LOVE AND HATE (A Billionaire Romance) (4 page)

“We’re gonna sleep on it. Dinner tomorrow.” My phone buzzed.

Ryan, who was kind of like a nagging Jewish mother in the body of a very wealthy thirty-year old, gave me a look. “Shut that thing off. We’re here to relax.”

“Yes, Mom.” I checked the phone.

Hey. Still don’t feel much like dinner, drinks later maybe? Kenz

Whoa. I hadn’t seen that coming. I’d expected the text to be from Kevin, my personal assistant, who was in charge of the office this weekend in New York. He’d been pestering me with questions about little details, and I was about ready to block his number. Whatever else he had could undoubtedly wait until Monday when I got back.

But this…

“It’s her.”

“Her, your wife?”

“Dude, stop saying that word.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you got one.”

I flipped him the bird and considered my response to Mackenzie.

“She’s gonna flip her shit when she finds out who you really are. She can’t handle this lifestyle, bro. She’s going to take you for everything you have and bleed you dry unless you put a damper on this right now.”

I hadn’t put a prenup in the papers. I hadn’t told my lawyer yet, but he was going to murder me.

“And Serena? She’s going to eat this woman alive.”

“I know, I know. I just… liked her.”

“Past tense?” Ryan’s a sharp one.

“Like her. I told you, she freaked a little this morning.”

I pulled up the photo on my phone, the two of us leaning drunkenly against one another, and she looked amazing. Her breasts were about to pop out of the silly mermaid dress, which hugged her hips and thighs. I hated myself for not being able to remember what she looked like out of the mermaid dress. Standing next to her in an ill-fitting rental tuxedo (I hadn’t brought any of my custom tailored ones to Vegas, having no idea I was going to need one), I looked like any other tourist schlub. My hair was tousled, and sunglasses were perched on my head. My crooked smile actually looked better than 99% of the publicity shots I’d been a part of. I didn’t like the happiness I revealed in the photo.

Mackenzie looked happy, too, though, and I knew for a fact she wasn’t. That had not been a happy woman leaving my room this afternoon. Ryan was right. Annul it as soon as possible, then see about Giuliana.

I typed into the phone,
Sounds good to me. Anywhere in mind?

Margaritaville?

Seriously? The Jimmy Buffet place? I didn’t know if I could handle that. But no matter what I liked to think, it wasn’t all about me.

Never been. Sounds like fun,
I lied.
What time do you want me to meet you there?

We decided on eight, and she said she’d catch me later.

“Dude, this is so weird.”

“You think it’s weird…”

“You’re going on this super awkward date with a new girlfriend, but everything is super old-fashioned, and oh yeah, she’s already your wife.”

He had summed the situation up perfectly, actually. I suspected this meant I couldn’t see other people. Unless, maybe, Mackenzie was cool with that. You never know until you ask, right?

Ryan came very close to an honest-to-god spit take when I told him where we were going. “What the hell are you going to wear? You really want to go there?”

“Apparently there’s a two-story volcano, and a hot chick slides into a blender full of margaritas.”

“Why am I not surprised? Sounds classy. Send pics if the chick is hot.”

“Will do.”

# # #

It surprised me, but I was actually nervous about seeing Mackenzie as eight o’clock drew near. I settled on a pair of khaki cargo shorts, a mauve t-shirt, and a plaid button down. It was as dressed down as I’d been in a very long time. Sneakers completed the look. I’m not a big fan of dudes in flip flops. No one needed to see my man-toes.

I got to the bar early and took a seat on the outside deck overlooking the strip. I know it’s hokey and cheesy, but I do love this city. I once sat outside the Bellagio and watched a couple from New Jersey loudly break up, screaming at each other with thick accents. I loved the drinks and the all-the-time-party atmosphere. I loved people-watching most of all. While I waited for Mackenzie, I watched.

