Page 545 of Lessons in Cruelty

“Ooh, fancy. Red or white?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Kai calls after me as I open the door leading down into the wine cellar.

I pause at the top of the spiral staircase, waiting for the lights to flicker on below.

Any last doubt of the Jordans’s wealth evaporated the instant their beach house came into view.

Not only is it right on the beach, it has six bedrooms, all en-suite, two powder rooms, two living areas, a gigantic twelve-seat dining room table, three fireplaces…the list is as endless as the wine cellar.

All it took was Kai making a call, and by the time we got here, the fridge was stocked and the heating turned on. Vases brimming with fresh flowers stood in almost every room, and there was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket waiting on the kitchen counter.

Knowing he’d been living like this when I’d been sleeping in the backseat of a car made me so jealous I felt ill.

Until I saw the ocean.

If it weren’t so damn cold out there on the deck, I’d still be out there, watching the waves roll in.

We’ve already finished the champagne.

Our tipsy state had nothing to do with Kai declaring he was going to make me the best Wagyu steak I’d ever had.

Jokes on him. I’ve never had Wagyu.

When I spotted the price on the label of the package he pulled out of the fridge, I realized why. It cost more than I spend on food in a month.

I don’t know a thing about wine except I think I prefer white to red, but I still pretend to browse the racks like a connoisseur. I eventually find a bottle near the back that’s so dusty, I doubt anyone was going to drink it, anyway. I take it upstairs and uncork it while Kai tosses spaghetti into the boiling water.

“You add salt?”

“I know how to make spaghetti, Heavenly.”

“Out of a can, maybe.”

He grumbles something about me being ungrateful.

I pour us each a glass of wine, suppressing a smile when Kai casually grabs the salt and adds some to the water. He glances over his shoulder, but I pretend I’m too busy studying the wine bottle to watch him.

He walks over, leaning across to read the label. “Good choice.”

“Is it?” I look up at him, honestly curious.

His green eyes drop to his glass. “Fucked if I know,” he mutters.

I laugh as I bump my hip against his. “Idiot.”

There’s a touch of a smile on his mouth, but he smooths it into a line, affecting a serious expression as he holds out his glass.

“A toast.”

“To…?”

His mouth works for a second, gaze touching my mouth, my nose, the crease between my brows. Then he grins, rallying with a bright, “To your first real vacation!”

The realization that he’s right sticks in my throat like I swallowed something without chewing. How many vacations has he had since he left Riverside? Five? Ten? A hundred?

I bet he’s been more places than this beach house. Probably went to Europe, Asia…and other countries rich people visit when they’re bored and there’s too much money in their bank accounts.

And that’s it, isn’t it?