CHAPTER ONE
LUKE
Whoever invented the automobile is my hero, because nothing feels better than the leather steering wheel of my Aston Martin after a truly awful day. Is it Henry Ford who deserves the praise, or did he just invent the moving assembly line?
Doesn’t matter. The traffic light up ahead switches to yellow, so I press the clutch and shift into a higher gear, speeding through.
It doesn’t lessen the invisible band that’s squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Right now, I’m pretty sure there’s only one thing that will—one hundred decibels of live music.
I swerve across three lanes of traffic, ignoring the honking horns, and screech to a halt in front of my favorite Los Angeles club. It’s very exclusive, which means I’m mostly left alone, and the bands that play there are top-notch.
Tonight, I just hope that whoever’s playing is loud.
“Mr. Ryder,” the valet says in greeting as I toss him my keys.
I hate that everyone calls me that, especially now. It feels like I’m stealing a legacy I haven’t earned and don’t deserve.
Inside the club, the music pulsates loudly enough to rupture an eardrum. For the first time all day, my shoulders relax. Despite the holiday, twenty-somethings in sports coats and designer dresses crowd the bar. The dance floor is packed with people, the heavy smell of expensive liquor and designer perfumes inducing an almost immediate headache. Dim lighting makes it hard to distinguish anyone’s features, but that’s okay. I’m not here to find a woman or down a few shots, contrary to what the internet says.
I shoulder my way to the bar, hoping I can find an empty stool to sit on. The bar is so close to the music that the vibration of the bass almost shakes my teeth loose.
“Mr. Ryder,” the bartender says in surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. The usual?”
I have to shout just so he can hear me. “Yeah. Thanks, Pete.” I think that’s his name. He’s only been working here for a few weeks, and I can count on one hand the number of times he’s served me.
A curvy woman in a stunning red dress vacates a barstool, which I quickly snag. Moments later, Pete slides my drink of choice across to me—cola with a lime wedge. Anyone who snaps a picture tonight and posts it online—and someone definitely is going to—will assume I’m drinking a rum and coke.
I won’t bother to correct them. Their opinions aren’t important.
The song changes to something featuring an electric violin. My ears are ringing, my brain reverberating in my skull.
It’s the perfect way to spend my first Thanksgiving without my dad.
I take a sip of my drink. The Gold Diggers across the bar are shooting me coy glances, but I don’t bite. I know what they want, and it’s something I never give.
Still, they’re a good distraction until I tire of their advances. A year ago, I would have danced with every beautiful woman I could.
But Dad’s gone. Brooke’s engaged.
What’s the point?
I take a long sip of my cola and lime, barely registering the taste. Maybe I should ask one of the Gold Diggers to dance. It might make me forget, for at least a few minutes, that my best friend has accepted someone else’s ring. Not that she knows I want to offer her one.
A woman breaks away from the Gold Diggers, drink held high as she makes her way toward me. I know her type immediately—microscopic party dress, bleached blonde hair, sun-tanned skin, way too much lip filler, and Daddy’s credit card. Her kind always see me as nothing but a dollar sign.
Wait. I don’t just recognize her type. I recognize her.
I rotate on my barstool as she draws closer. Her lips nearly brush my ear, and she has to shout to be heard. “Luke Ryder, in the flesh.”
“This is a surprise. What are you doing back in California?”
Candi tosses back the rest of her drink and sets the empty glass on the bar behind me. “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”
She always was demanding. Brooke couldn’t stand her, which is probably why I dated Candi for so long—nearly three months during my junior year of college, a personal record. I secretly hoped Brooke’s dislike would translate into jealousy, but it never did. Still, Candi and I had a lot of fun together until her crazy started showing.
I signal to Pete, who’s there in an instant, despite the swarm of waiting customers, and point to my nearly empty glass. “I’ll have another one of these, and put whatever the lady wants on my tab.”
“A vodka martini. Thanks.” Candi takes the barstool I offer her with a satisfied smile. “What are you doing here on Thanksgiving? Surely you have somewhere better to be.”
I accept the fresh drink from Pete, but the cola does nothing to ease the ache in my chest.
I shouldn’t have left Mom alone to come here. It was a crummy thing to do, today of all days. When I mentioned ducking out early, she insisted she was tired and wanted to go to sleep anyway.
