“And white flowers!” Mitzy says. “But no lilies—they remind me of a funeral.”
Kennedy stamps her foot. “Mother!”
Mitzy makes a sound like a disgruntled hen. “Kennedy, really! What’s gotten into you? Is this any way for a bride to behave?”
“You’re not doing this! You don’t get to be in charge!”
“Lower your voice. All that yelling will make you break a blood vessel—and your complexion really can’t afford that.”
“We will make our own decisions, and you will have no say in the matter, Mother! If we want to get married in Tahiti, we will!”
Mitzy gives Kennedy an indifferent wave. “Yes, yes, that’s fine dear.” Then she turns toward my mother and asks her who designed Ivanka Trump’s wedding gown.
“In fact,” Kennedy hisses to no one, “that’s just what we’ll do. We’ll get married in Tahiti!” She bangs the table. “In a bar!”
“Is that a proposal? This is so sudden.” I squint as if I’m thinking it over, then nod. “I accept.”
“Naked!” Kennedy yells at her mother, wagging her finger. “And we won’t take any pictures!”
“If we’re going to be naked, we really should take a few pictures.” I insist. “Or a video.”
But our mothers just keep on chirping. Kennedy and I might as well not even be here anymore—which is the best fucking idea I’ve heard all night.
I stand up and grab her hand. “Come on.”
She doesn’t come willingly at first, so I tug her along.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she complains, gesturing back toward the parents, who don’t even notice we’ve left the room. They’re having too serious a discussion.
About us.
“No, it doesn’t bother me.”
“How can it not? How can they—”
I cut her off with a deep kiss—one hand holding the base of her neck, the other at the small of her back—pressing her against me. Then I tell her, “Let them have their fun. Let them talk and plan their hearts out. When the time comes, we’ll do whatever the hell we want anyway.”
I pull her toward the back door. “Now, let’s go for a walk. You can let me into your boathouse.”
“Is that a euphemism?”
I’m surprised she has to ask.
“Yep.”
17
My parents are on the boards of several charitable organizations, institutions, and societies whose goals are close to their hearts—feeding children in third-world countries, bestowing iPads to inner-city schools, protecting endangered plant life in the rain forest. Fund-raisers—high-end parties that drum up donations for those endowments—are par for the course. And sometimes my parents hit me up to stand in for them, to represent the Mason Foundation.
That’s how Kennedy and I end up walking through the arched doors of the Smithsonian Institute the following Thursday night, for a gala supporting the creation of sustained clean drinking water in Africa. The room is lit with cool, strategically placed orange beams of light and bright, festive swaths of cloth draped across the ceiling. There’s a steady roar of chatter and laughter and the tinkling of champagne glasses as tuxedo-clad gentlemen and jewel-dripping ladies enjoy themselves thoroughly.
Kennedy looks outstanding in a short, body-hugging ice-blue number with an off-the-shoulder neckline that gives the impression the dress could just slip off her at any moment. I’m going to test that theory later on. We have a drink and make small talk with the main organizer and emcee of the evening, Calvin Van Der Woodsen, an old acquaintance of my father’s.
After a few minutes, Calvin’s called away because the kitchen has run out of purple kale for the garnish. And that’s when my wretched cousin walks up to us.
“Hey again, cuz. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“Louis.” I nod.
And he leers. At Kennedy. “Who do we have here?”
“Kennedy Randolph, you remember my cousin Louis, don’t you?”
Her lips draw together like she’d sucked an unripe lemon. I take that as a yes.
“Randolph, huh? I used to hook up with your sister, back in the day. Claire . . .” Louis stresses the consonants in a sleazy kind of way. “You look like her. How’s she doing?”
Kennedy stares him down. “She’s married. Happily.”
“Too bad.” Then he points at me, spilling some of his scotch on the floor. “Speaking of marriage—from what I hear, I’m on my way to winning our bet.”
Shit. I forgot about that.
Kennedy goes pale, and I can practically feel her heart stutter.
“A bet?” she whispers.
“Yep.” Louis nods. “Thanks to you, Brent’s gonna owe me a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch.” He winks at her. “I’ll think of you every time I enjoy a glass.”
After he walks away, Kennedy turns her back on me. I lean in, hissing right against her ear. “Don’t do this—don’t you fucking dare. He was at the birthday party at my parents’ house, and he bet me that my mother would have me married by the end of the year. That’s it. So help me God, I’ll cut my other fucking leg off if I’m lying to you.”
I spin her around and her eyes are wide, uncertain. Looking for some reassurance that I’m not sure how to give.
“Do you believe me?”
She inhales slowly. “I want to. But . . . it’s hard.”
I curse under my breath. And wrap my hand around her arm.
“Let’s go.”
We pass Calvin on our way toward the door—I tell him Kennedy has a migraine and we won’t be able to stay for the rest of the evening. Outside, I spot Harrison parked down the street and motion to him with my hand. Then I get Kennedy in the backseat and press the button to raise the divider that separates us from the driver’s seat.
For a minute, the backseat is silent.
Then she says in a tiny voice, “Please don’t be angry with me.”
“Angry at you?” I bark out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m furious with my younger self—I want to go back in time and punch that kid in
the nuts. And I am livid with the guy who messed with your head in college. It’s taken everything I have not to find out where he is now, where he works, buy the company, and ruin him.” I cup her jaw and soften my voice. “But I would never be angry with you. Not about this.”
Her brows draw together. “Then why did we leave? Where are we go—”
“You don’t trust me. So we’re going back to my place, and I’m going to make love to you until you do.”
Great plan, right? I think so too.
Her eyes go golden with heat. “That . . . could take awhile.”
“Then it’s a good thing my stamina is unparalleled. We’re screwing until you trust me—or we starve to death—and that’s final.”
She sounds breathy. Excited. “Harrison would never let us starve.”
I wink. “Exactly.”
• • •
Two days later, Kennedy’s still at my house. As I pet her awake, she tells me if she has one more orgasm—even a little one—she’ll drop dead. So, I take pity on her and go for a run. When I get back, she’s curled up on the chaise longue in the living room, wearing a pair of my blue-and-white-checkered boxers and a Green Lantern T-shirt. Her soft hair falls over her shoulder as she turns the page in a brief and sips her coffee.
And warmth blooms in my chest and down my arms—making my fingertips tingle. With the rightness of it all. What did Waldo say about relationships? Satisfaction. Having her in my house, wearing my clothes—it’s so much more than satisfying. It’s fucking joyous. Exuberantly fulfilling in a way I can’t possibly describe.
I still want to live my life free—but I want to live it free with her.
Kennedy must feel me watching, because she peeks up. “Everything okay?”
I nod, slowly smiling. “Yeah—everything’s perfect.”
I kiss the top of her head as I walk past, heading up the steps to take a shower. When I walk out of the bathroom with the towel around my waist, I hear voices coming from downstairs. One definitely Kennedy’s, the other too deep to be Harrison. Still dripping, I walk down the stairs—and listen.
“. . . you know his family. But you need to understand that we’re his family too. Don’t fuck with his head.”
That’s Jake—talking to Kennedy in my living room. There’s no hint of a threat in his voice; he’d cut his tongue out before he’d ever threaten a woman. But he has this way of putting things that makes the simplest sentence sound like a warning.
“You think I could do that, Mr. Becker? Fuck with Brent’s head?” Kennedy sounds almost surprised.
“Watching the way he’s turned himself inside out over you the last few weeks—absolutely.”
There’s a pause, and I imagine the look on her face, her stance—the way her eyes probably narrow, her arms cross, and her hips cock—like when she’s in court, sizing up her adversary. “You’re very protective of him, aren’t you?”