The Hate Vow by Nicole French

Seventeen

Ifollowed Eric onto a relatively quiet block on what the signs said was West Seventy-Sixth Street. In contrast with the bustle of Central Park and some of the larger streets we crossed, this was downright idyllic.

“What neighborhood is this?” I asked as we passed several tall brick buildings and a bunch of Edith Wharton-style brownstones.

“The Upper West Side,” he said. “I figured having the park between us and the family would be a reasonable buffer.”

I chuckled. “You would be right.” I gazed up and down the street, which was lined with bright green maples waving in the summer breeze. “Where are your offices again? Will your commute be bad?”

He laughed. “All the way downtown. But it will be fine. I don’t want to live by Wall Street anyway.” He stopped in front of a giant brownstone with L-shaped stairs leading up to a second-floor entrance. “Well, here we are.”

I stared up at it in awe. “Please don’t tell me this entire thing is ours.”

“Jane, you know we can afford it, right? We could buy this whole block if we really wanted.” Eric peered up at the building, but with a lot less dismay than I had. It was almost as if he were considering the possibility.

I swallowed. It was a funny thing, the money. We’d been tossing around the numbers like they meant nothing. Twenty million. Forty million. Seventeen billion. They were all purely theoretical. I still had less than a thousand dollars currently in my savings account. I was still staying with friends and, until a few days ago, my mother’s couch. I still had no real place to live.

Until now.

“What if I didn’t want to live in a giant house like this?” I asked, half joking. “Didn’t you ever think of asking me, huh?”

“Jane, I’m about to inherit a seventeen-billion-dollar fortune. People are going to expect me to maintain a certain lifestyle.”

I turned. “Do you actually care what people expect?”

Until now, I genuinely thought he didn’t. Even in law school, Eric sort of moved to the beat of his own drum. It wasn’t a particularly ostentatious drum. It was a drum that wore khaki pants and enjoyed a good vodka. And most of the time, the beat worked well with others. But it always kept its own cadence. Whenever I or anyone else dished out some ribbing, that drum kept beating, totally undisturbed.

I thought that was the entire point of this ruse, of asking me to be his partner in such an absurd crime. We both respected each other’s rights to unique rhythms.

Eric examined me for a moment. “Some people,” he said finally, then walked up the steps. “And don’t worry,” he said as he took a set of keys from his pocket. “It’s just the top floor.” He grinned. “If it still doesn’t meet your requirements, we could probably buy the floor below us too.”

* * *

“Just the top floor”ended up being four bedrooms (including a giant walk-in closet in the master), two baths, a full dining room, living room, and massive kitchen. Plus exclusive access to the rooftop garden. In New York freaking City.

“Oh. My. God!” I spun around in a circle, my arms spread wide as I danced around the living room. “This place is huuuuge.”

Eric leaned against the old fireplace mantle and crossed his arms, satisfied. A smile curved over his features as he watched me spin. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it?” I asked. “I love it! You have no idea what kind of shoebox I’ve been living in for the last five years. My studio in Chicago wasn’t even the size of the walk-in closet.”

“I thought we’d need space,” Eric said. “For those days when you can’t take me anymore.”

We meandered down the halls together, in and out of the other rooms.

“I figured you could use one of these as a design space or office or whatever,” he said, gesturing toward one of the smaller bedrooms.

I ducked in. “Aww, you remembered.”

“Do you still have that old sewing machine?”

I turned from the giant window that looked over the top of the neighboring brownstones. “Old Betty? Of course. I’d never get rid of her. She’s a classic.”

“I just remember her weighing about seventy pounds,” Eric joked. “It was not fun helping you and Skylar move into housing third year.”

I chuckled. “That’s right, I forgot that you and that kid from the Stats department helped us move…” I snapped my fingers. “I can see his face. Lanky, a little on the shorter side. Nice ass, but kind of…calculating in bed. No pun intended. God, what was his name?”

