”I guess.” Angel gives me a shrug. “She paid in cash, I didn’t really pay much attention to her name. Are they a big deal or something?”
Is the Blackwell family a big deal?
We’ve all heard of the one percent, right?
Well, the Blackwell family is part of thepointone percent of theone percent,and its patriarch, Preston Blackwell, isthe poster boy for old money.
The Blackwell family is basically American royalty.
At least I know why the house seems familiar. It was featured on the cover ofHouse Beautifullast month. I flippedthrough a copy of it while I was waiting in line at the supermarket checkout.
“Yeah,” I tell him with a nod, amazed, though not that surprised by my partner’s oblivion. Angel is from Jersey. He doesn’t have social media, and he doesn’t give fuck all about New York society. “They’re a big deal.”
“Well,theydidn’t pay us to sit in the driveway and stare at their house,” he tells me, completely unfazed, before he throws his car door open, leaving me little choice but to follow.
Standing on the porch while Angel rings the bell, I hear music coming from somewhere inside the house, the rhythmic sounds of it punctuated with shouts and high peals of feminine laughter.
Sounds like we’re late to the party.
Right before Angel leans in to ring the bell for the second time, the door is yanked open by a familiar-looking woman in a barely there bikini.
Paige Blackwell.
A meticulously maintained bleach blonde with a tastefully done boob job and subtle lip injections. Just enough to make a difference but not so much that it’s overtly obvious. She’s exactly like almost every other woman in her mid-twenties that comes on to me at Level—completely fuckable and utterly forgettable.
I instantly recognize her from the club, but even if I didn’t, I’d know who she is. Paige Blackwell is a social media staple. Millions of followers across her platforms and everything is a photo-op. Her father was Gavin Blackwell, the younger brother of Preston Blackwell. When he died,Peoplemagazine did a twelve-page spread on the entire family.
When she sees Angel and me standing on the porch, her face lights up. “Sorry—we’re out by the pool,” she says with a smile that tells me that I can add Botox to her list of cosmeticenhancements. “Come in,” She opens the door a little wider, waiting for us to cross the threshold before shutting the door behind us. It’s everything I can do not to go slack-jawed again because if the outside of the house was impressive, the inside is mind-blowing. “Wait here, let me go get my cousin—she can tell you guys where to set up.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “She’s holed up in her bedroom.”
Expecting her to take the long, elegantly curved staircase to the second-floor, I watch while she slips around it to travel a long hallway that must lead to a primary suite. A few seconds later, the blonde returns, dragging a very reluctant woman behind her.
A verybeautiful,reluctant woman.
She’s blonde too, but not like her cousin.Old money blondeis what they call it—the color of tarnished gold. A delicate, heart-shaped face set with the widest pair of hazel brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
Melisandre Blackwell—although the name is rarely used. Most people just call her Millie.
Preston Blackwell’s eldest daughter.
I’m only guessing because while she’s often mentioned, she’s very rarely seen, and even then, it’s usually the back of her head while she’s ducking into a limousine or a slightly blurry profile while she’s hurrying past the paparazzi staked outside Blackwell Tower—the basis of the family’s multi-trillion-dollar corporation.
While Gwen and Paige Blackwell are social media staples, Millie Blackwell is decidedly more elusive. She seems to do everything she can to avoid the limelight.
“This is my cousin, Millie,” the blonde flips her hand at the woman she’s just all but flung at us, confirming my suspicion. “It’s her house—she can tell you where to set up.”
After aiming a look at her cousin over her shoulder, Millielooks back at the pair of us, her gaze barely skimming over me before she focuses on Angel. “There’s a full bar in the pool house,” she says, offering him a polite smile. “The liquor’s been delivered, so everything you need to set up should already be out there.”
Waiting a beat before she turns to look at me, my tattoos pull her gaze in fifty different directions, all at once. Still staring, I watch her start to flounder, so I decide to make it worse because that’s the kind of asshole I am.
“You okay, Princess?” I ask her, the corner of my mouth twitching when her gaze flies up to my face. “You look a bit flushed.”
Is teasing Millie Blackwell, less than fifteen seconds after I meet her, the smartest thing I’ve ever done? No—but when it comes to beautiful women, I’ve never been smart. As a matter of fact, where this one’s concerned, I might’ve lost my mind altogether.
“I—” She tries to answer me and I have the pleasure of watching the hinge on her jaw loosen slightly, her mouth falling open for just a moment before it snaps shut, making it obvious that she’s not used to being talked to like she’s just another woman.
“There’s a rollaway bar in the garage—you can set it up wherever you think is best.” Eyes narrowed slightly, she gives me the kind of look that would shrivel a lesser man’s ballsack. I must be some kind of superman because, while I’ll admit there was a definite reaction down south—shrivelingwas not it.
Before I can recover, she turns that look on her cousin. “If that’s all, I’d like to get back to unpacking,” she says, her tone making it clear that she doesn’t give one shit ifthat’s allor not before she turns away from the lot of us, leaving us to stand in the foyer while she disappears behind the staircase.