I have a hunch she’s just home crying in a suddenly empty bed.
But that giant house had felt cold and empty without Dad whistling Christmas tunes off-key, and Mom’s turkey, while delicious, had been a poor replacement for Dad’s signature deep-fried one. So when Mom started yawning, I bolted.
I’m doing an awful job of stepping up in this tragedy. Dad’s probably rolling over in his freshly dug grave.
“Luke?” Candi prods.
I take another long sip of my drink, not meeting her eyes. “I just… didn’t want to be home anymore.”
Candi’s lips turn down in a sympathetic pout. “I’m sure this is a hard day for you. It’s only been, what, a month since your father passed? I’m sorry about that, by the way. I’ve been keeping tabs on you through socials.”
It’s been thirty-seven days since his heart stopped beating. I’ve felt every one of them.
Candi crosses one of her long, shapely legs over the other and places both of her hands over mine. “Let me distract you. Remember how much fun we used to have together? We’ll hang out all night.”
The offer is tempting. When I started dating Candi, it was yet another misguided attempt to get a reaction from Brooke. But I kept dating Candi because of how much fun she was—at least until the mind games started. In the end, I was glad when she transferred schools and moved back to Colorado.
Brooke won’t be happy if I spend the rest of Thanksgiving hanging out here with Candi instead of at home comforting my recently widowed mother. But Brooke doesn’t get a say anymore. She’s with Antonio now. The brand-new ring on her finger makes that much clear.
Still, I can’t bring myself to encourage Candi. “I’ll stick to drinking, thanks.” I finish my cola and motion for another one to emphasize my point.
“I lost my father, too. Almost two years ago.”
My eyes flicker back to Candi’s.
She nods, reaching for her martini. “He had lung cancer, just like yours. Even at the end, he would sneak a cigarette every time my mom left him alone for more than five minutes.”
Dad hadn’t smoked, but Grandpa had. That’s what killed him, according to the doctors. Eighteen years of living with a pack-a-day smoker.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” I stare at my glass, then take another drink. The carbonation is extra strong today, and I relish the burn as it makes its way down my throat. “Does it get any easier with time?”
Candi lifts her shoulder in a helpless shrug. “No. But you get better at dealing with it.”
The honesty is as unexpected as it is refreshing. The Candi I dated six years ago was rarely honest, but maybe losing a parent has changed her. I know it’s changed me.
Candi smiles at me, but it looks different than in college. Her teeth are now unnaturally white and straight, like she’s ready to film a toothpaste ad.
“I’ve thought a lot about you over the last few years.”
“Have you?” I ask as we both accept another drink from Pete.
She nods. “Even thought about contacting you when I moved back to the city a few months ago.”
I shouldn’t pull at that thread, but a desperate need to connect with someone who understands my loss has me asking, “Why didn’t you?”
“I figured if you wanted to find me, you would. But then I saw you here tonight and couldn’t resist.” She sets her martini on the bar and holds out a hand. “Enough of this depressing talk. Dance with me?”
Candi was a lot of things in college—crazy, erratic, possessive. But she was also fun, passionate, and great at making me forget about my troubles, like the time I’d failed my physics midterm and she staged an impromptu karaoke night in her apartment. With Candi, I got chased out of fountains by night security guards, played capture-the-flag on campus at nearly two in the morning, and had almost been suspended after doing a flash mob in the library.
Maybe she’s exactly the kind of distraction I need tonight, whether Brooke likes it or not. Why does Brooke get an opinion, anyway? I’ve spent so many years playing by her rules in the hope she’d realize we’re perfect together. All it’s gotten me is the role of man of honor in her upcoming wedding.
I grab the fresh drink Pete has placed in front of me and follow Candi to the dance floor. We squeeze our way toward the center of the crowd and start to dance. Candi places the hand not holding a martini on my waist, swaying in time to the music.
We dance like that for at least an hour, the helpful bar staff keeping our drinks filled. The spiciness of the lime in my cola tastes wonderful as the crush of bodies makes the room hot and muggy. Rotating lights glint off the chandeliers, and after a while, the dance floor begins to spin. Candi twirls around me for song after song while my thinking gets fuzzier.
