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My grin widens, and it’s not lost on me that eyes are on us. No one knows who she is.
Carlee chews on the corner of her lip as she glances at me.
I’m so fucking happy that the night isn’t ending that I can barely contain myself.
8
CARLEE
Too many wandering eyes watchhimwatchingme.His gaze follows my every move. I keep my head down and focus on the sidewalk as we part ways. Cameras take snapshots of everyone leaving Ambrosia, just in case they can expose something later.
I’m aware pictures of me and Weston will be released eventually.
I understand how the gossip life works and navigate it as cautiously as possible. Too many rumors swarm around Weston, and he pretends it doesn’t bother him. The truth is, it does when what’s being said are blatant lies.
He’s one of the few men at his level who can handle the truth being told about him, whether it’s beneficial to his image and ego or not. It’s why he’s never faulted me for what I wrote about him. My words were his reality.
I slide into the car, careful not to glance over as his sleek SUV pulls away.
Those little flutters in my stomach morph into a roaring desire, and I know I should ask his driver to take me home. It’s the proper thing to do, considering I unapologetically make moves on him when I’ve had too much to drink, and my inhibitions aredown. This song and dance—it’s a classic, one we both know by heart.
When alcohol mixes with my blood, I swear on unholy things that Weston Calloway desperatelywantsme. It’s a heady fantasy that I remind myself of constantly, nothing more.
I’m nearly giddy from the thoughts of him, and a hiccup releases from my throat. It’s a telltale sign that the five—or was it six?—martinis might’ve been too much.
The world outside my window blurs, and each stoplight stretches on for an eternity. The lingering taste of gin and vermouth dances on my tongue. I close my eyes and drift off, letting the hum of the city wash over me.
When the car door gently opens, I jolt awake and laugh at my ridiculousness. I forget where I am until I glance up at The Park building.
“Apologies,” Weston’s driver says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Totally my fault. Thank you,” I reply as I step out.
Twenty-five minutes slipped by without me noticing, but I needed that power nap. Maybe now my head will be clearer.
I glance around the perimeter of the building that stretches across several city blocks as I search for the reflection of ambient light against long camera lenses. Paps being here isn’t out of the realm of possibilities. They snapped several shots of Lexi with Easton in this very spot.
The public knows I’m Lexi’s best friend and that she lives here.
If someone photographed me right now, most would assume I’m visiting her because we hang out weekly. In the articles that have mentioned me, I’m described as her longtime best friend from college. My full name is rarely used, and I’m happy to be an embellishment in her life.
I enter The Park with a pep in my step, knowing it’s safe inside. Too many influential people own penthouses in this building, and privacy is required. It’s on Billionaires’ Row for a reason—they’re the only ones who can afford it.
The lobby buzzes with activity, typical for a Saturday night, and I feel like I’m floating. A group of women brush past me, and one pauses, backing up to meet my eyes.
“Valentino?” she asks, tucking her dark brown hair behind her ears, her enthusiasm noticeable. “Love that style. Crepe Couture, I believe.”
“Yes,” I reply, grinning.
She looks familiar, but her name escapes me, like the final note of a song just out of reach. It will come to me.
“Excellent choice. It looks stunning on you.” Her voice is bright, and she smiles.
“Thanks.”
She strides toward the front door, and the sharp click of her heels echoes against the marble floor as she meets up with her friends.
I linger beside a tall potted plant by the elevators, my thoughts spiraling around Weston’s date tonight. The way he interacted with Naomi was more Easton-coded than he realizes.