CHAPTER FIFTEEN ARSÈNE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ARSèNE

Tonight I’m expected to be the last thing I want to be—a respected, civilized part of polite society.

Arya Roth-Miller is throwing her annual charity ball. It’s for a good cause—Saint John’s Children’s Hospital—something that, in itself, would not make me leave the house in a million years.

No. I’m here because the pain in the neck she refers to as her husband used every tool in his arsenal to ensure my presence.

The general idea is to make a fat donation, take a few photos with people whose names I will forget before they even utter them to me, and go back to my apartment to read an astronomy book and eat leftover takeout.

I spent the afternoon hitting the bottle, pregaming before the ball. There’s nothing I like less than having to tolerate people I don’t know for long stretches of time sober.

“Arsène, you look amazing in that tux!” Arya pounces on me as soon as I walk through the door of the Pierre hotel’s grand ballroom. It’s an exquisite space, with dripping chandeliers and enough curtains to conceal New Zealand in its entirety. Grace would’ve loved it.

“I know.” I kiss both her cheeks.

Christian appears beside her, snaking an arm around his wife’s waist. “Return the compliment, you swine.”

“Arya.” I take my best friend’s wife’s hand, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “You’ll look amazing in my tux too.”

Arya, who is wearing a pastel dress, laughs, swatting my chest. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

“You like me because I’m direct, and fun, and I keep your husband on his toes,” I supply.

“Don’t forget humble. One of my favorite things about you. Well, enjoy.”

“He’d never enjoy something as wholesome and uplifting as a charity ball.” Christian shakes his head, but his wife is already swaggering away, approaching the guests trickling into the room.

He hands me a glass of champagne. “I know humans aren’t your thing. You surviving?”

I down the entire thing like it is water, then toss the glass onto a tray held by a waiter who’s passing by. “Just barely. But I’ll do better after five more of these.”

“Drinking away your problems is such a fucking cliché.”

“Away?” There’s already another glass in my hand. I smile wryly. “I can assure you, Christian, my problems can outrun Usain Bolt. No part of me is dumb enough to think I can escape them.”

“Then why the shit are you drinking?” A hand claps my back. It’s Riggs. I turn around to look at him. I find him in a tux that doesn’t suggest it’s been stolen from Salvation Army—a welcome improvement from his usual attire—and a tan he must’ve gotten in Antarctica. There’s a pretty redhead on his arm.

“Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to—” Riggs is about to tell us the name of his date—if he even remembers it. I wave him off.

“Spare me. If I allowed room in my mind for all the women you introduced to us, I’d need more cloud storage.”

Christian half winces, half chuckles. “My apologies.” He turns to the scarlet-haired beauty. “Our friend Arsène is frequently blunt, but rarely wrong.”

Riggs punches my arm. “What crawled up your ass, Corbin?”

“Grace,” Christian answers on my behalf. “Who else would be foul enough to get anywhere near his private parts?”

Ah, Grace.Even in death, she is their public enemy number one. And that’s without them even knowing anything about the Paul bullshit. I haven’t said a word about my late fiancée’s affair. I didn’t need to look pathetic on top of being an unlucky, grieving bastard.

“Just to keep you informed.” Riggs turns to her. “Christian just threw a dig at this asshole’s dead fiancée. We don’t do boundaries here.”

She sucks in a breath, looking at Christian with abhorrence.

“Don’t pretend like you’d fare better if something happened to Arya,” I murmur into my drink.

Christian gives me a pitiful look. “No, I’d die right along with her. With one distinction—Arya never tried to kill her stepbro—”

“I really do insist you meet my enchanting date.” Riggs pivots the conversation before a fistfight ensues.

Christian introduces himself to Riggs’s date. The two are locked in polite conversation after he explains to her that no one liked my fiancée very much. My gaze drifts unenthusiastically to the other people in the room. I finish the second glass of champagne and reach for a third. Galas and balls were Grace’s favorite thing. This is the first time I’ve attended an official function as a single man.

