32. Olivier

Elodie's parents are hosting our engagement party in their enormous Upper East Side home, which, like my own parents' encompasses an entire floor. Unlike my parents' apartments, however, the Lafayettes have fashioned their space more like a sprawling mansion. I'm guessing 15–20,000 square feet minimum. If any more people show up, I'll never be able to find Drew in this place, and as I'm on my third cocktail, I'm very much in the mood for my doorman to get here already.

I've even got Elodie looking for him because she's sick of my eyes darting around the room.

My mother is drunk, but she's a lively drunk, and she gave me an effusive greeting, showering me with praise and attention until her friends started showing up. My father, after a curt and awkward hello, moved on to mingle and probably broker world peace or something.

I have a serious case of hurt feelings, and it's making my smile brittle and my stomach ache. My bestie, Elodie, is playing the Is Olivier Gay game again by asking me to rate the men in attendance on a scale of one to five. Five being ultra-fuckable and one being, wouldn't even let him give me a hand job. Her rating system, not mine.

Trip, Becca, and Dom are here, and they made a fifteen-minute show of acting like they wanted to catch up with me but found me somewhat unresponsive and cold. If they think they're getting wedding invites, they can all go to hell. I express this to Elodie, give her my rationale, and she agrees.

We are past giving a shit who Trip's father is, and Dom is practically a drug dealer when he's not doing questionable things with hedge funds. Becca is just a bitch, and so is her mother. My fiancée and I are in complete agreement.

"Oh! Thanks be to God. There he is."

I turn to try and follow Elodie's gaze. "Where?"

"Lady in the red dress—two to the left and back."

I know exactly what she means, and my eyes lock with Drew's, who seems to have spotted me no problem. He's got a half-drunk glass of champagne in hand, which makes me wonder how long he's been here, and who he's been forced to deal with.

I tighten my hand around Elodie's. "You promised a tour. Don't chicken out."

"You'll get your tour," she says, giving me a sly grin just as a photographer snaps a picture. If it's not blurry, I'd bet money that one will make it online at least, if not the society page. We've been nothing if not amazing salespeople tonight, selling the lie of our whirlwind romance and continued infatuation, not to mention the redemption from our prior questionable acts.

It's the exact distraction my father sold my soul for, so I hope he's happy now, and I can start coming back to brunch. I'll even bring Elodie with me, but I'd much rather bring him.

The guy in the charcoal suit that fits him like a second skin. The devastatingly gorgeous model with his hair slicked back except for a lock of it on the right side falling artfully forward in the sexiest possible way, but more importantly—he's here. He came.

Drew rolled his eyes earlier this afternoon when I told him we'd introduce him as a friend of Elodie's from her two semesters at NYU, but he doesn't know these people like we do. If he thought I was bad, wait until he sees how my mother treats doormen. She assumes they were all once homeless people who were found by a fairy godfather and dressed up in little suits to serve.

In her defense, she was raised even worse than I was in terms of elitism. At least I had access to the internet.

Elodie does exactly what I want to do when we walk up to Drew—throws an arm around him and kisses him lightly on the cheek, careful not to leave a lipstick mark.

I reach out and shake his hand, a nervous nod accompanying the ridiculous gesture.

"You look amazing," Elodie says. "Do you have a brother or a single cousin in town?"

"All sisters. No nearby cousins," he says.

"And you're sure you want this guy?" She jerks a thumb my way.

My cheeks flood with heat. "You don't have to answer that," I say quickly, my hand still locked in a death grip around his.

"Well, I came for you so, I feel like the question answers itself," he says.

I want my tour right this second.

We let go of each other, and Drew takes a slow look around. "How's it going? Seems like a good turnout."

"I'm pretty sure people flew home from Turks and Caicos to be here," Elodie says.

"So how does it work? Is it formal? Are there toasts?"

"The toasts should be any time now," I tell him. "We don't need to hang around long after that."

"I don't know, I might want to. I'm really feeling the suit tonight."

"And the champagne apparently," I say as he snags another glass from a passing tray. He's awfully smiley for my old Brewd.

He raises his glass to me. "Took me a few minutes to track you down." And then he scans me from head to toe. When our eyes meet again, a lick of heat slaps me in the face.

Elodie loops her arm through his and starts walking him away from me. "Let's mingle," she's saying as I get into gear and march along on his other side. "Oh, look who it is."

My mother. She turns her high wattage smile on me, then lifts her brows to the extent that she's able when she sees Drew. "Well, hello! Are you Tricia's oldest? You look very familiar."

"Mrs. Arnaud, this is Drew Riley, a friend of mine from Art School."

"Oh. I see. Lovely to see you." Ignoring him completely after that, she looks from Elodie to me. "I'll need you two for the toasts now, please." It's not a request.

Ugh.

As my mother drags us away, I turn to find Drew walking in the other direction. He disappears into another room, and he might as well be on another planet.

The toasts—all seven of them—are insufferable. I finally catch sight of Drew again at the back of the large room, leaning on a tacky pillar while Becca wags her cleavage around in front of him. I can't tell from this distance whether he's checking out her tits or not, but I know he's paying more attention to her than he is to me, and it makes me want to smash my glass with a knife to get his eyes off her.

But Elodie and I grin and bear the ancient sentiments expressed by our family members wishing us a prosperous future, a healthy, happy family, blah, blah, etcetera.

By the end, I feel like we're less than people and more like two prize-winning horses who've been chosen to breed. I keep wondering how many of these people would be clapping if I were standing up here with Drew.

