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Page 8
My life was not so easy. I’m a few years younger than Bebe, and I have never aspired to a PhD like her. But I’m not doing too bad. I went to Colorado Mountain College, a small two-year school up in the Rocky Mountains where they specialize in hotel management, resort management, restaurant management—all kinds of recreational management, in fact. As well as culinary training, renewable energy and event planning.
That’s what I do. I’m an event planner.
Yes, like weddings and stuff. But I was mostly hired to plan parties, not weddings. You have to work up to that level of responsibility. My professional life the past few years was mostly Super Bowl parties and bar mitzvahs, but I’ve been doing more and more weddings the past several months and I’m really good at it. I just got a new job and that is a huge step up for me.
I feel like my life is finally starting. Like the past is behind me.
All this deep thinking has me turned around on the winding paths and for a moment my heart beats fast at the thought of being lost out here in the dark. Silverware clanks on plates off to the right, so I take that path to try and get my bearings.
The path turns a corner abruptly and I find myself staring at an extravagant sit-down dinner party. There are several dozen round tables covered in white tablecloths and fancy place settings. Hundreds of guests, at least. All dressed to the nines in what I’d call summer formal. Cream-colored suits, crisp white shirts, flowing linen dresses, hair up in sparkling pins, and everything has a feel of being light and airy. Like these people are all caught up in a summer breeze.
It’s a gorgeous event. There’s a path that surrounds the party and I walk along it, trying my best to remain unnoticed and invisible. I take stock of the fine china, the silver on the table, the cut of the crystal that the fresh flowers are sitting in. I notice the engraved place cards, the subtle lighting, the flowing curtains of the large tent where a band is setting up for a night of dancing. Out here in the dining area there is a string quartet playing soft melodies that allow you to enjoy the music without it being overpowering.
This event is perfect and I’m jealous. Not because I wasn’t invited, but because I didn’t plan it. I shake myself out of that stupid funk and pick up my pace. I’m going to be late for my date with Vaughn Ash—
Wait. There he is.
He’s here, at this party.
Hmmm. I stop and watch him for a few moments. He’s deep in conversation with a tall, beautiful woman. Her hair is dark, like his, and she’s dressed in a pale pink strapless gown that flows down her slender body and pools at her feet like satin water.
Vaughn cups her face with both his hands, his eyes intent on hers. Her eyes are glued to his lips as he whispers. And then she nods and wipes a tear. Vaughn leans in and kisses her gently on the cheek and then pulls her into an intimate hug.
I turn away, my heart beating so fast inside my chest I have to take deep breaths. I swallow down the lump in my throat and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running.
Chapter Eight
SecondThoughtsSuck
I FIND myself on a beach. Not the Cove Beach or wherever the hell Mr. Asher invited me to. Some other beach that’s finally open because obviously that party was the one responsible for closing down the resort this weekend. His party.
Why would he invite me out tonight if he’s at a party already? If he’s got a girl here with him? What was he saying to her? Giving her an excuse for why he needed to leave and meet me?
That’s bullshit. I’m not a boyfriend-stealer. I think girls who date married or taken men are scum. I would never do that. Not in a million years.
But I feel dirty. Like—ashamed for even thinking about it.
I know his reputation. He’s a flirt, if I want to be nice. He’s a man whore, if I want to be honest. He’s not married and most of his relationships are very private. But there are rumors about why they are so private. Something akin to a nondisclosure agreement.
Which, OK, that makes sense if you’re rich and famous. I guess. But after what I just witnessed, I think he might have those contracts because he’s hiding things.
His sexual preferences have been in the weekly tabloids more than once. But for some reason none of those stories ever affected him. Maybe people just don’t care. I never did. The thought of Vaughn Asher being a deviant in the bedroom is more appealing than not, if I’m being honest. Lots of women feel that way today, so it’s no wonder that these stories of his dark sexual side never touched his movie-star persona.
But I’m not into secrets. I have too many of my own to bother with strangers’. I like fun and flirty. Do I really want to know about Vaughn Asher’s dark side? Wouldn’t it be better to just leave him up on that pedestal I made for him and go on living in a fantasy?
I swallow down my heartache. Which is just ridiculous. I have no relationship with this guy. And he came off a little bit obnoxious before I realized who he is and changed my tune. But he is obnoxious. Pushing himself into my raft today and sending me this bizarre invitation to meet him on the beach.
For what?
For sex, you dumbass!
He wants to use me. And I was fully planning on letting him. But no way, not if he’s got a girlfriend. Not even if he was breaking up with her, because that’s almost what that conversation looked like. She was sad for some reason—he was comforting her.
I drop to the sand and remove my shoes, my toes digging in until they are on the verge of cold. “Grace,” I say in a soft whisper. “You’re way too impulsive, Grace. You’re so eager for a fairy tale, you create one where it doesn’t exist.”
“It’s the wrong beach,” a husky voice calls out from behind me.
Vaughn. He’s found me.
“Did you get lost?” he asks. He stands beside me for a moment before taking a seat on the sand. “A few of the waiters saw you on the path outside the party and said you came this way.”
I can’t look at him and I have no idea what to say, so there’s nothing but the crashing of waves.
“This beach is private.”
“Oh,” I say, as I laugh a little to myself. I grab the straps of my shoes and I’m about to stand up when his large hand wraps around my small wrist.