The newness of crawling back into the world without her on my arm feels like carrying a three-ton phantom limb. More specifically, the idea that Grace is no longer the endgame. The trophy. The ultimate prize.

In the sea of blow-dried dos and painted faces, I find one that I recognize.

A mass of strawberry blonde hair arranged in a high, unfashionable ponytail. I can tell it’s her even when her back is to me. She is wearing a spaghetti-strapped flowery dress to a goddamn gala and still manages to steal the entire show. Her neck is long and elegant, swanlike even, and seems just as fragile.

As if sensing my gaze on her, she turns around. Her face is wide, open, smiling. She is radiant, and I remember the last time we met, when she almost gave Cory a heart attack and nearly annihilated me in billiards. She also drank like an Irish sailor, defended that idiotic late husband of hers, and exhibited general adorableness I couldn’t decide whether revolted or amused me.

She also took interest in my astronomy obsession. Nobody else ever did. Which is the only reason why I’m not completely disgusted by seeing her here.

I lean back against the wall, watching her laughing and talking animatedly with a crowd of eager-looking men. She is significantly underdressed, but a genuine smile is a jewel more priceless than any diamond necklace one could purchase.

Riggs, naturally attuned to anything with a pair of tits, follows my gaze and hmms in agreement. “Our boy is showing signs of life. Can’t blame him, though.” Riggs grins into his drink. “Those legs would look great wrapped around my neck.”

“Winnifred Ashcroft,” Riggs’s date provides readily, glad to be of use. “She’s an actress. Came here with her agent. Well, our agent,” she amends, a brittle bite in her voice. “Chrissy has her favorites, obviously.”

I’m not particularly unhappy to see Winnifred here. I am, however, considerably drunk, which means now’s not the time to talk to her. She is not as easily maneuvered as she seems, and I still haven’t squeezed all the information I need from her.

Turning back into my group of friends, I say, “I’m heading back home.”

“Not before Arya makes a speech.” Christian moves in front of me to block my way. “She worked really hard putting together this event.”

“I don’t think you understand.” I smooth my tux. “This wasn’t a request, but a stated fact.”

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite boss,” a sweet southern drawl greets me from behind.

“Boss?” Christian asks in surprise, peering behind my shoulder. “Arya’s not gonna love that.”

“You must have the wrong person, sweetheart.” Riggs flashes Winnifred a smile, clapping my shoulder. “This man right here can’t be anyone’s favorite anything. He’s about as lovable as a juicy, pus-filled zit.”

“Thanks for the image.” I shake his touch off, turning around to face her.

“Hey, Winnie.” The redhead air-kisses Winnifred.

“Hey, Tiff! Heard you killed it in that romcom pilot.” My employee gives her a warm hug. Her need to be cute and selfless grates on my nerves. She turns her attention back to me. “Didn’t know you were the philanthropic kind.”

“He isn’t.” Christian tucks a hand into his front pocket. “I dragged him here kicking and screaming.”

“Don’t forget the wailing,” I deadpan. “I was inconsolable.”

Despite being an annoying Goody Two-shoes, she doesn’t look horrid in her simple dress and ponytail. The realization is unwelcome and alarming. I don’t even like blondes. This must be Mother Nature’s way of telling me it is time to stick my dick somewhere wet and warm. It’s been almost a year, after all.

“Arsène?” Winnifred frowns. “Everything okay?”

I haven’t acknowledged her existence in the two minutes she’s been standing here. Oops.

I clasp the small of her back, brushing my lips against her cheek noncommittally. “Winnifred, would it be improper to tell you that you look beautiful?”

“No, which is why you wouldn’t do it.”

I laugh. The most surprising thing about this boring, one-dimensional, cookie-making blonde is that she possesses wit. Or something that resembles it, anyway.

She studies me intently, like a concerned parent. “Are you .?.?. okay?”

“Never better.”

I’m waiting for her to leave. I’m drunk, tired, and not in the mood to milk information out of her.

“You sure you don’t want me to call you a taxi?” She frowns.

