Page 46 of The Price of Scandal
Rowena: Seems Mr. Douchebag has been bidding on a particular piece of art that the artistisn’t keen on selling. Female artist. Takes offense to his hot mic comments regarding the “blow job lips” of the journalist interviewing him. He’s got a hard-on for the painting and keeps raising his bid.
Me: Buy it and send him a thank you note for making the artist so amenable to my offer.
16
Emily
“From drugs to scars: The inside story on heiress Emily Stanton”
“Game-changing new scar treatment in the works at Flawless”
“Bookie lays odds on billionaire’s rehab prospects”
“Listen, ladies. If we stay focused and don’t let any of these people derail us, we can get out of there in forty minutes flat,” Daisy said with uncharacteristic optimism.
We were on her terrace, preparing for the Bluewater quarterly neighborhood town hall. One would think that an enclave of wealthy neighbors would be too busy to attend a boring community meeting. But no. Not in Bluewater. We’d accidentally built a community of eccentric, lovely weirdos who were as invested in the community as its founders.
It was charming, sweet even.
But tonight, I just wanted to crawl into my bed, binge watch something mindless, and pretend that I was a normal human being.
I was so. Very. Tired.
It had been two weeks of Derek running me from public appearance to interview to photo op. Two weeks of me squeezing in late hours of work at home. Two weeks of me trying not to think about the kiss… and the erection.
Things felt more out of control than they had the day after my near arrest. There was some good press but not nearly enough to turn theSS Sinking Emilyaround.
I felt beaten down in a way that was entirely new to me.
I needed sleep. And comfort food. And a vacation.
“We’ll talk like the Micro Machines guy.” Cam’s suggestion pulled me from my internal pity party.
“Pregame?” I suggested, digging deep for some semblance of energy. I’d often wondered how royalty did it, performing at their public appearances when they were uncomfortably pregnant or teetering on the verge of exhaustion.Be a duchess, dammit,I told myself.
“Pregame,” Daisy agreed. She produced a bottle of organic French vodka. “For the snooty vegan palates.”
“Oooh! Organic,” Luna said, whipping out her phone to capture the pouring of the shots.
We’d done town halls without alcohol in our systems. And they were much more painful sober.
“To the shortest town hall in Bluewater history,” Cam toasted.
“Cheers!”
We clinked gold-rimmed shot glasses and downed the vodka.
“One more?” Cam rasped.
I nodded.
“One more and Emily can tell us all about being shadowed by the sexiest man alive,” Daisy suggested with a mercenary grin.
After brushing off their thinly veiled interrogations for two weeks straight, I’d seen this coming. I was not about to confess that I’d kissed the man mere hours after meeting him. Nor would I mention our fight in the ring that ended with me nearly orgasming from a handful of dry humped thrusts.
There were some dark, dirty fantasies that should remain private.
“I would prefer to forget he and his purpose in my life exist for one night,” I said, nudging my glass back at Daisy.