“It’s OK,” he says in a soothing voice. “We can stay here.” His grip pulls me down and I give in and settle back on the sand. “Did you eat dinner?”
That’s what I do. I’m an event planner.
Yes, like weddings and stuff. But I was mostly hired to plan parties, not weddings. You have to work up to that level of responsibility. My professional life the past few years was mostly Super Bowl parties and bar mitzvahs, but I’ve been doing more and more weddings the past several months and I’m really good at it. I just got a new job and that is a huge step up for me.
I feel like my life is finally starting. Like the past is behind me.
All this deep thinking has me turned around on the winding paths and for a moment my heart beats fast at the thought of being lost out here in the dark. Silverware clanks on plates off to the right, so I take that path to try and get my bearings.
The path turns a corner abruptly and I find myself staring at an extravagant sit-down dinner party. There are several dozen round tables covered in white tablecloths and fancy place settings. Hundreds of guests, at least. All dressed to the nines in what I’d call summer formal. Cream-colored suits, crisp white shirts, flowing linen dresses, hair up in sparkling pins, and everything has a feel of being light and airy. Like these people are all caught up in a summer breeze.
It’s a gorgeous event. There’s a path that surrounds the party and I walk along it, trying my best to remain unnoticed and invisible. I take stock of the fine china, the silver on the table, the cut of the crystal that the fresh flowers are sitting in. I notice the engraved place cards, the subtle lighting, the flowing curtains of the large tent where a band is setting up for a night of dancing. Out here in the dining area there is a string quartet playing soft melodies that allow you to enjoy the music without it being overpowering.
This event is perfect and I’m jealous. Not because I wasn’t invited, but because I didn’t plan it. I shake myself out of that stupid funk and pick up my pace. I’m going to be late for my date with Vaughn Ash—
Wait. There he is.
He’s here, at this party.
Hmmm. I stop and watch him for a few moments. He’s deep in conversation with a tall, beautiful woman. Her hair is dark, like his, and she’s dressed in a pale pink strapless gown that flows down her slender body and pools at her feet like satin water.
Vaughn cups her face with both his hands, his eyes intent on hers. Her eyes are glued to his lips as he whispers. And then she nods and wipes a tear. Vaughn leans in and kisses her gently on the cheek and then pulls her into an intimate hug.
I turn away, my heart beating so fast inside my chest I have to take deep breaths. I swallow down the lump in my throat and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running.
Chapter Eight
SecondThoughtsSuck
I FIND myself on a beach. Not the Cove Beach or wherever the hell Mr. Asher invited me to. Some other beach that’s finally open because obviously that party was the one responsible for closing down the resort this weekend. His party.
Why would he invite me out tonight if he’s at a party already? If he’s got a girl here with him? What was he saying to her? Giving her an excuse for why he needed to leave and meet me?
That’s bullshit. I’m not a boyfriend-stealer. I think girls who date married or taken men are scum. I would never do that. Not in a million years.
But I feel dirty. Like—ashamed for even thinking about it.
I know his reputation. He’s a flirt, if I want to be nice. He’s a man whore, if I want to be honest. He’s not married and most of his relationships are very private. But there are rumors about why they are so private. Something akin to a nondisclosure agreement.
Which, OK, that makes sense if you’re rich and famous. I guess. But after what I just witnessed, I think he might have those contracts because he’s hiding things.
His sexual preferences have been in the weekly tabloids more than once. But for some reason none of those stories ever affected him. Maybe people just don’t care. I never did. The thought of Vaughn Asher being a deviant in the bedroom is more appealing than not, if I’m being honest. Lots of women feel that way today, so it’s no wonder that these stories of his dark sexual side never touched his movie-star persona.
But I’m not into secrets. I have too many of my own to bother with strangers’. I like fun and flirty. Do I really want to know about Vaughn Asher’s dark side? Wouldn’t it be better to just leave him up on that pedestal I made for him and go on living in a fantasy?
I swallow down my heartache. Which is just ridiculous. I have no relationship with this guy. And he came off a little bit obnoxious before I realized who he is and changed my tune. But he is obnoxious. Pushing himself into my raft today and sending me this bizarre invitation to meet him on the beach.
For what?
For sex, you dumbass!
He wants to use me. And I was fully planning on letting him. But no way, not if he’s got a girlfriend. Not even if he was breaking up with her, because that’s almost what that conversation looked like. She was sad for some reason—he was comforting her.
I drop to the sand and remove my shoes, my toes digging in until they are on the verge of cold. “Grace,” I say in a soft whisper. “You’re way too impulsive, Grace. You’re so eager for a fairy tale, you create one where it doesn’t exist.”
“It’s the wrong beach,” a husky voice calls out from behind me.
Vaughn. He’s found me.
“Did you get lost?” he asks. He stands beside me for a moment before taking a seat on the sand. “A few of the waiters saw you on the path outside the party and said you came this way.”
I can’t look at him and I have no idea what to say, so there’s nothing but the crashing of waves.
“This beach is private.”
“Oh,” I say, as I laugh a little to myself. I grab the straps of my shoes and I’m about to stand up when his large hand wraps around my small wrist.
“It’s OK,” he says in a soothing voice. “We can stay here.” His grip pulls me down and I give in and settle back on the sand. “Did you eat dinner?”
