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“Yes.”
CHAPTER 16
Harrison
I was never actually goingto text Cara for a date. I would have if Ford agreed to go out on a double date, but he didn’t, because Ford never fakes anything.
He has feelings for Ivy and he isn’t going to pretend he doesn’t.
I’m a different story.
My house is on a golf course. Do I golf? No. I pretend to golf because everyone thinks I should want to golf.
Like just about everything in my life.
I pretend that I’m not lonely.
I pretend that I don’t worry that if I wasn’t gifted with the privilege of my family’s money, I wouldn’t be all that successful.
I pretend that it doesn’t bother me that people have treated me like a superficial playboy to the point that I’ve just allowed that perception to be real.
And I pretend that when I date I don’t hold back because I don’t trust that someone cares about me for me, and not for my money.
I’m pretending that I’m not in love with Liam.
That’s gotten under my skin and rubbed me raw.
I’m in love with Liam and I’ve been a total dick to him.
Using my phone, I unlock the gate to the private community I live in and drive down the winding streets, past the perfectly manicured mansions. When I first got access to my trust fund at twenty-one, I bought a beach house, but then I quickly realized that most of my neighbor’s houses were vacation properties and used as short-term rentals when they weren’t in residence. It never felt like a true neighborhood, so I turned my own into a rental and moved into this golf course community.
Which also doesn’t feel like a neighborhood because no one walks or bikes in it. Everyone stays in their own tricked out backyards and when they do venture out onto the streets, it’s in a golf cart zipping past the other houses with barely a wave in anyone else’s direction.
This isn’t what I want either.
That’s why I enjoy being at the restaurant—I like being around people. I love the hustle and bustle and the energy of both the staff and the people dining. Raw has become known as a place to celebrate milestones in life and the joy that surrounds birthdays, baby showers, retirements, and engagements is cool to watch. I like that we’re contributing to relationships.
Brad always likes to say food is love, but Brad is a bigger dick than me, so where the hell does that leave me and my understanding of life?
Alone.
That’s where it leaves me.
I pull my Porsche 911 into my three-car garage and enter the house through the mudroom.
When I first bought this house, I envisioned using this mudroom as storage for sports equipment but I keep the big items like my kayak and my clubs in the garage. This mudroom is like a mockery of my single life, with its individual locker-style cubbies. It’s meant for backpacks and beach bags and floppyhats and most of the hooks just stick out forlornly, serving no purpose.
I had said something to my family about the wasted space once and my father had grinned. “So get married,” was his response.
My grandfather wasn’t even remotely kind about it. “No one wants to hear your first world problems.”
“Sell the house,” my mother—who is a real estate agent—said. “The market is hot. You’ll make a twenty percent profit.”
In the end, I had taken my grandfather’s advice and made sure not to complain to anyone anymore. I am fortunate. I know that.
No one wants to hear the rich guy complain about being lonely, especially when he shoves everyone he meets away with jokes and unanswered texts.
Dumping my phone onto the charging pad in my kitchen, I turn and almost have a fucking heart attack. My housekeeper, Clarissa, is standing in the doorway with a mop in her hand.