It’s somewhere around my fifth drink I realize these cola and limes might actually be rum and cokes. Not sure why I didn’t taste the difference—maybe because I’m so distracted—but I didn’t.
Am I drunk? Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
I should have verified with Pete that he really knows my regular drink. Instead of the jittery buzz of caffeine, I’m feeling the heady freedom of alcohol.
“I should go,” I tell Candi as she pulls me close. The pulsing lights of the club make me feel like I’m stuck inside a kaleidoscope, and it’s making me sick.
“Oh, Luke.” Her lips pull down in a pout as she presses herself against me. “Remember how much fun we used to have?”
I remember how mad Brooke was when I nearly got suspended. I remember her insisting Candi was a bad influence and knowing she was right.
But Brooke wants nothing beyond friendship from me. It’s been eight years since we met, and I still haven’t changed her mind.
I had a plan to win her over before my dad’s diagnosis. By the time I emerged from the shock of hearing the word terminal, she was dating Antonio.
“I need to go,” I mumble again.
My words are definitely slurring now, and a frenzied sort of panic is rising inside me. There’s a reason I don’t drink—all the club patrons live streaming everything on their cell phones remind me why. Privacy isn’t a luxury I’ve been afforded since Dad’s company hit it big.
Suddenly, Candi’s lips are covering mine, her arms wrapped tightly around me as she presses closer. I should push her away. Tell her I’m not interested.
But something else hasn’t changed since we broke up.
Candi has always been a fantastic kisser. And pining after Brooke? It gets awfully lonely.
I close my eyes and for just a moment—a heartbeat, really—let myself pretend that I’m kissing Brooke. What would it feel like to have her arms wrapped around my neck, her fingers threading through my hair?
She’s my best friend. My person. The only woman I will ever love. And only days after my father’s funeral, she agreed to marry someone else.
A panicked voice yanks me back to the present, like a muted stereo suddenly raised to full volume.
“Luke!”
I tear myself from Candi, struggling to make sense of that voice in this setting. The dance floor has only gotten more crowded in the last hour, and the music is nearly deafening this close to the band.
But I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Could pick it out of a crowd of thousands.
Brooke strides boldly through the crowd, looking out of place in her bright pink peacoat, ripped jeans, and flip-flops. Anyone else would be laughed out of the building if they showed up dressed like that, but the bouncers know how important Brooke is to me. She’s got a matching pink purse hanging from the crook of her elbow, the forty-thousand-dollar Birkin bag I lied and said was a gift from a client, since that doesn’t violate Rule Number Eight. Really I just wanted to spoil her on her birthday.
Brooke throws herself at me, the bag clanking against my back as she wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. Her chestnut waves are tickling my nose, but I don’t care. I relish every second of our embrace. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, strands escaping every which way.
This is the Brooke I love best—dressed down, makeup-free, and wholly herself. The Brooke that isn’t afraid to show me how much I mean to her, even in a crowded club. The Brooke that is my person in every sense of the word.
“You’re okay.” She steps back, glaring up at me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Your mom called me a few hours ago, and then Mitch started calling… We’ve all been worried.”
“What are you doing here?” Candi places an arm on my shoulder, leaning unsteadily toward Brooke. “Three’s kind of a crowd.”
Brooke’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrow in displeasure. “Candi. Wow, it’s been a while.”
I shrug off Candi’s arm, stepping closer to Brooke. “Sorry to pull you away from Thanksgiving. We can go now.”
Her brow crinkles in displeasure, and she takes a step back. “Are you drunk?”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger, squishing them together. “Maybe a little.”
“Luke—”
Candi grabs my arm possessively, wrapping herself around it like an octopus. “Butt out, Brooke. We were having fun until you arrived.”
Brooke completely ignores her, although I can tell she wants to scream. “Let’s go, Luke.”
Candi tightens her grip on my arm, which I’m trying to shrug off. “You’re not his mom. He’s a big boy who can make his own decisions.”
One of Brooke’s eyebrows arches as she adjusts her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m his best friend. That trumps an ex any day of the week.”
Does she really believe that? My heart lightens until I remember she’s engaged to someone else.
Maybe a best friend trumps an ex, but I’m pretty sure a fiancé trumps all.
Brooke tugs on my arm, and I stumble after her, squinting like it will make the world stop tilting. Tomorrow, I’m calling the club. Pete needs to know he screwed up big time tonight, and I need to make sure this never happens again.
