Page 73 of Filthy Rich

“It still fits,” I said lamely. “Can you believe it?”

“I’m downstairs, depressed that I can’t audition for my play, and you’re up here frolicking around in the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen?” Her lip curled. “Why would you uncover the mirror? You’re the only person in this house who’s not forced to—” Her nostrils flared, and her mouth snapped shut.

Forced to look at me? It had to be what she was going to say. That was the moment I realized how horribly ugly I was. My own mother wished she didn’t have to look at me. When she left, I tore that dress off and stuffed it in the trash can. The shoes were heavy enough to keep it tamped down. I stuffed all my toys back into the box and never donated a single one. In fact, I never opened that box again.

So when we land in La Guardia, I check the weather on my phone to see if it’s a snow day. They’re rare this early, but not unheard of. Thankfully, it’s fifty-eight degrees—a lovely fall evening in New York. No snow. No delays.

“You excited to sleep in your own bed tonight?” Bea asks.

I shrug.

“I am,” Jake says. “If you’re indifferent to your place, you could always come back with me.” He winks.

My heart races, but not in a good way. It occurred to me last night, as Jake was kissing me good night in front of my hotel room, that if things keep going well, one day he’ll want to see me as bare as I was in that dressing room. He’ll want to touch my shoulder.

The whole idea makes me sick.

“I’m kidding.” Jake’s brow furrows. “I’m not in a hurry.”

“It’s refreshing, really,” Bea says. “To meet a girl who’s not tripping him with her six-inch platform heels and trying to dump him into bed.” She snorts. “Bunch of tramps, in and out of our place like?—”

Jake kicks her.

“Make him buy new sheets first,” Bea says. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Eww,” I say. “Just, ew.” I grab my bag and hustle out of the plane before the people behind us get any ideas.

Not that there are many. We’re in first class, thanks to Jake’s face. They upgraded all three of us the second we checked in together. They said it was to keep anyone from bothering him, but I think it was because the flight attendant liked him and he insisted we all had to sit together.

The flight attendant in question’s snapping photos of her and Jake as I wheel past. There are definitely some obnoxious things about dating a famous person. Jake catches up with me about two minutes later, taking my bag off my shoulder and slinging it over his.

“Why were you in such a rush?”

I shrug.

“I’m driving you home,” he says. “I had someone from my agency drop off my car.”

“What about me?” Bea asks.

“Please,” Jake says. “As if lover boy isn’t waiting at the exit with a rose clenched between his teeth.”

I can’t help my snort. But then, as we turn the corner past baggage claim, Easton’s literally standing there with a goofy grin and a bouquet of red roses. None of the flowers are clenched between his teeth, but I swear, Jake was pretty darn close.

“See?” Jake hisses. “Pathetic.”

“At least my boyfriend wants to sleep over.” Bea lobs that one over her shoulder as she jogs toward Easton.

“Ouch,” Jake says.

I drop a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not you,” I say. “Trust me. You are—I definitely—” I cough. “This isn’t coming out right.”

He slides his free hand through mine. “You don’t need to explain. At some point, it’ll feel right, and trust me. It will be right.” His sly smile’s adorable.

When we walk outside, I don’t expect his ridiculous sports car to literally be waiting outside in the car-pickup line. A man hops out of the driver’s side and hands him the keys. “Pickup on Sunday?”

Jake nods. “Thanks.” He hands him something, and then he’s loading my bag—thank goodness it’s small—into the tiny trunk of his electric blue Nissan Z.

“Who was that guy, and what did you give him?” I ask, once he’s pulling out into traffic.