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I hurry through the crowd, away from Michael and Mom and everyone’s prying eyes.
A few people stop to speak to me—only because of my mother—but I just smile politely and wave before hurrying on toward the terrace and gardens beyond. I don’t know that I have it in me to spread Mom’s political jargon tonight and God knows I don’t want to screw up and say the wrong thing.
Mom’s tantrums make a nuclear meltdown seem like a minor inconvenience.
And then Missy’s words ring in my ear.
Don’t you want to be in control of your own life?
I grit my teeth, ignoring the prying thoughts at the back of my mind and press through the double doors to the sprawling back gardens of the Pleasant Hills Country Club.
One thing Missy isn’t wrong about? The Carpenters have money. Money-money. Like so much money, you could swim in it. Mom’s wealthy, but I guess I’ve never really recognized thewealth that surrounds me until right now when it’s staring me in the face.
Sometimes I feel guilty. Other times I don’t because I know Mom worked her way up from nothing. When Dad left us, Missy and I were only seven and Mom became a single parent. We moved from Virginia to California, Mom started her political climb at the ripe old age of thirty-three and now, she’s become the governor of California.
For a lot of reasons, I admire her perseverance.
For others . . . I hate her.
Stepping through the hedge maze where I’m sure Missy must have gone, I hear the sound of hushed voices. I follow them, but when I round the corner, my heart bottoms out in my chest.
Marcus Parker is standing in front of my sister, his lips locked with hers in a fevered embrace. He’s got her dress hiked up, her knee over his arm as he thrusts into her.
I fall back a step and just when I think I can’t move, a hand wraps around my mouth and I’m hauled back before I can even get a peep out.
Strong arms envelop me and though I try to fight them off, the person they belong to isn’t at all swayed as they drag me back out of the hedge maze.
When I’m finally set to my feet, I spin around to unleash on whoever the hell grabbed me when I’m struck, yet again.
Hurricane eyes. Hard jaw. Broad shoulders.
So, he did come . . .
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice is breathier than usual as my heart feels like it’s going to high step out of my chest.
“Saving your ass,” Mason Carpenter says, lighting the end of a cigarette. I’ve always hated the scent of cigarettes and maybeit’s just my schoolgirl crush on the titan of a man, but now, I find it . . . attractive.
Cue the internal eyerolls.
And then my cheeks burn when I remember the old flannel he loaned me that I never gave back.
“Again,” he adds, drawing on the end of his cigarette.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I reach for the cigarette, plucking it out of his fingers and raising it to my lips. I feel like a toddler, mimicking the actions of an adult. Especially when he watches me, gaze as dark and all-consuming as it was four months ago when I put my lips to it and pull. The moment the nicotine-filled smoke hits my lungs, my throat closes and I cough.
Great, Hannah. Really cool.
I don’t miss the amusement in his eyes when I hand it back to him and for some reason, I’m surprised when he raises it back to his lips, pink lipstick stain and all.
“What are they doing?” I ask quietly, wrapping my arms around myself. It’s chilly in September at night, despite the warmth of the daytime weather in SoCal, but I refuse to ask him for his leather jacket.
I’d probably end up keeping it and sleeping in it every night, anyway.
Mason cocks a brow, taking a long drag and billowing out a puff of smoke. “You really have to ask?”
My stomach twists painfully. My sister, having an illicit affair with a married man.
No wonder she hates the Carpenters so much.