A bachelorette party sat at the table closest to mine, and all the girls were verbally swarming over some guy named Frank. From what I could tell, he was the maid of honor’s fiancé, and she was pretty sure he was cheating. They talked loudly about what a jerk he was, except the bride (identified by a sash and a tiara) who hung back, frowning. I wondered how they’d like it if I leaned in and reminded them they were at a bachelorette party and should pay attention to the bride. They probably wouldn’t like it very much, so I kept my mouth shut and listened as I watched the never ending stream of people on the strip.

I’d angled my seat so I could see the Imperial Palace. I hoped to get a glimpse of Mrs. Creed before she arrived. I got a margarita and a water. After last night, I was much more interested in the second beverage than the first.

I must have missed her coming over from the Palace because she appeared suddenly at my side, a breathtaking vision in a casual yellow dress. Wow. I’d remembered her as hot, and the picture in the mermaid dress was very attractive, but this was on a whole other level. The mermaid look wasn’t her, but this, I could tell, was. The neckline was high with a little frill, and the dress was sleeveless with a cinch around her tiny waist. She even had pockets. And it was short. Her legs were about a mile long, and she’d paired the dress with strappy sandals that came almost up to her knees.

I stood up, hitting the table with my hip and sloshing my drink. “Hey.” I smiled at her. The setting sun bounced off her wavy brown hair. I wanted to plunge my fingers into it.

“Hey,” she replied. She pulled out her own chair and sat. Neither one of us, I noticed, wore our rings.

“How are you feeling?” I asked while at the same time she said, “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning.”

Simultaneously, I said, “Don’t worry about it” as she said, “A little better, thanks.”

We stopped talking, an awkward pause. She laughed. I liked the lines of her throat, the way the tendons stood out. What a weird thing to notice.

“I’m kinda hungover myself.” I gestured to the drinks on the table. “I’m way more excited about this water than the margarita.”

Mackenzie’s face fell a bit. “These are the best margaritas on the strip.” I highly doubted that. “I mean, there may be some that cost more and are more fancy, but every sip of these takes me back to Key West when I turned twenty-one. Puts me on the beach there.”

Her little story gave me more fond feelings towards the cheesy tourist place than I’d had before.

Her cheeks reddened, and she looked down at her hands. “How was your day?”

“Good. Relaxing. Went to the pool for a while with my friend Ryan, got a massage. Tried to drink every drop of water I could get near my face. I watched Ryan lose a whole bunch of money on a slot machine. Pretty average Vegas day after a rough Vegas night.”

“But not an average Vegas night.”

“Ha, no. Not by a long shot.”

This was the part where I probably should suggest having the marriage annulled so we can move on with our lives.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Mackenzie suggested.

“Sounds good to me.” I finished my water but left the margarita.

Mackenzie

I almost didn’t recognize him dressed like a normal person. If you studied him closely, though, you’d notice the sunglasses probably cost close to a thousand dollars. His collared shirt, plaid in shades of greens and blues, wasn’t from Gap or Old Navy—you know, places I shopped—but from H&M or something more costly. His soft-looking maroon t-shirt probably cost about fifty bucks. Don’t get me started on the sneakers. He didn’t seem as cocky as he had last night. He wasn’t wearing his ring either. Seeing his naked finger made me feel a little better.

I’d called Mr. Fallon as soon as my stomach had stopped screaming at me. He’d doused me with accolades over the phone, telling me how I was a natural go-getter and showed an initiative like he’d never seen.

“I was worried you’d crumble when your fella left you,” Fallon had said. I opened my mouth to remind him I had been the one to leave the fella, but it wasn’t worth it. “Remember, Mackenzie. When God closes a door he opens a window.” I was confused… Did he think I was falling in love with Scott Creed? “Your personal life may be in the shitter, but your career’s really going to take off. We might be able to use you in some of the other offices like this.”