And I'm not going to pretend I don't know exactly why that's the thought that keeps popping in my head. It's obvious, isn't it? I like him. A lot. And I think he likes me, too, which is nothing short of miraculous, and even if we do keep seeing each other and somehow fall for each other—there wouldn't be a soul here who would celebrate us. Except maybe Elodie.

So, as often as I've toyed with the idea of putting more of my heart into our gay affair, I would lose so, so much. And I'm terrified I'd end up regretting it—choosing someone else over my family, my inheritance. My legacy.

Yes, I'm shallow. Yes, I care about those things; I wouldn't be here tonight if I didn't. And yes, I know how shitty that sounds, but that's nothing compared to how shitty it feels.

Which is one more reason I'm ready for the damn tour.

"Show us around." I tell Elodie once the toasts are over.

"Twenty minutes, that's all you get."

"I know," I say as we cross the room to Drew and Becca.

Elodie takes point. "Drew—would you like the grand tour?"

He glances from her to me. I give him a quick nod.

"A tour sounds great." He unpeels himself from the column, and Becca looks poised to join us. "It was nice to meet you, Becky, but I have to dash after the tour," he tells her.

"Oh."

Elodie does her arm loop thing again and sweeps Drew away from Becca's barely-contained breasts. I pause a moment. "Hey, Beccs. Thanks so much for coming tonight. You know it really means a lot."

"Oh. I mean yeah—sure. Wouldn't have missed it. We're all super happy for you. You really bounced back, huh? And Elodie's amazing."

She's so full of shit. "Just wondering how my family managed to get in touch with you since you got a new number."

"No, I—" She purses her lips, understanding. "Look, Ollie, you know how it is?—"

"Yeah, I do now."

"You would have done the same thing."

"Would I? Would I?"

Granted, I might not be the best person in the world. I'm self-involved and spoiled, and I care what people think of me, but I actually did think I had friends before all this. I thought I had a loving family, too.

One thing I can safely say for a fact is if it had been Becca or Trip in that viral video, I would have answered the fucking phone. For Dom, probably not, but he's practically a career criminal.

"So, I'm the asshole," Becca says, annoyed, but no longer attempting to meet my eyes.

"Yeah. You are. Enjoy the party." I walk away feeling a little better. I could have been a lot crueler, but I pulled my heaviest punches. I have a tour to take.

Drew and Elodie are halfway up the main staircase when I spot them, and I hurry to catch up while also trying to draw minimal attention.

"We could not possibly have walked any slower," Elodie says.

"Sorry," I say.

"Ex-girlfriend?" Drew asks.

"Ex-friend."

"She's one of them, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I hope you told her where she could go fuck herself."

I smile, and he gives me a friendly pat on the back.

Elodie plays tour guide "So…this is upstairs where all the bedrooms are. There are eight. One of them is mine. I'll let you guess which one."

Behind door number three is a room with black walls and a canopy bed enclosed by black gauzy curtains. A saltwater aquarium takes up an entire wall, and an elaborate desk with three monitors, several computers, and ring lights line another. There's a park view, of course, like all the other bedrooms have, and a terrace.

"I assumed there'd be more pottery," Drew says.

"Oh, I made up all the pottery stuff. I'm actually more into Tek Run. Have you ever played it?"

I snort. "You're a gamer?"

"Hey," she snaps at me. "At least I have a hobby."

"But pottery?" Drew asks. "Where'd that come from?"

"I watch a lot of YouTube videos about it, I guess."

This is all fascinating and everything, but I'm ready for her to excuse herself. "Okay, well, thanks for the tour, catch up with you downstairs?"

"Twenty minutes, and you owe me one."

She leaves, and Drew looks at me. "Twenty minutes?"

I'm already reaching for his tie.

"You wanna fuck me on your fiancée's bed?"

I press my mouth to his. "No. I want you to fuck me on my fiancée's bed."

He grips me by the shoulders and holds me back. "What?"

"I need it," I say, coming for his mouth again, overcoming his vague resistance easily. "I need to feel you inside me. I want you to make me yours."

"I don't know about this," he says, but he's shrugging off his jacket, and I'm yanking at my tie.

As we rush to unbuckle each other's belts and tear at each other's clothes, he asks the question I've asked myself a hundred times in the last two weeks. "Do you think we're being gay wrong?"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm pretty sure."

He hauls me to him by the hips and kisses me hard. When he pulls away, I ask, "You do want to fuck me, don't you?"

"Definitely."

Thank God. I need it so much. I haven't been able to think of anything else since I got here tonight.

We finish undressing and crawl behind the canopy to find the lube Elodie left for us on the bed. The comforter is covered with an ugly, tan sheet. "Elodie did this?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"She thought of everything." He gestures at a series of toys up by the pillows, and I can't help but laugh.

"Clock's ticking," he says wrestling me to my back and pressing his mouth to mine. I open for him, for his tongue, for his heavy breaths.

Unlike Drew, who has some sort of issue with spreading his legs, I immediately wrap mine around his thighs to get our cocks closer together. He grinds heavily against me as our kiss gets breathier and filthier. We're pouring so much precum, our balls are already sticking together.

His hand encircles my throat, and he gives it a quick, firm squeeze before yanking my head back by the hair. He sucks hard beneath my ear, and I have no desire to stop him from giving me a huge hickey at my engagement party. Or bruises. Or a torn asshole. I want him all over me. I want to give one of the only first times I have left to give.

Tonight, I want every cell in my body to belong to him. To be his.