And she would. Little Miss?Sunshine.

“Positive, but thank you.”

“Well .?.?.” She lingers. “Enjoy your night.”

“I intend to.”

When she leaves, both Christian and Riggs look at me, openly aghast.

“I’ve never seen you like this.” Riggs’s smile is slow and taunting.

“Like what?”

“A teenager ushered into the ER with his ball sack stuck between his girlfriend’s metal braces,” Christian articulates poetically. “You looked flushed. Uncomfortable. Dare I say it? Embarrassed.”

“Mortified.” Riggs knocks back a drink. “He blushed. I saw him. Did you see him blush, Tiff?”

“Yes!” Tiff, grateful to be more than a decorative ornament at this point, joins my two friends eagerly. “His face is all red. That’s so sweet. Winnie’s a great gal.”

I’ve managed to get through an entire week without cornering Winnifred at Calypso Hall for more information. The rented Paris apartment was a big revelation. What else does she know? What else did she miss?

Bringing her back to New Amsterdam is a big no. She assaulted Cory. The man had to get two stitches, which I generously paid for to keep his mouth shut. I bet it was her first brush with doing something less than perfect, and I take pleasure in knowing I corrupted her, even if just a bit.

“I didn’t blush,” I say shortly.

“Yes, you did. You’re going to have to explain the last five minutes to us,” Christian announces.

“Nothing to explain. She works at Calypso Hall,” I say.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Arya moving in our direction at rapid speed. Time to wrap up this little girl talk.

“And, for your information, even if I wasn’t still mourning the untimely death of my fiancée, pursuing an employee is tacky and frowned upon.”

“I’m getting weird vibes.” Riggs licks the ball of his index finger and raises it in the air, closing his eyes. “Yup, there it is. There are horny winds coming from the east.”

I stand to the moron’s east.

“Even if there are hurricanes of horniness, I demand you don’t act on them.” The voice belongs to Arya.

I turn around, studying her. “I don’t like to be ordered around. What’s your angle?”

“That girl is an angel on earth. She visits the children at Saint John’s hospital once a week. Dresses up as a fairy and paints their faces. They love it. They love her,” she says desperately. “And I love her! She’s a widow, you know. She knows what pain is. I don’t want her to get hurt again.”

So she heard, but she doesn’t know how it happened. Good job, Winnifred, on keeping our shit private and not letting people put two and two together.

Christian watches Winnifred as she makes her way back to who I assume is her agent. “Met the girl before. She seems kind, talented, and attractive. Don’t worry, my love. Arsène doesn’t stand a chance even if he tried.”

“Money talks,” Riggs points out. “And our boy has plenty of it.”

“She doesn’t care about money.” Tiff, his date, reminds us of her underwhelming existence. “She was married to someone super rich and signed a really shitty prenup or whatever. Then when he died, he left her with pretty much nothing. She’s been doing odd jobs to make ends meet.”

Collective murmurs fill the air. My eyes follow Winnifred. Is this true? Was she really left with nothing? Knowing what I know about her late husband, I wouldn’t put it past him. And she’s naive enough not to protect herself.

“Anyway, she’s off limits.” Arya snaps her fingers in front of my eyes, trying to catch my attention. “Got it?”

“My apologies, Arya. I must’ve given you the false impression I give two craps about what people think.” I flash her a sincere smile. “Once I make up my mind about a woman, no one can save her. Not even God.”

I walk off, leaving my cluster of friends behind. I drift toward the outdoor balcony. This room is too crowded, too hot, too pretentious. The night breeze hits my face. I splay my fingers over the wide, blond-bricked banister. When I look down to Fifth Avenue, the people below appear as ant-like dots. Tightroping the banister is the last thing my drunk self should be doing.

Then again .?.?. what’s to lose here?

I’ve no mother, no father, no fiancée. As Riggs pointed out charitably, I’m not exactly the most lovable person in this zip code. There is nothing to tie me down to this universe, and I’m starting to suspect this is precisely the reason why people take mortgages, pop out kids, make commitments—so that suicide wouldn’t be a valid option when things are in the shitters.

