Stephen raised an eyebrow as he glanced between us. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here?”

I tensed at the snootiness in his tone.

Rhys’s hand flexed on my hip. “Funny,” he said, his voice flat, “here I thought it was my accent they called Bostonian, not yours.”

I smiled smugly at the answer.

Stephen wrinkled his nose and then cut me a superior look. “Everything makes so much sense now.”

Ugh. Snob!

Watching him walk away, I grew tenser. What if he told his aunt about Rhys?

“Hey, you okay?”

I turned toward Rhys. “He’s not my ex-boyfriend,” I blurted out. “We went on three dates. Three not-very-memorable dates.”

“Yeah.” Rhys frowned down at me and lowered his voice. “You hate it here, Tinker Bell.”

It wasn’t a question.

“And no wonder.”

Fairchild’s party was not a great example of East Coast society. Not everyone was as superior as Stephen or as misogynistic as Fairchild. The billionaire just drew a bad crowd. Still, I’d never been at home at this kind of event and clearly it was showing.

“I think it’s time to go.” Rhys nudged me toward the exit.

“Why?”

“Because you’re fucking miserable, and if Fairchild realizes that, he’s not going to be impressed.”

True.

“Argh,” I half-growled under my breath.

Rhys shook his head, smirking. “Come on, Angry Tink, we need to say goodnight to our host.”

Fairchild was disappointed to see us leave. Okay, he was disappointed to see Rhys leave. Jackson, on the other hand, looked envious of our departure. And everyone else… well, who cared about any of them.

“Freedom,” I said melodramatically at the bottom of the boarding ramp.

My date snorted and then led me across the lot to where he’d parked his Harley. It really was a hot bike. As he handed over my helmet, Rhys held onto it a second.

His gaze was searching.

I squirmed. “What?”

He shook his head slightly. “You aren’t what I expected.”

Truthfully, Rhys wasn’t what I’d expected either, but those thoughts were dangerous. “What?” I yanked on the helmet and straddled the bike. “Awesome?”

With a grunt of amusement, his gaze flickering over my legs, Rhys got on the bike. “That wasn’t the adjective I was looking for, no.”

“Boo!”

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression incredulous. “Did you just fucking boo me? First a shoo, now a boo?”

“Your lack of deference required a boo.”

“You know what requires a boo? I forgot to kiss you in front of all those pricks.”

I shivered at the thought. “There was no need.”

Rhys huffed. “You might not have noticed but there were assholes eyeing you as soon as Fairchild told them you were my woman.”

“Boo to that too. Misogyny at its finest. ‘A woman is only as interesting as the man who dates her.’ Where’s a bucket to vomit in when you need it?”

“Don’t you be vomiting anywhere near my baby.” He patted his bike before craning around to look at me again. “Seriously. Next time we’re around these people, you’re going to have to let me kiss you and do it without swooning like it’s our first time.”

I wrinkled my nose in the face of such cockiness. “I think I can manage not to swoon over a kiss. Even if it is granted by the all-mighty Rhys Morgan.”

“Oh, Tinker Bell, you’re making my ego swell.” He reached for his helmet.

“If it swells any bigger, it’ll explode all over your sweet ride.”

“You think my ride is sweet?”

“I can’t confirm that until I research its emission levels.”

I felt his body shake with laughter. “Of course you can’t.”

And then his helmet was on, the engine started, and the bike purred between my legs as Rhys drove us away from the yacht. With every second, I felt myself relaxing more and more into him as he took me away from a world I’d never fitted into.

Seven

Parker

Staring across the bistro table at my little sister, I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She would ask me about Rhys because surely Stephen Chancer had told his aunt about meeting the boxer on Fairchild’s yacht last week. His aunt would have immediately called my mother to ask me about the relationship and my mother would set Easton on me.

Why else would my little sister come into Boston for the weekend?

I winced inwardly at my own paranoia.

Easton visited me often in Boston, so her appearance wasn’t suspicious at all.

All the lying was making me crazy.

“You seem tense.” Easton didn’t look up from the breakfast menu. We were at one of my favorite little cafés around the corner from my building.

“I’m not tense.” I was so freaking tense.

My sister sighed and lowered her menu. “I think I’ll have the omelet.”

“Mmm,” I agreed distractedly.

Her dark eyes narrowed. There was no denying Easton and I were related. Although there was a four-year gap between us, we were much alike. We had the same dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin, and petite build. The only difference was Easton had a far more interesting face. Her eyes were slightly more tip-tilted than round, her nose a little sharper and character-filled, her mouth wider.

And while my preferred style was “quirky preppy,” Easton almost always looked like she’d just come from the office, in a very stylish, expensive way. Today she wore a red silk blouse, the top buttons opened to reveal a little cleavage, and it was tucked into a gray pencil skirt. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves and the only jewelry that adorned her were a pair of diamond studs in her ears, a classic steel Jaeger watch, and the massive diamond ring on her engagement finger.

“It’s because of this, isn’t it?” Easton said, waving her left hand with the knuckle-duster on it. “Are Mom and Dad putting pressure on you because of this?”

If you called longing looks thrown my way whenever Easton’s engagement came up pressure. “Not really.”

“Not really, as in they haven’t said anything but there are enough lengthy pauses and meaningful looks to make you feel like you’re disappointing them?”

My goodness, my sister knew me, and them, so well. I shrugged. “I’m happy for you. They’re happy for you. That’s all that matters.”

And it was true. Easton had stumbled across a unicorn. Her fiancé, Oliver Bowen, had inherited a wealth borne from the fruits of a cocoa-bean empire. He was a human rights defense lawyer and was involved in so many philanthropic ventures; you couldn’t hate the guy if you tried.

There was nothing to hate.

He was a prime example that not all East Coast socialites were prinkles.

Argh, I couldn’t even curse in my head!

I frowned. Since when did I want to? Cursing was blech and unnecessary. Or was that just my mother talking?

Rhys Morgan, damn you. He was infiltrating my headspace.

“Yes, I’m very lucky,” Easton said, dreamy-eyed. I felt a prickle of envy as I remembered how it felt to love someone like she loved Oliver.