“His name was Jordan,” Eric said just a little shortly. But when I looked up, his face was as placid as ever. “I usually remember the people I bring home with me.”

“That’s because you never bring anyone home,” I retorted. “You let them do the hosting so you could skip out in the morning. If you remember all of your conquests, Petri dish, then I’m the Queen of England.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Point taken. But just for the record, you were the best I ever had, Jane,” he said, his voice suddenly low. Almost taunting. “And I’d bet a lot of money the same goes for me.”

I gulped. With a lot of difficulty. Just like that, every ounce of sexual tension from the gym was back, practically making waves through the air.

Was he the best I ever had?

Of course he was, you fool. Head and shoulders above every man on that godforsaken list.

Okay, so that was an open-and-shut case.

Eric cleared his throat. “If we’re really going to do this whole platonic-roommates thing, it would be helpful if you’d make an effort not to be so…”

“So what?”

His gray eyes flashed. “Tempting.”

“What-what do you mean?”

He tipped his head. “You were biting your lip again.”

I swallowed again. “Please. I’m not the one walking around with a stepladder for a stomach these days.”

A slow, lazy grin spread across Eric’s face. “What, this?” He pulled up his T-shirt and gazed down at his six-pack as if he just realized it was there.

“Gah! Yes! Put those things away, de Vries! You’re going to put my eye out with those edges!” I mimed like I was blocking the sun.

Eric laughed and let his shirt drop, somewhat to my disappointment. I could get used to looking at that kind of man candy on a regular basis.

“I don’t know when you found the time to get so stacked in the last five years,” I said. “I’ve been working like a maniac since we graduated. It’s been insane.”

The thought sobered me, but I didn’t feel as sad as I probably should. I worked my keister off like any new lawyer—building connections and slowly working my way up the ladder of assignments. There were plenty of bad guys to prosecute in New York. But I didn’t seem to care about getting any of them. Not here. Boston. Chicago. Not anywhere.

And I still hadn’t really asked myself why.

We walked around the rest of the apartment, and I oohed and ahhed appropriately whenever Eric showed me a feature, like the newly stripped hardwoods, the refurbished crown molding, or balcony that opened off the living room over the street.

“I figured you could take the master, since you’re the clothes horse,” he said.

“Please, Petri,” I replied. “Like you don’t have at least a hundred different tailored suits in that icebox of yours in Boston.”

“I’ll have another closet put in.”

I ignored the way my stomach flipped at the fact that we’d be sleeping in separate bedrooms. Well, of course you will, Jane Brain, said my father’s voice, amused.You wanted it that way, didn’t you, kiddo?

I walked around the room and stopped at the window. There were a few pedestrians making their way busily to Broadway or Columbus Street. Women pushing strollers, a mailman, more than one professional on their way to lunch. Everyone had somewhere to go.

“Eric,” I said as I looked out. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

His footsteps sounded on the hardwood floors behind me, and when he came to a stop and looked out the window with me, he was just a little closer than socially acceptable for a platonic fiancé. Close enough that I could smell the fresh, rainy scent of his shampoo and the very light, dusky overlay of the cologne he preferred. I closed my eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything, Jane,” he said. “That’s the beauty of all of this. You can relax. I’ll take care of everything, and you can figure out your next step. And whatever it is…I’ll support you.”

I turned. “I don’t want to do nothing,” I pronounced. “I’m not looking to be your kept woman or whatever.”

Eric’s smile emerged again, crooked this time, like he was trying to fight it. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I certainly hope not.”

He tipped his head. “Do you want to practice law still? From what I recall, you mostly came to Harvard because of your dad, right?”

I softened. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

He propped a hand against the window, encasing me against its corner. “I remember everything about you, Jane.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe properly. That’s what happens when you have six feet, two inches of beautiful blond man cornering you against a window on a summer day, gazing at you with the reminder that he once knew your entire soul.

Oh, damn. Don’t do this now, Eric. Don’t make me fall in love with you again…

“I never wanted to hurt you, you know,” he said quietly.