Not that I’m contemplating suicide. This banister is wide and not very long. I can do it.

Just one time, for old times’ sake.Grace’s voice is throaty and tempting in my head. Even beyond the grave, she entices me to do the wrong thing.

Glancing behind my shoulder, I make sure the coast is clear. It’s just me outside. I hop on the banister, righting myself until I stand up straight across the surface. I don’t look down.

The first step is solid. The second makes me feel alive. I spread my arms in the air, like Grace and I used to do when we were kids. I close my eyes.

“Time me,” I mouth.

And I can hear her in my mind answering. Three. Two. One. Go!

I take another step, and then another. I’m almost at the end. One more step .?.?. and my foot doesn’t land the hard surface this time. It’s all air beneath it. I sway. Lose my balance. Tip to the left. It all happens fast. The memory of Grace falling slams into me again.

The tears. The pleas. The silence.

I’m going to be pancaked to the street in a few seconds.

You shouldn’t have done that, idiot.

I’m falling.

Out of nowhere, sharp, desperate claws sink into my right arm. They rip at my suit, pulling me back into safety.

My body slams against a hard surface. The balcony’s floor. I’m a jumbled mess of limbs. Not all of them mine. Some of them small and lean and hot and all foreign flesh.

Count your blessings, asshole. You aren’t dead.

I open my eyes, rolling onto my back. I prop myself on my elbows, looking to see who my savior is.

A cherubic face shoves itself into my line of sight. Familiar and angelic and absolutely, beyond any doubt, pissed.

“Now you’ve really done it, you conceited fool!” Winnifred growls, balling my bow tie in her hand, shaking a fist to my face. “What the heck were you thinkin’? What’d have happened if I weren’t here? I’ve no words to describe you!”

She is standing above me, her face as red as a ripe tomato, her eyes so big I can see my reflection in them.

“You don’t?” I ask casually, lounging on the ground as if it’s the most comfortable spot in the building. “Well, here are some useful suggestions: idiot, moron, drunkard, imbecile, reckless asshole—technically, that’s two words, but—”

She tries to slap me. I catch her wrist effortlessly, stopping her from doing so. Drunk or not, my instincts rarely fail. I stand up, her delicate wrist still captured between my fingers. She stares at me with undiluted hatred. It shines from her sapphire eyes. I find it disturbing that I can’t hate her as properly and thoroughly as I should. She is a simpleton. An anecdote in my life. Nothing more.

“I’m sure you’ll find a good reason to slap me in due time, but that time hasn’t arrived just yet. You were saying?” I smile cordially when we are both standing in front of one another.

She shakes out of my touch, jerking her hand back.

“You’re a bastard!” she spits out in my face. “Tell me what you were thinking. Have you had these thoughts long? No one just gets up on a banister like that. In the dark too! When I saw you through the window, I thought .?.?.”

She fires venom and wrath at me with her words, her voice drifting into one ear, exiting the other. I’m not suicidal. Tanked up? Sure, but nowhere near the realms of self-harm. Nonetheless, Winnifred succeeded in saving me, whereas I failed in saving Grace. Twice.

My eyes are still focused on her lips. Pink, narrow, and luscious. She is impossibly sweet. That combination between virtue and rage is downright sinful. They don’t make ’em like this anymore. Especially in Manhattan. My mind may be slow, but my senses are sharp, and I know an opportunity when I see one.

My lips crash against hers clumsily. I cup the back of her head and draw her to myself. Arya’s warning is a distant memory. So is Calypso Hall, and the fact that we are both in love with other people, and that those people are dead. Reality ceases to exist, and the only thing I’m focused on is the person in front of me.

She is soft and sugary and different. So different I cannot close my eyes and imagine she is Grace, like I want to. There’s not a hint of alcohol on her breath. No bitter bite of an overpowering perfume. She is all toffee apples and lazy Tennessee summer nights. She is church bells and sweet tea and Moon Pies.

The very thing I frown upon.

