Page 75 of Love Her

“And we know you’re not his type,” Lauren cut in.

“And he knows it, too—he wouldn’t have tried to hide you from us, otherwise,” Martha said, toasting Lauren’s wisdom with her glass.

“Not his type,” I began slowly, like I didn’t understand it, right before I struck back. “Because I don’t have birthing hips?”

Maribeth laughed. “Oh, no—trust us, those come with time. But mostly, based on your pedigree. You’re…not like the rest of us.”

Brooke shook her head after clearing her throat. “First off—you’re still a child.”

“And we have to go through this nonsense at least every three years,” Anne cut in, before looking at Maribeth with a sigh. “Why can’t widowed men date women their own age?”

“Or just keep it in their pants? Lord knows, the rest of us don’t want it,” Lauren said.

I prepared to bite back—but then I realized they had a strange, if cruelly given, point.

Marcus…didn’t seem all that interested in me.

And I had a feeling that it wasn’t all about Trevia slipping that clause into the pre-nup.

Was I supposed to be a beard? Were he and Arnold an item, and was I surreptitiously living out Arnold’s dream wedding?

Honestly, that made more sense than whatever the fuck was actually happening.

“And if getting into here is what you or your father’s end game is,” Maribeth said, gesturing around the room, and then out to the surrounding grounds. “Let me be the first one to tell you—you’ll never be let in.”

“No matter how many grandfathers you fuck,” Anne added.

Martha turned to Anne. “Marcus has a grandkid?”

“Oh come on, you’ve seen his sons. Do you think they wrap it up?” she said and cackled.

“Don’t be sad, darling,” Maribeth drawled. “We’re really doing you a favor.”

“By exposing your casual racism?”

Brooke rolled her eyes at me. “We don’t need to be racist. You didn’t even go to an Ivy.”

“Plus, there’s the other thing. Or thing-s, I should say. Plural,” Lauren said, giving me a look.

I stood up and set my drink down. “Insults don’t really land the same when I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Lauren tilted her head, pretending to file her nails—then, slowly, theatrically, dragged the imaginary file across one wrist, then the other.

Somehow this crew of bitches knew what I had done to myself.

I settled my shoulders and gave all of them a leveling stare. “I’m sorry for having been a child with feelings once, as opposed to being a middle-aged woman trying to turn her liver into a flammable object with rose,” I snapped, then turned on my heel for the door.

“We’re drinking gin and vermouth!” one of them hooted after me, and I realized it didn’t matter who it was.

Someone I knew had betrayed me.

I didn’t havemy driver take me out to the helipad—instead I went to the nearest Brass Finch to get coffee, but also to have time to handle things solo. I got my coffee and went outside, holding my phone, doing my best to look happily privileged, while I called Rio.

“Miss Ferreo?” he said when he picked up.

“Is my father there?”

“He’s sleeping.”

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