My boss’s approval created a glowing in my mind, regardless of whether it should have or not. No matter if he’s a sleaze-ball who spends more time ogling me than he probably should. Susie got in the shower, and I sat alone in the room. Our windows looked over the backside of the hotel, a few air handlers and a rooftop. I was basically prostituting myself for my job.

He’d mentioned a raise. Detangling my finances from Lucas’ was going to be expensive. A new apartment, a new car. Those student loans dangling over my head. My credit card debt. No more shared expenses. Ugh, I’d have to get my own Netflix account. I pushed the thoughts out of my head and texted Scott.

Now, we left Margaritaville, the titular song following us to the crepuscular strip. “You’re not much of a Parrothead, are you?” I’d have fun with Scott because I had to. Thoughts of Lucas still crept in, still hurt. Well, this was my fling. We’d just get an annulment at the end, that was all.

“I’m sorry?”

I laughed at him. “Jimmy Buffet fans are called Parrotheads.”

“By who?”

“Themselves. It’s a thing.”

“I’d punch anyone who called me a Parrothead.”

“Would you really?”

Scott chuckled. “No. I wouldn’t. I can’t remember the last time I punched someone.”

“I can.” Vividly. “Eighth grade, Missy Fontaine. She kissed my boyfriend under the monkey bars.”

Scott let out a slow whistle. “That’s serious.”

“It totally was.” I caught myself. I wasn’t supposed to actually be having fun with Scott Creed. This was all a ruse. An act.

“So do you self-identify as a Parrothead?” he asked, pronouncing the word carefully, like something foreign.

“No. I mean, not really. The diehard fans are really intense. I just like the restaurants, and because I have fond memories of them with my family, I’m kinda into Jimmy Buffet. But I don’t think I rise to the rank of Parrothead.”

“Would you be offended if I said I was relieved?”

“You know, I think I would be.”

I laughed, he laughed, and we found ourselves in front of the Bellagio fountains sharing an incredible moment. The song
Singular Sensation
played, and the water and lights danced to the music. Of everything I’d seen in the city, this fountain was my favorite. People pressed in around us to watch the fountain show. In the crowd were buskers: Vegas show girls charging for photos, a guy break dancing (who was actually really good), a guy dressed in a Transformers outfit, and Hello Kitty.

I thought of my brother, who couldn’t resist the slot machines, horse racing, any of it. He’d be so jealous if he knew I was here. The carnival atmosphere sort of contradicted the elegance of the Bellagio and the fountains. I let my gaze rise. Somewhere up there was the penthouse suite where I’d consummated my wedding night. My empty, still-tender stomach groaned at the thought. I wondered how long before one of us acknowledged that we’d gotten married last night after knowing one another only four hours.

Scott and I stood beside each other, not touching. The space between us was conspicuous and electric, and I wanted to close it, but didn’t want to want to, if that makes sense. This was business. Strictly commercial. I looked around, groping for words. I immediately regretted what floated out of my mouth. I meant them to be conversational, inspired by the little advertisements for call girls and strippers that litter the strip.

“I’ve never been to a strip club.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Do you want to?”

“Uh.” Nice work, Mackenzie. Way to dig yourself into this hole.

“There are some here that are much classier than average. If you want to do it right, this is the place. I mean, there are also some really sketchy ones, so if you wanted to go to a dive, we can make that happen, too. Ladies’ choice.”

“The nice one?” I twisted my voice up in a question.

Of course Scott Creed would be an expert on Las Vegas strip clubs. This was the man whose email bragging about a “hat trick” with three of the most beautiful supermodels in America had leaked the year before. None of the women denied it, just smirked smug, satisfied smiles at the camera.

I, apparently, had experienced this coveted lovemaking the night before and remembered none of it. What does Mackenzie Thomas have in common with supermodel Ivanka Moriarty? We’ve both been in bed with Scott Creed. She didn’t get to marry him, though.

Scott whipped out his cell phone and turned away from me. I heard a few choppy, declarative sentences. A table being reserved at a strip club? He hung up, and turned back to me. “Right this way.”