Suddenly, I was bare. Open.

“But you did.” I ducked under his arm and stepped away. “And I…I hurt you too.”

When he looked up, his mask had dropped even more. His eyes flashed still, but with sparks of pain, not lust.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “You did.”

* * *

“God, they’re even fucking red!” I shouted as I ran around the apartment, trying to locate my things.

“Well, at least it’s not a fucking person lurking around. I mean, at least you don’t have to see the asshole who just fucked the woman you love like a used sex toy!”

I wasn’t a violent person. I had a temper, sure, but generally it came out with words, not actions. Before I could stop myself, though, my hand flew out like a pinwheel, taking my body with it as I spun around and landed a hard slap across Eric’s face.

“That,” I seethed, “is the last time you will talk about me in that way. Ever.”

Eric stood there, a statue while he pressed his hand to the now-reddened splotch on his left cheek. “Fine. By. Me,” he bit out.

“I’m going to the airport.”

“I’ll call you a cab.”

“Don’t fucking call me anything!” I turned back to finish stuffing the few bits of clothing and makeup I’d scattered around his room. “Or anymore. Ever again.”

* * *

The echoesof that fight seemed to invade this clean, new space. I hated the voices. I wanted them gone.

“You know, in spite of all of that, I’ve missed you.”

Eric’s voice chased the voices away, a soothing balm to their harsh blows. He walked toward me, and when I didn’t immediately move away, his fingers intertwined with mine again, playing with them like laces on a shoe. His skin was warm, and this close I could smell that familiar mix of cologne, his soap, and something fresh that always lingered around him. Linen. Light.

“Eric…” I murmured.

“No, not like that,” he said, though his face looked the slightest bit pained as he released my hand. “I mean as friends, Jane. We were already friends, even before things went south. Weren’t we?”

I thought about it. We hadn’t been particularly close, connected more through Skylar than anything. Sure, there had been that one hot month during our first year of law school, but we’d parted ways amicably that time.

Well, as amicably as a bottle of wine and some tears required, that irritatingly smug voice inside my head countered.

Shut up, you.

Still, he wasn’t wrong. We’d spent countless nights in bars, study groups, classes, etc. together over those three years, always teasing, always laughing. Never hating like this. Whenever I thought about law school, there was always Eric. He had just always…been there.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We were friends.”

Slowly, like he was trying to touch a wild animal, his hand rose up and floated over my face, almost like he was going to cup my chin again, but he didn’t. It was a completely different gesture than his grab at the gym. This was tentative. Almost in awe.

“I almost kissed you today,” he said, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I really wanted to.”

My lips fell open, as I found I needed to remind myself to breathe, as my lungs still weren’t working properly again. “I know you did.”

“I want to now,” he admitted, his thumb just grazing the plump edges of my mouth. His tongue slipped out, and he licked his own lower lip. “But I won’t. Not until you ask me. Not unless you want to.”

I did want to. Every bone in my body was screaming for it. I had those memories too, the ones of him lifting me up, fucking me against everything and anything. The memories where I would rip his shirts off, take him in my mouth, take him everywhere, again and again until we were both exhausted of this constant, aching need we could never seem to be rid of.

It would feel so good to do it now. To give in.

But. That was just bodies. The hard part was what came after, and I had decided not to complicate things. What good would that do, especially when we were finally starting to get along again?

“I am not asking for that…now.”

The last word fell out before I could help it. Like I couldn’t quite eliminate the possibility.

Eric’s eyes sparked, but he dropped my hand and stepped back.

He pulled the schedule out of his pocket and examined it again. These weren’t just frivolous events, as he’d explained on our walk through the park. These were places for him to network. Understand the other ways the family business was run outside of the office. These events were where we would both make our debuts into this strange, archaic society of elites—Eric as its prodigal son, and me as his outsider bride.

It was important to everyone that we make a clean entry, in spite of my inherent shock value. Or at least participate.

