boy takes Venmo,” Paige tells me before snatching my wine glass out of my hand and draining it dry. Standing, she lifts the half-empty bottle from the small table between us before tucking it under her arm. “If you want a refill, your bottle will be waiting for you behind the bar.”
Scrambling to my feet, I give her a panicked head shake. “Paige.”
“Millie.” She widens her eyes and laughs. “I’m getting you laid this weekend if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I can’t do that.” Still shaking my head, I frown at her. “You know I’m seeing someone.”
“Who?” She says, still laughing. “That banker guy? What’s his name? Abner? Andrew?”
“Allister,” I correct her stiffly. “His name is Allister.” He’s thirty-two, works for my father, and is so good-looking that when he asked me out, I thought it was some sort of joke. Turns out it wasn’t a joke. We had dinner at Davino’s—my favorite restaurant. The week after that, he took me to the theater. The week after that, a gallery opening in SoHo. He asked me to go sailing with him this weekend, but I had to decline. When I said no, I felt a sort of fluttering panic in my belly because I was sure that he’d be offended that someone like me would say no to a man like him, but he wasn’t. He just said,it’s okay. We have plenty of time.When I sputtered out an invitation to be my plus one at my sister’s wedding, he readily accepted.
Paige gives me another exasperated sigh, the sound of it telling me that I’m sorely trying her patience. “Well, you’ve been on exactly three dates withAllister—I wouldn’t call that a committed relationship.”
“I didn’t say that it was.” Still stiff, I make an awkward grab for the bottle she took from me. When she laughs again andmoves out of reach, I let out a short, frustrated scream. “Paige—please. I don’t want to mess this thing up with Allister. He’s nice and?—”
“Boring.” She says it as if it's some sort of terminal illness. “Sorry, Mill.” She shakes her head, giving me a flat smile. “I can’t let you settle for some boring banker guy when there are twoliving godsup there, more than willing to make all of your dirty little fantasies come true.” When I open my mouth to tell her I don’t have any fantasies, dirty or otherwise, she points a finger at me. “And don’t tell me you don’t have dirty fantasies because I know you do—I’ve read your diary.” Wagging the bottle at me while I stare at her, open-mouthed, she keeps smiling. “Like I said—this will be waiting for you behind the bar. It's a good vintage—don’t let it go to waste.”
Before I can say anything else, Paige re-tucks the bottle under her arm and walks away.
TWO
We’ve got a private gig lined up for theweekend.All we have to do is camp out in the Hamptons for a few days and make poolside daiquiris with our shirts off. Easiest five grand you’ll ever make—you in?
Am I in?
Five grand to flirt and wink at a bunch of spray-tanned debutantes in bikinis?
Was that even a real question?
Besides, I’m the one who talked Angel into starting this side-hustle in the first place. I mean, even the polo shirts withBarNone Mobile Bar Servicesembroidered on them were my idea. What kind of friend would I be if I left him in a lurch.
When werolled up to the house, I felt my jaw unhinge just a little. Pulling side gigs with Angel, I’ve seen my fair share of mansions and penthouses, but this place is on a whole other level. This isn’t money. This iswealth. Generational wealth. The kind that’s carefully managed. Protected and safeguarded. Fed and grown. Passed down and inherited. A well that never runs dry.
“Who did you say this chick was again?” I ask, my slack-jawed stare still aimed at the sprawling two-story house. Something about it tugs at my memory. Like I’ve seen it before, but I can’t remember where.
“Her name is Paige… something,” Angel offers with a shrug. “She’s a regular at the club. Her cousin is getting married—it’s her bachelorette weekend.”
The clubis Level—one of the hottest nightclubs in New York. Angel’s been bartending there for a few years, where I only started just a few months ago.
When he says the woman’s first name, something in my brain clicks.
“PaigeBlackwell?” I look at him like he’s got to be joking. “Are you telling me the chick who hired you is a Blackwell? We’re working Gwenevere Blackwell’s bachelorette party?”
