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I’m going to murder the designer next time I see him.
“You look more furious than usual,” a voice calls out.
I glance up and find my friend Peter Davenport approaching. His brown eyes meet mine and a wry expression emerges on his handsome face, cutting through the sculpted angles of his jaw to make him look younger than his twenty-nine years. Peter is many things to me: old friend, best friend, family friend, partner in crime, and someone I would call a brother if we hadn’t fucked a few times over the years. Our fathers have been business partners for all our lives—business partners who built Davenport-Ridgeway, the world’s largest holding company—and are now two of the wealthiest assholes alive today.
Peter is the middle of the three Davenport siblings and he plays the part of a middle child so well. He’s ennui and unpredictability and zero-fucks-given all wrapped up in one gorgeous wrecking ball of a man. Over the years, we’ve always found each other at our fathers’ parties and spend most of the night shamelessly mocking the countless powerful men who have come dressed to the nines to kiss the Davenport-Ridgeway ring.
“You’re here,” I breathe out, relief striking me at once. “Where the hell have you been, Peter? I’ve been at this god-awful party for two hours without you.”
“In my defense, I was here.” A smirk steadily grows on his lips.
“Where?”
“Screwing a cater waiter.” His grin reaches peak, and I can’t help but smile because I love this guy—platonically, of course.
“Well, thanks for pulling out and making an appearance.” I motion for him to come closer so I can kiss his cheek.
“No worries. You know I’ll always drop whatever I’m doing to please your father.”
His words drip with so much sarcasm, they leave a puddle on the floor. Peter gives no shits about our obligations as the children of unfathomably rich and powerful men. I’ve always respected him for his indifference, not because indifference is particularly difficult, but because people would kill to have access to our fathers. And I mean that literally: There was once a credible threat to my life when someone conspired to kidnap me for ransom when I was seventeen.
“You look incredible, by the way,” he comments, shifting his eyes to my absurd dress. “You’re like an antique, Austrian candelabra.”
“This dress is the embodiment of expensive for no reason.” I grimace and rest my hand on the skintight bodice. “You look incredible too.”
“That’s our job as the resident family misanthropes,” he says in lieu of thanking me. “Show up, look incredible, and speak only to each other—well, to each other and whichever warm body we’re going to fuck tonight. Respectively. Unless you want to share. I haven’t had a threesome in, like, weeks.”
“I’ll be doing no fucking tonight,” I assure him. “The men at this party are here because they work with my father or because they want to work with my father.”
“Don’t blame you. But hey, the waiter I just banged was gorgeous. If you get bored, he’s on canapés,” Peter mentions, gesturing over his shoulder.
“Hard pass.”
Briefly, his expression dips into confusion before recognition strikes him. “Ah that’s right,” he recalls. “The new Julia Ridgeway doesn’t fuck strangers.”
I pin him with a contemptuous look. “My limit isn’t strangers, per se. I just don’t sleep with men if there’s no emotional connection. If a stranger can magically prove he understands me in thirty seconds or less, I’m game.”
Peter shakes his head and chuckles. “That is, assuming he can keep up with you physically.”
“Oh, obviously.”
Peter isn’t kidding—and neither am I. I’m bored with men who want to possess me. I’m bored with shallow, vanilla encounters. I’m bored with stale pickup lines and delicate egos that deflate when I refuse to drop everything to worship them. At this point, I’m happier celibate.
For a year now, I’ve desperately sought a guy who can offer me an emotional connection—and fuck me so well I forget my own name. One quality or the other is rare, but not unheard of. The combo? Borderline elusive.
“You know, if you’re in town the rest of the week, I’m heading to New York for a couple days,” he mentions. “You should join.”
“Can’t. I’m meeting Jay in Ibiza.”
At the mention of our friend Jay, Peter snickers. “Speaking of guys who can’t keep up with you physically…”
Immediately, I send a glare in his direction. “Stop. You’re killing my vibe.”
His look of skepticism switches to amusement. “Vibe? What vibe? Look where we are, babe. We’re at your geriatric father’s birthday party, and both of us are basically sober.”
“Peter, I’ve had three drinks.” I hold up my half-empty glass as proof.
“Like I said, we’re basically sober,” Peter echoes. “Let’s hit the bar.”
