1
Prim
I can’t tell if Samuel is a terrible driver or if he’s on drugs. I’ve heard rumors from other girls that he dabbles and right now, it seems that those rumors are true because ever since we left my parents’ home ten minutes ago, his car hasn’t stopped swerving on the road. My knuckles are white as I hold onto the grab bar for dear life, hoping that we don’t end up in a ten-car pile-up.
This entire night was a bad idea. I barely know Samuel except to occasionally say hi when our parents are at the country club together. But that’s the problem about this entire scenario: our parents.
After all, Victoria and Malcolm want me to marry someone from their social circle. They think that the best thing for a woman from a good family is to marry someone wealthy, and of course the Colemans have money coming out of their wazoos. They’re in the sugar business and I heard that they have terrible labor practices where their employees are concerned, but do my parents care? No. All that matters is that Samuel has an enormous trust fund, and that’s what Victoria and Malcolm want for me.
On the outside, of course, Samuel seems like he’s the whole package. He’s Harvard-educated and dashingly good looking with a thick mop of chestnut hair and green eyes. Unfortunately, instead of a sparkling gaze, his eyes are usually a dull color from a haze of non-stop partying and copious drugs. Like right now for instance. Samuel looks positively out of it. His pupils are oddly dilated, and I wonder if I should step in.
“Samuel?” I ask tentatively. “Do you want me to drive?”
He jerks himself upright, blinking as the road whooshes by.
“No of course not! I’m a great driver. Hold tight, sugar buns, we’ll be there soon.”
Ugh, what a terrible nickname, but I grit my teeth and stay silent. Then, Samuel looks at me and leers before gripping my knee in a hard pinch. I want to scream ‘look at the road, moron!’ but I smile back tightly instead. After all, my life is at stake here and I want to get to the restaurant in one piece.
Finally, the Ferrari pulls up to the curb and my heart rate slows a bit as the young man gets out, tossing his keys to the valet. Lalita is one of my favorite restaurants in New York City, with its elegant yet intimate décor and scrumptious food. I have no idea how my date got a table here, since they book reservations three months out, but it was probably through his family connections.
But the boy doesn’t even bother to wait for me on the sidewalk. Instead, he merely strolls to the front door by himself and taps his foot as the valet scrambles to give me a hand. Then, I ascend a few stairs with my purse clutched under one arm as Sam holds the door open. I guess he was gentlemanly enough to do that at least.
“Come on Prim, I’m hungry,” he says in a slightly grumpy voice. “Took you long enough.”
I bite my lip and choose not to say anything, although I want to point out that I’m wearing high heels on this date to look good for him. Clearly, this meal can’t be over soon enough. But once we’re seated at a prime table in the back, my date begins talking. And talking. And talking, without giving me a break to chime in. Samuel starts with his job.
“So, I told him to come back to me with a reasonable offer next time and then I ended the call.” The young man shakes his head back and forth, then wipes his dripping nose with a handkerchief. He shoots me a look of disbelief. “These are the kind of idiots I have to deal with every day. Can you believe it? They should pay me triple what I’m currently making.”
“So you don’t like your job?” I ask in a careful tone. Obviously, I’m not interested in whether he likes his job or not, I’m just trying to make conversation. He shrugs and makes a face.
“No, it’s fine but it’s just aggravating. What about you, Prim? Do you work, or do Mommy and Daddy pay for everything?”
I open my mouth to snap back at him, but my date doesn’t let me get a word in. Instead, Samuel merely starts talking again while wiping at his nose once more.
“I’ve been looking at apartments in the city lately. Only losers rent and I want to buy. Plus, I want to be closer to work and you know they just built that new building on Billionaires Row. I’ve narrowed it down to three potentials so far, but I’m taking my time.”
“Waiting for your wife to help make that decision?” I ask in a dry voice. I hope he doesn’t misinterpret my sarcasm because who would consent to marrying this loser?