Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Bare-chested, I turn to face the reed-slim woman standing at the threshold connecting my closet to my bedroom.
With a chuckle, I reach for an almost-identical T-shirt and pull it over my head. “Whose bright idea was an all-white party anyway?”
Zere shutters her expression and approaches with a wry, humorless smile.
“Guilty as charged. It was definitely my idea.” She scoops my wine-stained shirt from the floor and walks it over to the hamper in the far corner.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say with a frown.
“Picking up after you became a habit the last three years. One I can’t seem to break yet.”
She walks back to me and we stand almost nose to nose. Zere was made for magazines and runways and front pages. At five feet eleven inches shoeless, she matches my six two easily in heels. Sometimes she even stands above me an inch in her favorite mile-high stilettos. I’m convinced Zere could run a marathon in those things, she’s so used to them.
Ironically, when we broke up a month ago, she called me a runner. I don’t even know if she’s wrong.
“The party’s going well,” I say, settling on a neutral subject that won’t cause trouble with more than 150 guests downstairs. “Great job, as usual.”
“Yeah, well, guess I wanted to go out with a bang. If this is my last time throwing this party, I had to make it count.”
Her words hang between us, tightening the air in the space we shared and she decorated.
“Look, Zee,” I say on a resigned sigh. “I know this is awkward, but—”
“What could be awkward about hosting a party with your ex-boyfriend when no one knows you’ve called it quits?” Her laugh peals out brittle and harsh. “I’m having the time of my life.”
“I told you we could’ve skipped. These parties are always more your thing and—”
“My thing?” A scoffing breath punctuates her disdain. “Find me the Daily Mail headline that says ‘Zere O’Malley’s All-White Party.’ Please. A-list celebrities are not here on the strength of my brand or my bank account, and we both know it.”
“What I mean is you always invested so much time and effort and care into these parties,” I say, cupping her shoulders in my hands and squeezing gently. “I just had to show up with my checkbook and a white suit. Now that we’re not together…”
She flinches, and I don’t finish the thought, but surely she knows I don’t give a damn about this party.
“I could…” She leans forward, lowers her lashes, swallows before going on. “I could still plan it even though we’re just friends. I wouldn’t mind.”
I weigh my words before I say them. The last thing I want to do is hurt her more than our breakup already has, but she must see that wouldn’t be healthy or smart for either of us.
“I don’t think so, Zee,” I finally reply, releasing my hold and carefully watching her face.
She’s widely considered one of the most beautiful women in the world, as she should be. The first time I saw her, I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing. She has her catty moments, but generally she’s kind and funny and pretty close to perfect. To say people were shocked when our relationship went public is an understatement. She—the model socialite and fashion world darling. Me—a borderline antisocial businessman most people would have to google to know. The official statement we’ll release after this party will say our breakup was mutual. And in a way it was. She wanted marriage and a baby. My daughter is graduating from high school, and I don’t want to start over. Just as I’m finally getting an empty nest, Zere realized she wants to fill hers. Neither of us was willing to budge, so… is that mutual? Her ultimatum. My refusal.
The sobs coming from the guest room down the hall the night we broke up didn’t sound mutual. They sounded heartbroken. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, while her tears tore at my heart.
“You’re right, of course,” Zere says, hurt standing liquid in her eyes. “About the party. I guess it just stings seeing how badly you want me out of your life.”
The wobble in her voice wrings something in my chest.
“Damn, Zee.” I run my hand across the back of my neck and grit my teeth. “You know that’s not it. I’ll always care for you.”
“Don’t patronize me.” A tear slips over the smoothness of her cheek, streaking through her expertly applied makeup. “Emotionally, I mean. Don’t look after my feelings and say shit you don’t mean to make me feel better.”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll have all my stuff out after the party,” she cuts in, swiping carefully at the tears. “Movers come Monday.”
“There’s no rush.” I clear my throat. “I’m rarely even here.”
I bought this house a few months before we got serious, but Zere is stamped on every square inch of it. When Architectural Digest featured it last year, referring to it as our “party house,” Zere prepared as one would for the Olympics. I’ve steered clear of Miami since the breakup, bouncing between my apartment in Manhattan and my place in Malibu. She would be pissed to know last month when I had business in Miami, I stayed at the Ritz because I knew she was here. My movers will be right behind hers because I’m selling the house she loves so much. I think losing this place might break her heart more than losing me.