Our tongues dance together. She fists the lapels of my tuxedo like I might run away. I’m not going anywhere. I want to pick her up and take her to my apartment and fuck her senseless. I want that girl who ate a peach like she was a forbidden Lolita under the Italian Riviera’s sun, oozing reckless sexuality.

Reckless sexuality.Jesus. Who am I? I need to screw this woman out of my system, ASAP.

My thumbs are on her cheeks, under her lashes, as I deepen the kiss, crowd her until her back is flat against the wall .?.?.

Winnifred rips her mouth from mine the minute her exposed back touches the concrete. Breathless, she raises her hand and slaps me. This time, my right cheek flies sideways. It stings like a motherfucker. I rub my palm along my cheek, smiling.

“You darn well earned this one,” she hisses.

I bow my head. “When you’re right, you’re right, Bumpkin. Back to your words from a few minutes ago—I’m not suicidal. I am, however, shitfaced, which could explain why I overstepped the line.”

“Overstepped?” she chokes out in anger. “You pissed all over the thing!”

I laugh but take a step back regardless. Sexual predator is not a look I’d like to try. “You kissed me back.”

“I did no such thing!” She blushes guiltily. Oops. This is the second time I drag Winnifred out of her perfect Stepford Wife comfort zone.

“What annoyed you about my existence this time?” I inquire pleasantly. “And please spare me any claims you didn’t enjoy it. Your toes curled in your sandals, and I felt the goose bumps all over your skin.”

Her eyes narrow as she tries to figure out where and how to aim her next verbal blow. We’re playing a game here. But unlike my games with Grace, this one is competitive without being hostile. We both want to win, but no part of me is worried she is capable of poisoning or killing me in the process. Most important of all, we share the same endgame—we both want to know more about the lovers who left us behind.

“You know.” She smiles sweetly, reaching to dust off my blazer. “I forgot to mention at the New Amsterdam that I have a room full of Paul’s belongings that I haven’t opened yet. He asked me to never set foot in it, before he passed away. Wonder how many Grace-related things we could find there?” She looks up at me with her bluebonnet eyes. “The options are limitless.”

My grip on her waist tightens. I don’t stop to think why the fuck I’m holding this annoying woman in the first place. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

“My bad, was I supposed to be on your timeline, Mr.?Big Brain?” She catches my hands, rips them from her waist, turns around, and walks away midconversation. I follow her. She opens the door to stroll back into the buzzing room. I’m on her heel, transfixed. She slides gracefully between dancers. I shove and elbow my way to keep up with her. We’re a hungry cat and a very smart mouse.

Fifteen seconds later, we’re out of the ballroom. Winnifred calls the elevator and pivots in my direction.

“Why astronomy?” she demands.

“Why ast .?.?.??” I stand between her and the closed doors of the elevator, confused. “Do not change the subject. Tell me more about the room.”

She shrugs. “I’ll do whatever I want. You’re the one at a point of disadvantage here.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“Because you want to know more about what happened with Grace and Paul, whereas I’m terrified of the truth.”

I don’t really believe her. I think she is just as fascinated with what happened between our lovers. But calling her out won’t change her stance.

“How’d you figure I’m into astronomy in the first place?” I turn the conversation back to her. I forgot to ask back at the New Amsterdam.

“There’s always an astronomy book tucked under your arm. There was one in Italy, when you were on the balcony, and one the first time you came to Calypso Hall. It’s almost like your anchor. It grounds you, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not a security blanket.” I scoff.

“I think it is.” She arches an eyebrow.

“Luckily you’re not paid to think, but to recite lines better thinkers have written.”

“Spare me.” She raises a hand. “If you thought I was this stupid, you wouldn’t giggle like a schoolgirl every time I made a joke. Now tell me about your fascination with astronomy.”

She is not going to let it go. I might as well throw her a bone.