How many influencers are here tonight? How many of them are going to post about this on social media? The last thing I need is some video of me completely wasted going viral.
“You don’t have to go,” Candi calls as I stumble behind Brooke.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I’ll always pick Brooke over Candi. I’ll pick Brooke over pretty much anyone and follow her to the ends of the earth.
Even when she’s spitting mad, like right now.
“You really know how to pick ’em,” Brooke says, her voice becoming more audible as we move further away from the crowd. “What are you doing, hanging out with that train wreck again? I swear, Luke, you can make me so mad…”
“Accident,” I mumble, letting her lead me toward the exit.
She snorts like she doesn’t believe me. “I’ve left you like ten voicemails. Why didn’t you call me back?”
It takes me much longer than it should to answer. “Couldn’t hear.”
“Is that why you’re drunk, too?”
I shake my head. “Wrong order. Didn’t get cola and lime.”
She sighs loudly but doesn’t argue. “Did you drive or take a cab?”
I have to think about that for a moment. “Drove.”
The next thing I know, we’re outside, Brooke’s hands roughly patting my cheeks. Did I fall asleep? The sound of the music is gone, replaced by the chatter of those waiting to get into the club, while the cool November breeze blessedly cools my flushed face.
“Luke,” Brooke says, her voice insistent. “Luke! Where’s the valet ticket?”
Valet ticket? I feel like I’m thinking through mud.
Brooke sighs, fumbling in one of my coat pockets, then the other. My heart thuds in my chest at the contact. All I want to do is lean forward and kiss her. But that would violate our number one rule.
I push her hands away and mumble, “Stop.”
“Where’s your phone?” she repeats. “I need to look up your claim number.”
I think for a moment, then withdraw my phone from the inside breast pocket of my suit jacket. She must figure out how to pull up the app, because my car pulls up to the curb, the silver paint gleaming under the light of the protective awning. The valet opens the passenger door and helps Brooke cram me inside.
“Buckle up,” she says.
I stare at her, my sluggish brain not connecting the dots.
She sighs, then leans over to snap my seatbelt into place. Her breath whispers against my cheek, surrounding me with the spicy scent of peppermint.
I will happily spend the rest of the night just breathing her in, if she’ll let me.
She doesn’t. Instead, she climbs into the driver’s side and heads toward my penthouse. One moment I’m flinching as she grinds the clutch. The next moment, she’s shaking me awake. Both she and a valet for my building stare down at me, backlit by the much-too-bright lamps lining the curb.
“I can’t carry you inside,” Brooke says. “Can you walk?”
I think I mumble a yes. I definitely try to support my weight as we walk into the lobby. But Brooke still bears the brunt of it and grunts, her arm tightening around my waist.
“Do you need help, Miss Pierce?” the doorman asks.
“No,” Brooke says, although she sounds a little winded. “Thank you, though.”
My foot slides on the white marble flooring of the lobby, and I pitch forward, pulling Brooke with me. She lets out a gasp of surprise and steadies me, barely saving us both from falling. The doorman rushes to our aid, but I’ve managed to regain my balance.
I am going to have some strong words with Pete tomorrow. This is beyond embarrassing.
I slump against the mirrored wall of the elevator as we ride up twenty-nine floors to my penthouse suite. I must fall asleep again, because I hear the deep rumble of a male voice—the elevator attendant’s?—helping me into my apartment. The soft silk of the duvet on my bed is beneath my cheek, and there’s a tug as Brooke pulls off my shoes and socks.
A loud clatter startles me, but my eyelids are too heavy to open again. Brooke must have dropped something—probably her cell phone—and then she’s whispering quietly to whoever’s on the other end of the line. “Hey, Zoey.”
Ah yes, Brooke’s roommate and trusty sidekick. How annoyed will Zoey be about getting dragged into another episode of the drama that is my life? After eight years, it has to be wearing on her.
“Yeah, I found him. You’ll never guess with who… No, with Candi… Yeah, that Candi. I don’t know—he’s blackout drunk. I’ve never seen him like this. I’m really worried… Yeah, I know. Can you pick up my car? I’m going to stay the night to make sure he’s okay.”
That’s when I fall asleep.
ENGLISH EDITION
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