Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

“I don’t know this because Dan Parkinson did and they told him they would love to work with him, but Mr. Gastineau has a two-year waiting list. And Wyn,” she indicated herself with her glass, “this woman is not waiting two years.”

“Remy’s people said that to Parkinson?”

She nodded.

“Well, he is in demand. But he’s trained some amazing juniors in his firm and—”

“I want Gastineau. So did Parky. They said they’d work with him, but they couldn’t move him up. Gastineau did Dobbie Heald’s place up in Wyoming. I’ve been there and it’s sublime. No one else will do.”

I remembered that design.

It was sublime.

“Well, obviously, I’ll leave here and call Remy and tell him I’m willing to sit down and discuss our future, but only if he delays every project he’s working on and puts you at the top of the list.”

“Oh honey, no. He can have a month or two to get sorted. I have to find the perfect plot of land and decide what I want to put on it. Then I want to be top of the list.”

I burst out laughing.

She pointed to my menu and said, “I’m starving, baby. Let’s eat.”

I picked up my menu, glanced at it, then back to her. “I’ll love it that you’re closer.”

“And I’ll be happy to have a friend in town.”

“Thank you for listening and not letting me pull shit, even on myself.”

“I will be honest and say I didn’t do it to get on the top of your ex’s list.”

I nodded.

“But it better buy me the top of your ex’s list,” she finished.

And again, I burst out laughing.





CHAPTER 11





Monkey Bar





Wyn





You’re right. We need to talk.

The instant that text whooshed away, doing whatever geniuses had allowed it to do to go from my phone to Remy’s, I had second thoughts.

However, I’d also had a second martini as well as two glasses of wine with dinner.

So I was on the other side of tipsy.

The dangerous side.

Fiona Flipping Remington drove me home with her bodyguard trailing, and I’d promised to view lots and properties with her tomorrow even though I had a very full schedule.

She was gone and now I was tipsy-texting.

I didn’t care.

She was right.

I should hear what Remy had to say.

And really, what the hell?

He couldn’t come right out and give things to me?

What was with the mystery?

Bluh.

Text him.

Talk.

Mystery solved!

So there!

I wandered into my bedroom then my bathroom, and I did my evening routine by rote.

Down to bra and panties.

Brush teeth.

Makeup off.

Cleanse face.

Use rice polish to gently exfoliate.

Night serum and under eye moisturizer.

Put on jammies (indigo satin with huge, swirling gold flowers, cami edged in a delicate line of indigo lace, long bottoms, and I made this choice because the set had a matching short kimono, and I wasn’t done with my tipsy evening, so I needed the robe).

I then went to the kitchen, poured myself another glass of wine, and went back to my bedroom.

Moisturizer over the serum and then I turned off the bathroom lights, climbed into my huge bed, situated me and my wine in the middle, and I phoned Bea.

“So you’ve finally called to apologize?” was her greeting.

I blinked at my elegant, white, Dian Austin damask duvet cover.

“Sorry?”

“It’s been nearly a week,” she stated.

I wasn’t certain why she shared this information with me.

But I was on a mission, so I got on with that.

“Bea, we need to sit down and talk.”

“Great. Happy to accept your apology face to face.”

Uh…sorry?

“What, exactly, do I have to apologize for?” I asked.

“Hanging up on me?” she asked back sarcastically. “Your inability to listen to some cold, hard truths without being ugly to me?”

“Are you for real?” I whispered.

“So you aren’t calling to apologize? Instead, you’re calling to…what? Hand me more of your denials that your ex was a piece of shit who walked all over you and…”

She kept talking, but I stopped listening because I sensed movement in the room and my head shot up.

There stood Remy three feet from the foot of my bed.

My mouth dropped open.

He spoke.

“You said we need to talk?”

“Who’s that?” Bea asked in my ear.

“Call you later,” I said hurriedly, hung up and dropped the phone on the bed. “How’d you get in here?”

“You never asked for the key back, Wyn, and obviously you didn’t change the locks.” He lifted a hand and his key ring dangled from his fingers. “Have you considered why you didn’t do that?”

Okay.

Oh God.

Oh shit.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

He took a step forward.

I noticed he was wearing black joggers and a heathered gray, long-sleeved T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and pecs, and even in his casual, hang-out-at-home clothes, he looked like he was waiting for Grace Coddington to call him in front of the camera.