“Astronomy is physics, and physics is absolute. It is factual, and therefore real. Some people turn to God for answers. I turn to science. I like the mystery of the cosmos. And I like to unravel it. Think about it this way—the Earth will explode in about seven billion years. By this time, most life on it will probably be extinct. Whoever is unfortunate enough to survive will have to watch their own demise as the sun absorbs the Earth, after we enter the red giant phase and expand beyond our current orbit. At this stage, it would be nice to have a plan B in place. No doubt neither of us will be here to execute it, but to think you and I could be a part of the solution—that excites me.”

And that’s when I realize no one’s ever asked me about my love for astronomy before. Grace treated my books, my degree, my passion, as if they were no more than a plastic houseplant. Riggs and Christian largely ignore it. Dad never understood the fascination—he never understood anything that couldn’t make him more money.

Winnifred actually cares.

The elevator slides open. We both walk inside. I have no idea where we’re going. Actually, I have no idea where she is going. This woman is not going to let me tag along, wherever she’s headed.

“So why did you opt for hedge funds? Why not NASA?” She studies me.

“I knew from a very small age that I’d inherit the Corbin fortune and portfolio. In order not to shit all over the family legacy, I needed to work in finance.”

“Do you care about your family legacy?”

“Not particularly,” I admit. “See, we Corbins have a curse. Two curses, to be exact. One of them is we always try to outperform the last person we inherited the empire from.”

“So you want to be better than your dad, even though he’s not here to witness it. Gotcha. Makes a lot of sense. And what’s the other one?” She tilts her head sideways.

Smirking, I lean back against the mirror. “We always fall for the wrong girl. In fact, all of the last seven generations of men in my family ended up divorcing their wives.”

“That’s really sad.”

“I could think of sadder things to torture your mind with.”

“I’m sure you can.” She smiles wanly. “You like torturing people, don’t you?”

“I actually don’t care enough,” I say casually. “Unlike you, who cares too much. The charities, volunteer work, the cookies, the smiles. You need to live a little more for yourself and a little less for everyone else.”

She stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. I hit a nerve, and I know she’ll think about it when we say our goodbyes. Nonetheless, we still have a few minutes to burn together.

“So tell me—what are you passionate about, Winnifred?”

She rubs at her chin, a tic she cannot conceal. “Mostly theater. Since I was a little girl, the stage has been my escape.”

“What did you escape?”

“The same thing we all escape.” She runs a finger over the rim of the elevator’s mirror, just to do something with her hands. “Reality, mostly.”

The elevator slides open. She is quick to get out.

“What was so wrong with Winnifred’s reality, growing up?” I’m a dog with a bone. I’m chasing her across the lobby, making a spectacle of both of us, and I don’t care. I won’t care tomorrow either. I never cared what people thought of me. It was always Grace who gave a shit.

“Well, if you really must know, I hated to be the small-town gal, with the big aspirations, who knew full well people like you would always stand in my way, ridicule and belittle me whenever possible. I wanted to believe I could be something amazing, and the world didn’t always let me.”

I stop on the pavement, just as a black Toyota Camry Uber stops in front of us. I get it now. This is why Winnie resents me with so much passion. I represent everything she fears and feels insecure about. And I’ve been taunting her with it from the moment we met.

Maybe because I, too, resent what she represents. An easy, laid-back life. Where running after money and prestige breathlessly is tacky, not honorable.

She pops the back door of the Camry open.

I want to chase her. To steal another kiss, while the getting’s good. Perhaps even tell her my sole reason for taunting her in Italy was because she was alluring, too damn fuckable, and I hated her for it.

But what’s the point? Winnifred is too engrossed in her love for her dead husband. Even if she wasn’t, I’ve only ever wanted one woman. Wanting another one seems foreign; unlike riding a bike, it is not a skill you can neglect and pick right back up.

“Oh, and by the way.” She throws one last look at me, clutching the door. “That kiss? Four out of ten. Maybe that’s why Grace cheated on you. You’re a bad kisser.”

She dips her head and disappears inside the vehicle before closing the door. The car slides back into traffic, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

I laugh to myself, shaking my head.

Bumpkin is ten out of ten entertainment.