Brooks
She's perfect.
I lock the phone. It's the truth, more or less. I don't need a debutante; I need a strategist. I need a fixer.
I lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. The headache is still there, a dull throb pulsing in my temples. It's going to be a long drive. A long summer.
But as the car merges onto the highway, speeding toward the Hamptons, a strange sensation blooms in my chest. It's not panic about the deal. It's not the anger of the assault.
It's anticipation.
The highway stretches ahead, bright and relentless. In the rearview mirror, Manhattan shrinks to nothing. I should feel in control. I don't.
CHAPTER FIVE
IVY
If Jay Gatsby had a 401(k), a tighter grip on his impulses, and a grandmother who came over on the Mayflower, he would have lived at Eastmoor.
I press my face against the cool glass of the SUV window as we turn off the Montauk Highway and pass through a set of wrought-iron gates that are taller than my apartment building.
"Subtle," I murmur.
Beside me, Brooks doesn't even look up from his phone.
"It's old," he says dismissively, his thumb scrolling through emails with a speed that suggests he's trying to ignore the throbbing vein in his temple. "Drafty in the winter. The plumbing is a nightmare. Don't let the hydrangeas fool you; the place is a money pit."
I look at the rolling green lawns, the manicured topiary that probably requires a team of three gardeners to maintain its spherical integrity, and the main house rising in the distance like a limestone wedding cake.
"Right," I say. "A money pit. I see at least three chimneys from here, Brooks. Do you know how many chimneys I have? Zero. I have a radiator that clangs like a prisoner of war."
"You're obsessed with HVAC," he mutters, finally sliding his phone into his pocket as the car crunches over the gravel driveway.
"I'm the stand-in. Brides hire me to fix what's unraveling. Climate control is fifty percent of my job. The other fifty percent is stopping aunts from fighting over centerpieces."
The car glides to a stop in front of the main entrance. It's exactly what I expected, imposing steps, white pillars, and a front door that looks like it judges you for not having a family crest.
The driver opens my door, and the salt air of the Hamptons hits me. It smells like money. Crisp, clean, and expensive, with freshly cut grass and that chalky, briny note that comes from crushed shells underfoot.
I step out, smoothing the skirt of the white linen dress Savvy forced me to wear. I grab my bag, but Brooks is already there, nodding to a woman standing on the porch.
She isn't his mother. She's wearing a sensible navy dress and an expression that suggests she knows where all the bodies are buried and has personally polished the shovels.
"Mrs.Clarkson," Brooks says, walking up the steps. He winces slightly as the sunlight hits his eyes. The concussion is still lurking, but he hides it well.
"Mr.Taylor," the woman says. She doesn't smile, but her eyes soften a fraction. "Welcome home. And this must be..."
She turns to me. Her gaze is a scanner, reading my price tag from the brim of my hat to the soles of my wedges.
"Ivy," Brooks says.
He reaches back and grabs my hand.
I stifle a gasp. His hand is warm. Shockingly warm against the cool breeze coming off the ocean. His fingers lace through mine with a familiarity that feels unearned, pulling me up the steps and slotting me into his side like a missing puzzle piece.
"My fiancée," he finishes, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.
My pulse jumps.It's a physiological reaction, I tell myself. Startle response. Nothing more.
