Her expression is unreadable, and I can’t tell if I’ve just sealed the deal or if I’ve blown any chance I might have had.
Then she says, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pierce,” and turns to greet the gentleman who has just arrived at her side, also carrying two flutes of champagne.
Though she clings to the one I gave her, her dismissal is clear. Mr. Pierce, she said. So cold and detached. So utterly unimpressed.
I take the cue and slip away. I should leave the event entirely, but I can’t force myself to go. I told her I’d be here, and maybe it’s because I really am a nice guy that I can’t seem to bring myself to break my word.
Or maybe I just can’t bear to let her go yet.
I mingle. Some woman I’ve fucked in the past drapes herself over my shoulder and introduces her friend who drapes herself over my other arm. This is my audience. I could take either of them home right now. Both of them.
But as they fawn, my focus is on Genevieve. I watch as she excuses herself from her admirers. My gaze follows her as she approaches a group of men. She taps one on the shoulder, one old enough to be her father. He puts a finger up, telling her to wait, and I bristle at the gesture because it’s rude but also because it’s familiar. Just like I didn’t like the crowd that had surrounded her, I don’t like what this man might be to her. I have no right to care. I’ve only just met her, and every interest I have in her is carnal. Yet I do care. Very much.
Which is why, when I see her heading toward me a few minutes later, I already know I’m about to say or do something I shouldn’t.
Ignoring the women clinging to me, Genevieve looks me straight in the eye. “Does your offer still stand, Chandler? Because I’m ready to go now.”
I don’t hesitate even a beat. “Definitely,” I say, shucking off the women as though they were a well-worn jacket. I slip my hand in Genevieve’s. “Let’s go, shall we?”
Told you I’d do something I shouldn’t. Sorry, Hudson.
2
Another thing about me—I’m not immune to falling in love.
The first time was that woman from five years ago, the one that felt like cheating. Gwen was her name. I was nineteen. She was ten years older. It was hot as fuck being with an older woman like that, and perhaps that was confusing. I was just a “kid” and all.
I shouldn’t be bitter about it. And I’m not. Not anymore, anyway. She was honest from the beginning. I chased her, and when she relented, she made sure I understood that we were just banging. I got it—I really did.
Until I didn’t.
Looking back, I can see the mistakes I made. I let her occupy too many of my thoughts. Saw her too much, too often. The real error was letting myself care, and when she sobbed to me about the man she really loved, a man who’d left her and broken her, I had the white knight kind of noble thought that I would have been better. Been a better man to her. Been better at loving her.
She ended up with the other guy, and okay, maybe they’re perfect together. And okay, maybe she shouldn’t have been expected to tell me her heart belonged to someone else. It was probably immature to feel like she’d been cheating on him while she loved him and fucked me. Cheating on me while she fucked me and loved him. Who can say? What I do know is that when she chose him? It fucking hurt.
I told myself I was done.
I fell in love again six months later.
She was a girl in my business ethics class. Tessa. Three dates in, and I was a goner. Her response when I told her? “I’m gay.”
The only bright side was when she told me, “The sex was so good, I got confused.” Best compliment ever.
Anyway, two times burned, you’d think I’d learned my lesson.
Nope.
Four months later, I was in love with Bethany. She seemed to be crazy about me as well. I was only twenty, but I pictured us going all the way—two point five kids, a house in the Hamptons, and sex two times a night, even ten years later.
Then she “borrowed” my American Express and racked up fifty-seven thousand dollars before I discovered it. She volunteered to go into therapy in lieu of me pressing charges. I was so crazy into her, I agreed. Which is how she ended up driving off with a handful of my cash in my F12 Berlinetta Ferrari. She ended up crashing it beyond repair. I still miss that car.
I missed her too for a while. Stupidly.
But once my wounds healed, I pulled my head out of my ass and made myself a new plan, a new mission statement: Do not fall in love.
As most anyone who’s had any experience running a business will proclaim—having a mission statement makes decisions one thousand percent easier to make. When a new idea or opportunity arrives, all I have to do is match it against my objective, and then I know whether or not to follow up on it.
Let me demonstrate with a few examples.
Situation: I’m going to Cabo for a week—should I bring someone to spend the nights with or hook up once there?
Response after measuring against objective: Obviously the first option better guarantees I won’t be sleeping alone. But romantic beaches? Sunset walks? Sounds like there could be an awful good chance of falling in love. Better choose the latter.
Situation: A woman offers to exchange phone numbers.
Response: What, so I can fall head over heels for her adorable texts and sexy selfies? Kindly decline.
Situation: The redhead with the cute mole wants me to meet her parents.
Response: If I’ve memorized any of her unique features, I’m already in too deep. Meeting her parents would surely seal my affection. Withdraw immediately.
Situation: There’s a girl at the bar that I slept with a month ago—do I say hello?