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“The penthouse?” But I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Cole had the penthouse!
“Yep. I can’t wait to show you.” His eyes glittered as he pulled me close, and I could feel his muscles underneath the dress shirt. I also felt him stirring against me, and a little zip of excitement tickled up my spine. What did my billionaire have going on underneath that suit?
I had a feeling I was about to find out.
He hustled me over to the elevator. When the doors opened, two well-dressed women spilled out, both sinewy, wearing plain but well-cut, expensive-looking clothes and trendy eyeglasses that probably cost more than six months of my rent. I’d noticed a lot of the rich women in Boston wore clothes that were plain and conservative—i.e., boring—but still cost as much as a boat. I didn’t understand it, but then again, I wasn’t rich AF. So it didn’t have to make sense to me!
These women were obviously sisters, with similarly high cheekbones, shoulder-length brown hair, and pinched expressions. Cole tensed and nodded at them. He pulled me close to his side. Amari the valet might be his favorite, but these two were clearly not.
“Ladies, nice to see you,” Cole said, sounding insincere. “Jenny, these are my neighbors, the Windsor sisters. Florence and Greta.”
“Nice to see you, too,” the sisters murmured in unison. One wore navy blue, the other cream. They nodded at Cole, but their icy eyes were on me. Both women inspected me appraisingly, taking stock of my outfit, skin, and hair the way only females did. Good thing the sundress I’d chosen had a price tag of six hundred dollars! But it still wasn’t up to snuff, I could tell. The Windsors were not impressed. They were Boston proper and wicked rich—they wielded their huge Gucci totes like weapons, all the better to slay me with.
Did I say everyone I’d met was nice? I lied!
“And you are…? Jenny, did I hear?” the shorter sister, who wore navy, asked. She looked to be in her fifties, with a healthy dose of lip filler and meticulously groomed eyebrows.
She slid her designer glasses down and peered at me. She was probably calculating how much plastic surgery I’d had done (none), where I’d gone to prep school (I hadn’t), and how much my trust fund was (nonexistent).
“Yes—I’m Jenny. It’s nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand, and she just stared at it like maybe I had the plague and wasn’t safe to touch.
Finally, out of forced politeness, she limply shook my hand. “Jenny, it’s a pleasure. I’m Florence. It’s always nice to meet one of Cole’s friends.”
The way she said “friends” made it sound like a dirty word. I might not be wealthy or live in a mega-million condo on the harbor, but I wasn’t dumb. The dig was blatant: I was one “friend” of many, and Florence disapproved. Probably not of me, probably not of Cole.
I thrust out my chest and smiled anyway. “Right back atcha.”
A faint look of amusement passed over her sister’s face. She also eyed me up and down, and in a flash, I saw it: a light dawned in her eyes. She suspected I was an escort. This happened from time to time, and in my experience, it was always the women who guessed the truth.
Cole must bring dates here all the time, and usually, they were semi-famous. But I was just young and super hot, with jiggly boobs and big hair. I’d used the word “atcha”—if that was even a word. So either Cole had picked me up in a bar for an afternoon fling, or he’d gotten me through an agency, and she knew it.
Greta, who was wearing the cream-colored outfit, leaned closer. “Did you two meet recently? I haven’t seen you around here before, Jenny.”
“We’ve known each other for a while. Jenny’s my girlfriend,” Cole said protectively. “She’s staying with me for a few weeks. So you’ll be seeing a lot more of her.”
“Yourgirlfriend?” Greta’s eyeballs almost popped out.
“That’s right.” Cole smiled tightly. “I’m surprised you didn’t know since you’re so nosy. You two are always keeping such close tabs on me.”
Greta straightened her shoulders and sniffed. “I beg your pardon. We are not keeping tabs on you.”
“Really?” Cole arched an eyebrow. “How about last week when you called the police because I had a few friends on my roof deck?”
Florence’s nostrils flared. “You were having a party and blasting your music atthree a.m.on aweeknight.The responsible, hard-working people in this building deserve better than that!”
“First of all, it was Friday night,” Cole corrected her. “Second of all, you two are trust-fund babies who’ve never worked a day in your life. So I’m not sure what you’re crying about.”
Greta’s jaw dropped. “How dare you!”
“You called the cops on me at three a.m. I own the penthouse and the rooftop deck and pay triple the HOA fees that you do. It’s my property, and I intend to enjoy it—as I’m legally entitled to. So how dareyou.”
Any icy silence descended on our little group. The sisters looked furious.
Cole’s smile became genuine. “Ladies, I understand. You’re jealous that I have friends, a hot girlfriend, and also that my apartment cost nine million dollars and yours only cost six. Sosince you are so decent, and hard-working, and unhappy, I have advice for you:go someplace else.”
He swept me past them into the elevator. “See you around, ladies. Or, hopefully, not.”
Florence’s lips were pinched into a white line of fury. “I cannot believe how rude you are!”