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“If it’sthere, you’re going to send me that dirty text right here and now. I want to watch your face while you type it out.”
Anger pierces through me. What the hell is wrong with this guy? He barged into my cab and is talking to me like we’ve known each other forever, except we’re basically total strangers. We’ve interacted a grand total of twice, once at the Oak Club, and years before that at the homecoming game when I was just a kid. Otherwise, Ford’s nothing more than a rumor to me.
Whodoessomething like this?
Men like Ford do. Men that have everything: money, looks, intelligence, charm. Men that are used to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it, especially from quiet, meek girls like me. Ford probably thinks that just because I’m not the slimmest girl in the world, I’ll throw myself at him and be tripping over myself to please him just for one second of his attention. I bet Ford’s been using that card trick for years andyears, and the girls almost always call him. I bet he isn’t used to a womannotthrowing herself at him.
Anger turns to bile, and I feel stifled and trapped. Ford’s gorgeous but there’s a gleam in his eye that I remember from the part of that first interaction I try not to think about too much: the pure, sick glee on his face as he hurt Sara Lynn. For years I’ve held on to that memory because Sara Lynn has so rarely gotten what she deserves, but that one aspect has always haunted me.
Ford looked like he enjoyed hurting her. Like he got a sick pleasure from it. And when he told me she could throw me off a cliff for all he cared, I realized it really wasn’t about me at all, and it wasn’t about getting some kind of justice for Sara Lynn’s bullying.
It was entirely about the pain.
He liked hurting her.
I don’t know why—there could be a million reasons—but he liked it.
And now I’m alone with that monster in a cab, and we’re playing some game.
“You definitely still have my card,” he says, watching me from his side of the cab. “How many times have you taken it out? Have you smelled it? Tasted it? Did you think about me while you licked it?”
“I don’t put disgusting things in my mouth.”
“Oh, darling, I have so many things I’d love to see you put between those lovely lips of yours.”
I grimace and shake my head. “This is going too far.Waytoo far.”
He laughs lowly. “Don’t pretend like you’re not enjoying our little game.”
“Mostly I’m just confused.” I glance at him. “And you’re a little too full of yourself for my taste.”
“And youaremy taste.”
I feel a shiver and refuse to let him see the flush of excitement. All this man has to do is say he finds me attractive and I’m suddenly ready to throw myself at him? I can’t be that pathetic. I refuse to be. He’s obviously lying, and this is clearly another attempt by some monstrous asshole to bully me and hurt me and embarrass me, and I don’t understand why he’s doing it now of all times.
“Whatever you’re playing, I’m not interested, okay? It was nice catching up with you, Ford, but—”
He moves closer and puts a hand on my leg.
“I hear you’re looking for a husband. I happen to be looking for a wife. I think we can help each other.”
I sit back, stunned into silence, and stare at him as he removes his hand from my thigh and brushes his palm against his face like he’s feeling the residual aura of my leg.
He’s not smiling. His scarred lip is puckered up at the end, but it’s a false smirk. I touch my throat and grip my clutch tighter and think of him brushing against my hip back at the Oak Club. Did he know about the arranged marriage back then? Is he doing all this to mock me for it?
Or is this really what he says it is—I need a husband and he’s interested in filling the role?
Why the hell would Ford Arc want to marrymeof all people?
That question pulls me back to earth and I narrow my eyes at him.
“I’m sorry, but this is too weird. You’re anArcand I barely even know you. Don’t you hate my cousin?”
“I don’t hate Sara Lynn. I feel bad for her.”
I snort in disbelief. Grandfather’s always telling me not to do that and I know it’s a bad habit, but I can’t help myself. When I laugh or when I’m shocked, it’s just a little noise that slips out. “You feelbadfor her? Why? She’s got everything.”
“Her husband’s a pathetic second-rate day trader that drinks too much. She’s got so many nannies she rarely ever sees her kids. I bet Sara Lynn spends half her time sucking down expensive wines, gossiping with her other bored housewife friends, pining after thirst trap influencer boys on TikTok, and wishing her husband would drop dead of a heart attack just so she could start over. No, Kat, that’s not the ideal life. It’s a sad little existence in a sad little box.”
