when his jaw tightens. He almost seems to wince. Then she’s close enough to reach for him. He drapes an arm around her shoulder, a gentleman greeting a fond acquaintance, and I realize who she is: Priscilla Heat, infamous porn star and my good friend Cross’s arch nemesis. I don’t know what went wrong between the two of them—he hasn’t even told me how he knows her—but Cross seriously hates the woman.
I wonder if he’s seen her yet. I wonder how she knows Hunter.
A soft giggle pulls me back to earth, to Suri, who’s standing beside me in front of a wall of glass doors that lead onto a balcony overlooking Hunter’s vineyards. I turn to Suri, but I can still sense Hunter at the other end of the room, exuding a low-level hum that makes my electrons feel unstable.
“I knew you still wanted to do him,” Suri giggles, wiggling her eyebrows like she’s trying to attract attention.
“I do not,” I hiss.
Squinting my left eye, I look around us, mindful of who is close enough to eavesdrop. I can’t see faces clearly because my left contact fell out in Suri’s limousine, but I think I spot Carolitta Hamshon in a circle of gowns just beyond the couch in front of me.
I angle my body more toward Suri. “I do not,” I whisper, even lower. There’s no way I want Carolitta’s coven of bitches to hear this. It’s embarrassing enough that Suri spotted me ogling.
“Yes you do, girlie. You’ve wanted him since sweet sixteen.”
Suri knows all about the time Mom’s Porsche broke down on the winding road that runs past West Vineyard. Hunter came to my rescue at just past midnight, leaving a beautiful brunette in a silky gown watching from his front door as he pushed Mom’s Porsche down his long driveway and into his garage.
He’d pushed it up a ramp and stripped down to his jeans, then pulled out a rolling body board, eased his broad torso onto it, and scooted his fine self beneath the belly of the car. He emerged twenty minutes later covered in oil smudges, with grease in his golden hair and a self-satisfied smile on his tiger face, inexplicably smelling slightly of bourbon.
After that, he’d insisted I stay the night in his spacious guesthouse. Suri also knows how, the next morning, I’d heard moans coming from the direction of the pool. And how, from that point on, my insides have quivered every time I see him on Moneyline or read about his poker tournaments.
It’s even worse when the gossip blogs feature him toting a trophy date to this event or that. Every time I read about him with a woman, I feel like scratching her eyeballs out.
I don’t like it, but it’s something I’ve resigned myself to living with.
“I’m not lying,” I mumble, but Suri’s no longer paying attention to me. She’s shifted slightly in her silver Manolos, tossing a not-at-all-discreet glance Hunter’s way.
“Suri, stop,” I hiss.
“His eyes are almost yellow,” she murmurs, this time having the tact to lean her head near mine. “You told me they were green, but when he passed by earlier, I swear they looked like cat eyes.”
I nod. I think of him as part tiger. He’s languid to the point of appearing almost lazy, and yellow or green, those eyes are framed by ridiculous lashes, set in a strong face with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a sensuous smile.
I hear his chuckle, low and warmer than a gulp of bourbon, and I swear my knees shake under my slip like a debutant on her first night out.
“Elizabeth DeVille, I think you have your first boy obsession.”
She says ‘boy’ obsession because Suri has a long standing joke-suspicion that I’m gay.
“He’s not my obsession,” I whisper, tight-jawed. I can feel sweat prickling underneath my arms, and the truth is, I’m starting to get a little upset as I worry Hunter will somehow know.
“Suuure he’s not. Save it for the funnies, girlie.” Suri winks, and then her boyfriend Adam Hamilton pops up, smiling at us both and holding two wine flutes. He hands one to me and presses the other into Suri’s hand. He glances from my face to hers and frowns, his eyebrows scrunching.
“What is it?” Suri giggles. Suri is always giggling. If she were a party drink, she’d be champagne for sure.
“There’s something here,” he says, pointing accusingly from Suri to me. “You’re doing one of those girl things where you talk about someone and they don’t even know