Page 29 of My Favorite Lost Cause (The Favorites #2)

MAREN

I was Andrew’s hall pass, the one person he was allowed to step out of his marriage to sleep with should the opportunity present itself.

His wife told me. She’d thought it was funny. I’d pointed out that a hall pass was supposed to be someone famous, and she’d countered that I was relatively famous.

So I’m not all that surprised when Andrew texts a few hours after the Zoom call.

Andrew

Do you have time to get dinner after I see the house?

Of course. There really isn’t a lot in Oak Bluff, however.

I was thinking we could have dinner in Beaufort? I got a hotel room there, just for Friday. Heading out to Hilton Head the next day.

It doesn’t make much sense. Beaufort is farther from Oak Bluff than Hilton Head is. And it also places me with my subpar driving on dark country roads.

I’m actually not the best driver. Oak Bluff might be better.

I’m happy to drive you back if that’s the issue.

Internally, I groan. It’s been a few years, but I’ve played this game before. The one where it’s late and a guy wants you to come upstairs for a drink, and then he’s suggesting you could just stay over.

It’s never, ever as PG-rated as he makes it sound when he’s talking you into it. And you feel like an absolute shrew for insisting on being taken home when all you’re asking is that he stick to the damn plan.

But then again, this is Andrew, who I know.

Andrew, the exact guy I always thought I should have married in the first place.

It makes absolute sense that he wouldn’t want to eat in one of Oak Bluff’s two unappealing diners.

Even if I’m not entirely comfortable with it.

..this seems like the sort of thing I should do if I want my life to move forward.

This is not going to fly with Charlie, though I’m not entirely sure why he cares whether Andrew has ulterior motives for coming down here. Andrew’s a good guy. A more supportive sibling would be encouraging Andrew’s ulterior motives if they kept me away from Harvey.

You sure weren’t thinking of him as a sibling the other night, though, were you Maren?

“Shut up,” I warn my internal voice.

I don’t know what the hell that was in the kitchen. Maybe I’m lonely. Maybe it’s just been so long since someone touched me that I forgot who I was with. Maybe Margaret is infiltrating my thoughts until I don’t know which way is up .

All the more reason to go on a date with someone else.

“No,” Charlie says flatly over breakfast.

I’ve just informed him of the plan. It’s not even a plan I’m interested in necessarily, but that doesn’t mean Charlie gets to say no as if he’s in charge.

I set down my fork. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not going on a date with this guy just because he’s helping with the house. You’re sure as fuck not relying on him to get you home from Beaufort. We both know how that turns out.”

“Just because you play those tricks doesn’t mean everyone does, Charles.”

“I’m the only man you know who doesn’t have to resort to those tricks, Maren, but I assure you, that’s exactly what’s happening.”

He walks out without another word, leaving me to wash the plates by myself.

Sighing, I return to the cottage to get ready for my visit to Palmetto Reserve, the local country club: floral dress, curled hair, lots of makeup.

I carefully step onto the porch—the guys are working on the far end, but there are boards missing everywhere—and Charlie gives me a once-over. “What’s with the outfit?” he snarls. “Got another call with Andrew?”

I’m not one to fight in front of other people, but I don’t care who’s listening right now because this is nuts.

“What’s with the attitude?” I demand. “I’m pulling every string I can pull to fix this, and you’re kind of being a dick.”

“No one asked you to pull those strings,” he grunts.

I’m used to Charlie being a jerk to me in harmless, funny ways, but this isn’t harmless or funny.

And he’s doing it with an audience. The guys beside him cease hammering, watching the argument unfold, and Elijah, carrying planks of wood over his shoulder, freezes.

Great—every eye is on me as my anger turns into tears.

“I’m going to the country club,” I say, my voice rough, “because I’m trying to help. ”

I haven’t even reached the bottom of the stairs before Charlie’s there, extending a hand to help me down the last step.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, not releasing my hand. “And I would hug you right now but I’m filthy and you look beautiful. I appreciate it, Maren. I do. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Tell me you’re not mad.”

It sort of seems like you’re jealous .

It would do no good to say it aloud. “I’m not mad. But can you give it a rest with the Andrew stuff? He’s just trying to help.”

“No,” Charlie says, pressing his lips to my forehead, “because I still think Andrew’s a worthless dick.”

I want to cry, but I also sort of want to laugh as I climb in the car.

I drive through Oak Bluff and then another two miles to Palmetto Reserve, with its stately white mansion, rolling golf course, and ten glorious tennis courts occupied by blonde women with lots of Botox.

I’m taken on a tour of the facility by Kara, the membership director, who is vaguely aware of my career but particularly aware of my mother’s—for better or for worse.

“Is it true that she dated Shepherd Lawrence?” she asks.

I wince. My mother is very diligent when it comes to her weight, but less diligent about not fucking other people’s husbands. Yes, it’s true, but I’m fairly certain Shepherd Lawrence was a newlywed when it took place.

“I really don’t know,” I tell her. “She’s been with my stepfather for so long. I barely remember who came before him. ”

“Do you think your mother would have any interest in joining?” she asks.

Would the members consider that a boon or a liability? Would they love having a famous supermodel as a member, or would they deem it tawdry ?

Both, I suspect.

“I’m sure she’ll come down to visit—as well as my father.”

She bites her lip. “Your father? Is that Jacob Duncan?”

No, Jacob Duncan was the rock star boyfriend who gave my mom a black eye, the guy Kit ended up fighting off with a golf club. He came before the boyfriend who stole a hundred grand of my mom’s money, but after the boyfriend who said I could have his Porsche if I let him spank me.

I shake my head. “My biological father is Yves Marchand, the artist? But I was adopted by Henry Fisher. You know, Fisher Harris Media?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. There is nothingtawdry about having a billionaire who owns half the magazines in the country on your membership rolls.

“Oh, I had no idea,” she says. “You know, we’re having a big summer dance next Thursday. It might be a good chance for you to get to know our members.”

It also might be a good chance for me to make the contacts I need and bypass joining this club entirely—which is the reason I nod enthusiastically.

It has nothing, nothing , to do with wanting to attend a dance with Charlie.

The invitation she sends me home with is as heavy as a thin book and incredibly fancy.

Charlie is still working on the porch when I pull up, on his knees, muscles flexed as he hammers in a four-by-four. I’m grinning as I make my way over to him, unable to help myself.

He raises a brow. “You’re too excited, Maren,” he says, holding a nail between his lips. “That never bodes well. ”

“We got an invitation to a ball!” I cry, too excited to contain my glee. “And it’s Bridgerton themed and being held in someone’s mansion.”

He sets the hammer down and removes the nail. “This is getting better and better,” he says dryly.

“We’re saying yes, right?”

He moves a two-by-four and sets it in front of him. “As if you were ever going to let me decide.”

That is accurate, because I was not. “I’d have allowed you to weigh in if you had some vital information to share. If there’d been a bunch of murders there, maybe. Or if it was haunted.”

He grins. “Maren, we both know that would just make you want to go more.”

I laugh. That’s also totally correct.

It’s funny how well he knows me. And how much I like being known.