“Jane, I didn’t ask you to marry me so we could be lovers. Really. But I did ask hoping that maybe we could be friends again,” Eric said. “I’m returning to this sharkfest alone. And I’d really like not to be.”

We stared at each other for what seemed like hours. We were both at a disadvantage. I understood what he meant. To survive the next five years, we’d need to be a team. We’d need to be partners. Somehow.

For the first time, I really thought we might be able to do it.

“Am I going to have to…hostess…here?” I asked, gesturing around the apartment, if only to break the awkwardness. “You know, like Lady Crawley?”

I’d read enough period novels to know how it worked with aristocratic wives. And this might be twenty-first century New York, not Downton Abbey, but Celeste’s dinner showed me that gendered labor wasn’t exactly a thing of the past. I had a feeling that a lot of the informal duties would still fall on me.

But Eric, thankfully, shook his head. “Not here. If we do have to do anything like that, it will be at my cousin’s, my aunt’s, or my grandmother’s, her health allowing. Nina and Aunt Violet will need to get used to it anyway, considering I’ll abdicate this shit to her after the five years is up.”

I snorted. He talked about being the head of a multinational corporation like it was the throne of England. But, I supposed, in a way it was.

“I want this place to be our sanctuary, Jane. Just yours and mine.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” I replied, looking around. “No decorators, all right? And no icebox furniture. Just hand me a budget, and I’ll deal with it. You’ll like it, I promise.”

“Jane. A budget? Really?”

Eric gave me a look one might give a small child who asked if ice cream was actually cold, or something equally banal. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a credit card, which he handed to me with a smirk.

I gawked. “Is this a black Amex?”

Eric nodded. “There’s a number on the back for the concierge. Call them for literally anything you want. They’ll pick up day or night. Oh, and here.” He pulled out a business card, which I also accepted.

“Bridget McAvoy,” I read.

“Our personal assistant.”

I looked up. “We have an assistant?”

Eric chuckled. “We have a lot of things now, Jane.” Tentatively, he reached out and ran his knuckles down my arm. “You’re giving up a lot to do this for me. I’d like it if you’d enjoy the perks.”

“Well,” I said as I fingered the heavy metal card. “I suppose I will. Any requests before I go berserk?”

Eric grinned, and I almost fell over backwards. But before he could answer, his phone rang, a soft, quiet tune that sounded like Mozart. He pulled it out and frowned.

“Shit,” he muttered. Then he looked up, almost worried. “I’ll, um, be right back.”

Without waiting for my answer, he left the room—left the apartment, actually. However, in his haste to talk to whoever was on the line, he’d left the front door slightly ajar, making his voice audible when I tiptoed out into the living room.

“I told you, I’m done with all of that shit, Jude.”

I approached the door quietly, unapologetically eavesdropping. Hey, if the man didn’t want me to hear, he should have shut the door.

“I’ve been out for ten years,” Eric continued. “You can tell Carson and the rest of them too. I’m done.”

There was a long pause while Eric’s pacing increased.

“Don’t tell me that,” he hissed. “Don’t you fucking tell me that. There’s got to be a way out.”

Another pause. His footsteps turned to stomps.

“Fine,” he spat. “I’ll tell them myself, at the next meeting…” He paused again. “Because I’m not at his beck and fucking call, that’s why. If I have to go to this bullshit, they can wait too.”

His footsteps drew closer, and I scurried back to the window seat that looked down on Seventy-Sixth Street.

Eric reentered the apartment, all traces of good will erased. The mask was firmly back in place—he was back to being the de Vries heir. My Eric—my friend—was gone.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

He just blinked and tipped his head toward the door. “Time to go,” he said. “I have to get back to the office. Can you get this place sleepable by tonight? At least buy a couple of mattresses? I need to get the fuck out of the Upper East Side.”

I flipped the black Amex card around with glee. “Oh, yeah. You leave it to me.”