“Look, we can’t all be named after George Montagu-Dunk,” I tease him and take satisfaction from the look of utter confusion on his face.
Finally, he gives up, throwing his hands up into the air. “Bora Bora, or can I just call you Bora, who is George Montagu-Dunk?”
I grin. “George Montagu-Dunk is the earl of Halifax. Or, if you like, the earl of you.”
His mouth drops open. “How on earth do you know that?”
“What can I say, useless information, isn’t as useless as you might think.”
“You’re a fascinating woman, Bora Bora.”
This time I don’t even stop the laugh. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such an easy conversation. It probably helps that he doesn’t know that I tried to blackmail my ex-fiance into getting back together with me. Not tried. Did. I actually blackmailed Damien Baxter, only for him to dump me, for the second time, and go running back to the woman I made him leave for me.
I continue to chat to this funny, friendly man for a few more minutes. It turns out he’s a buyer for a coffee company. It makes perfect sense. He looks and talks like a coffee hipster nerd. At twenty-nine, I feel like an old hag to his twenty-two years.
“Anyway, I’m going to Australia in a few weeks. They have an amazing coffee culture compared to us,” he says, excitedly.
I don’t offer the information that I lived in Australia for three years. No use digging that up.
“You look like you drink a lot of coffee,” he says once he finishes telling me about his upcoming trip.
I frown. “I’m not really sure how to take that. Do I look hyper? Or strung out?”
He blinks and then trips over himself saying, “No, no! Not at all. I think coffee drinkers are the best people. That’s all that I meant by that.”
I enjoy the way I can unbalance him with a single sentence. Well, I would, if I wasn’t entertaining the idea of actually becoming friends with this guy. I like him. He’s sweet and unaffected. “You know, I don’t even know your last name.”
“It’s Holland.”
“Well, Halifax Holland, it’s been lovely to meet you.” The wide smile I give him is as genuine a smile as I have.
“It was lovely to meet you too. You know. I feel like I should know your actual name now. I feel like we’re past the Bora stage.”
“My name?”
“Yes, what’s your name?”
I think about all the reasons why I want to remain anonymous for just a few more minutes when a voice speaks up behind it.
“Clarissa. Her name is Clarissa Masters.”
MATTHIAS
D
ealing with the aftermath of the women who’d accused me of knocking them up has been utter hell. Meeting after freaking meeting trying to figure out how to rehabilitate my so-called
manwhore reputation. So, when I receive Leanne’s text asking if I want to come have a drink at her place, I’m only too happy to accept the invitation instead of going back to the office.
Kevin, my driver, lets me out and I walk the five blocks to her apartment, not sure what to expect when I get there. Leanne is known for rarely having a quiet night in her own apartment. In fact, I’m sure I’ve been there multiple times when she wasn’t even there.
I can’t help wondering what her neighbors must think. Not that it matters. I own the building, which is how I met her in the first place.
As usual, when I enter her open apartment, she is nowhere to be seen. I recognize a few people and chat for a few minutes, before someone points to the drinks trolley near the window and offers to get me a drink. I excuse myself from the conversation to get the drink myself.
And run into someone I never expected… and had hoped…never to see again.
My brother’s ex-fiancee.
She’s talking to a guy, who looks like he’s ready to crawl onto his hands and knees and do whatever she asks. I’ve seen the look before. On the face of pretty much every man who comes into contact with her. Except Damien.
What is she even doing here?
I’d heard she’d moved to the USA, but I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything about her living in New York City. Because wherever Clarissa is, she makes sure that everyone knows she’s there.
She’s dressed in a pair of white silk pants that make her legs look like they go on for days, and a sleeveless satin shirt with a ruffle running down the front. Her hair is perfectly curled, falling around her face like she’d moved each strand into place. As usual, she looks perfectly put together. The only thing that stands out as different about her is that she’s not blinding me with diamonds on every surface of her skin.
At least she’s toned down that part of her outfit.
I take a step closer out of pure curiosity, working out how long it’s been since I last saw her.
Seven months, give or take. Since the day I went with Damien and my other younger brother, Kylian, to her apartment to tell her that he was calling off the engagement.
It had turned out just as we expected, with an array of vases, shoes and chinaware thrown at each of our heads.
We’d stayed with Damien there that night, as he’d sat outside her bedroom, making sure she was going to be okay before we left. As far as we’d heard, a week later, she got on a plane and hasn’t been heard from since.
Good.
Good fucking riddance.
The sound of her giggling drifts over to where I’m standing by the drinks trolley, my back turned.
Ugh. Poor guy. He has no idea what the fuck he’s getting himself into.
Surely, it’s my role to help him out.
I take a step closer and hear him ask for her name.
Another step takes me into their circle, and I give the guy a big smile, just as he asks her name again.