Page 29 of The Art of Scandal

Nathan responded almost instantly.

Nathan:That’s not true. You have me.

His words were reckless, chipping away at all the reasons she should keep her distance. But he couldn’t know how vulnerable she was right now—exposed and raw in places that hadn’t seen daylight in years. “Be careful with me,” she whispered.

“Did you say something?” Keely appeared behind her holding a hair clip. It was a flower made of pavé diamonds and black crystals that glittered when she tilted her hand. “I know it’s a little flashy, but there’s not much going on with that dress over there.”

“A black dahlia.” Rachel took it from Keely’s hand. “You know what they mean, don’t you?”

“Murdered white lady in the forties, right?”

“Betrayal.” Rachel set the hair clip on her vanity next to her phone. “They’re supposed to be a warning.”

When Rachel walked downstairs, Matt’s face turned the crimson color of her lipstick. The black dahlia was pinned above her ear, and the Abbott-approved dress was still upstairs on the hanger. Instead, she wore a black leather dress that fit her like a pair of driving gloves. The right side flashed a mile of leg whenever she took a step, and the low neckline plunged a few inches above her navel. “Welcome home.”

Matt didn’t respond. He stormed out and, five minutes later, pulled up to the front of the house in a new Maserati. That car had the same infuriating effect on her that the cocktail dress had on him. A seamless exchange of passive-aggressivefuck yous.

He didn’t speak until they were on the road. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”

Rachel stared out the window as their neighborhood floated by. “That my tits still look amazing without a bra?”

“Jesus.” He glanced at her chest. “Is this how you’re going to be now?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to stick around. I’m just maximizing what is apparently my lone asset.” She gestured from her face to her body.

Matt tightened his grip on the wheel. “Hailey shouldn’t have told you about the focus group.”

“How couldyounot tell me?” She shook her head. “Oh, right. You’re a fucking liar. Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Okay, that’s a bit—” His jaw clenched. “You’re being overdramatic.”

“Well, thisisa hostage situation. I’m probably not being dramatic enough.”

“No one’s forcing you to take my money.”

“You just want me to pretend I don’t need it.”

She crossed her legs, and the dress parted over her thighs. Matt’s gaze followed her movements before he jerked his eyes back to the road. “Are you trying to sabotage me? There are important people at this party.” He was getting louder, while she had a death grip on her tone that kept it at an even level. “This should be easy,” he snapped. “What I’m asking you to do isexactlywhat you were already doing before. Show up, smile, and drink some goddamn champagne.” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Why do you have to make everything so hard?”

Matt made a sharp turn, the tires screeching on the asphalt in the Vasquez driveway. The valets stopped talking to stare as he braked to a sudden stop.

“Don’t kid yourself.This?” Rachel gestured between them. “Was never easy.” She glanced at the gawking guests, already raising their phones to take pictures. “Now pull yourself together. Your fans are watching.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nathan bypassed the valets and parked his car between the west entrance and the lemon groves. No one entered that way unless they were working in the kitchen. Tonight, the lot was filled with small cars and catering vans. A group of guys standing in a cloud of cigarette smoke passed a bottle of Smirnoff back and forth while they spoke loudly about going to Adams Morgan after their shift. Nathan imagined joining them, blowing off the party, and throwing back shots at some college bar until his brain was numb. But he’d promised his family to make an effort.

He reached the foyer and instantly recognized a few people from his father’s company, gray-haired executives wearing dark suits and big gold watches. None of them recognized him. He wasn’t eight years old anymore, stealing pens and paper from their offices. They were clumped together, shout-talking over glasses of brown liquor. One of them called Matt Abbott a “pandering prick” and laughed so hard it made him cough.

The other guests were from his mother’s world—people who planned, attended, and critiqued parties like this for a living. Their outfits were brighter and more complicated, with leather straps in strange places and suits in fabrics that had no business being made into clothes. One guy was suddenly camouflaged against the damask cushions when he perched on a love seat.

Servers in white dress shirts weaved through the bodies with trays of drinks, and Nathan swiped a glass of wine. A white guy with a handlebar mustache pointed to his glass and asked, “Hey, fella. Can I get another one of those?” Nathan handed the guy his unwanted drink and walked away, searching for a dark corner to brood in.

Joe found him lurking in the shadows a few minutes later. “Look who finally showed up, only…” He glanced at his watch. “Forty-five minutes late.”

Nathan pointed to his own shirt. “And with buttons.”

Joe’s lips twitched as he cocked an eyebrow. “Congrats on the bare minimum.”

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