Page 157 of Mexico Can Choke On It
A tear betrays me, slipping out before I even feel it coming. I swipe it away fast. God, I hate those sneaky little bastards.
I actually thought he’d come after me. That Bryce would burst out of the tent, grab my arm, and explain that Amanda being there was some kind of mistake. That I’m not just his dirty little secret.
It’s been over an hour, and the only thing that’s followed me is the sound of my pathetic sniffles echoing off these fancy walls.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
I look up at the massive oil painting that’s been side-eyeing me from the moment I walked into this wealthy wasteland. Miss Muffy Von Cashmere glares down from her ornate frame, covered in pearls with that eternal, disapproving scowl.
“Enjoying the show, Lady Snootybottom?” I mutter. “You’ve been waiting to judge me ever since I arrived. So let’s hear it. Don’t hold back.”
Her painted eyes seem to narrow.
“Say what everyone else is thinking. I’m the family screw-up, the chaos monster, the walking disaster who ruins other people’s lives.”
I press my fingers to my temples and suck in through my nose, attempting to stop the tears from flowing. It’s no use; they’re winning.
“A bartender with attitude and daddy issues doesn’t belong in a place like this. A guy like Bryce was always going to pick the blonde socialite.”
“Ahem.”
The noise slices into my self-pity like a guillotine.
I whirl around, nearly losing my balance. Nigel Featherwick stands in the doorway, composed as always. Miss Muffy II sits regally in his arms, her tiny black eyes sweeping over me with what feels like sympathy.
Great. Even the dog pities me.This is what you call rock bottom.
“Miss Brinkman, your departure arrangements are being finalized.”
And evenmy walk of shame gets the five-star treatment.Fucking fantastic.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him with a soft click, then sets the dog down on the Persian rug. She starts sniffing around as if she’s conducting a security sweep.
I stay still, remembering all too well what happened the last time I was this close to the billionaire puppy heiress in this room.
From his tux pocket, Mr. Featherwick retrieves a pressed white handkerchief and extends it toward me. “For your distress.”
I take it. Blow my nose into it violently. When I try to return it, he simply stares at the fabric. Then at me.
“Madam, it is now yours.”
“Right,” I say, tucking it into my jacket pocket.
“Casa Cashmere regrets that you are leaving.”
“No, youdon’t.”
“Yes, Miss Brinkman, I do,” he replies with sincerity. “You have been a breath of fresh air that I have sorely missed in this house.”
I bark out a laugh that comes out watery at the edges.
“Why do you do this? Why waste your life bowing and scraping for these people with their inherited privilege? These emotional vampires? And no offense, but aliteraldog.”
Miss Muffy is now licking herself.
“I don’t do it for them,” he says solemnly. “I do it for myself. And for her.”
He stares up at the portrait, and his expression softens. “I am going to confide in you, Miss Brinkman, something known only to a select few. That woman in the painting was a lot like you.”
