Crazy Hot

  “So, can you tell us about the proposal?” the reporter asked Eliza once they were alone, his thumb resting gamely on the red record button as if it were a trigger.

  The proposal? Was there even one? Too deep into her little charade with the press to go back, Eliza thought quickly. “It was magical,” she said breathlessly. “We were standing in a gazebo at sunset, with a view of the ocean, when Jeremy went down on his knees and read a poem he’d written for me.” Okay, so neither detail was technically true, but the reporters demanded a story and Eliza knew the more Harlequin it sounded, the better it was for publicity. “I was wearing my spaghetti-strap column dress, which you can find at the boutique!” she added. Why not milk it? In Eliza’s mind, she was wearing a Holly-rock—a Hollywood-style ring whose only purpose was to show the world one was loved enough to be gifted with major bling.

  Their food arrived just as Jeremy returned to the table. Eliza beamed at him, trying not to feel too guilty about embellishing a few details. She had a flair for the dramatic, and she knew the public would be so disappointed when they heard he’d just put the ring on her finger without even saying or asking anything. What kind of proposal was that, anyway? Eliza vacillated between being thankful it was a non-proposal proposal—the kind she secretly thought was the most understatedly romantic—and worrying that it wasn’t shout-at-the-top-of-your-lungs romantic enough to share with the world. Or, more specifically, to share with the press and her adoring public.

  “Can you tell us about the poem you wrote?” the reporter asked, turning to Jeremy and shoving the tape recorder toward his face.

  “What poem?” Jeremy asked, looking puzzled and waving the recorder away with a hand.

  Eliza interrupted before the reporter could say anything more. “Can we finish this later?” she said sweetly, plastering on her best put-off smile. “As you can see, my boyfriend and I are in the middle of dinner.” She gestured to the steaming plates before them as if to emphasize her point. The newsman nodded gruffly and left.

  Jeremy grabbed his knife and tore into his steak. When he finished chewing, he looked up at her intently. “Why do you keep calling me your boyfriend?”

  “Last time I checked, you seemed to be pretty fond of me,” she said playfully, grabbing the saltshaker from its post dangerously near the edge and sprinkling its contents lightly over her grilled sole.

  “Ah, but I was reading, uh, Page Six.” Jeremy spread a little Grey Poupon over his steak before taking another bite. “And in their interview you called me your, and I quote, ‘handsome fiancé.’” He made air quotes as he said it and smirked to show that he was joking, but there was a hint of annoyance in his eyes.

  “Is something bothering you?” she asked worriedly, putting the salt back down on the table.

  “No, it’s nothing.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and wiping his hands on the napkin in his lap. “It’s just funny how you make a big deal out of our engagement to the press whenever they ask you about your store.”

  “You read Page Six?” she teased, trying to make light of it, even though she was guilty of making a big deal about it for the press—playing up the blushing bride angle was keeping her store in the news.

  Jeremy took a swig of his beer. “Sure.” His lips twitched. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t bother me either way. It’s just funny,” he said again, though it was obvious he didn’t find it all that amusing. He grabbed another roll and tore it apart with his teeth.

  Jeremy was about to say something else when another photographer walked by. “Smile for the Hampton Stan!”

  He rolled his eyes and she shrugged, but they both leaned in and flashed what Eliza thought of as their “eyebrows-at-the-same-level New York Times wedding-announcement” pose.

  The newspaper would have its shot: the perfect picture of a couple in love. But as Eliza pulled away, her brow furrowed, and Jeremy brooded behind his beer; it was obvious to anyone who’d care to look after the camera flash had passed that there was something less than perfect going on there.

  what good is a thirty-minute

  meal if your friends are more

  than thirty minutes late?

  ONE DASH OF OREGANO. TORN BASIL LEAVES. A TEASPOON of salt … or was it two teaspoons of salt? Mara checked the recipe again. One teaspoon. Oops. So dinner would be slightly salty. She picked up a pepper grinder and ground it for a few seconds above the steaming dish. There. Maybe the spiciness would combat the saltiness.

  “Mmmm … what’s cooking?”

  Mara looked up and smiled when she saw Eliza’s father. “Hey, Mr. T.” They never saw him around much since he was always on the golf course, having a sail, or out at dinner at the Maidstone. But Mara felt comfortable around Mr. Thompson, since she had spent a fair amount of time with Eliza’s family in New York over the years. He was a lot older than her father—almost a grandfather, really—and she liked him a lot.

  “I’m making spaghetti Bolognese,” Mara explained as she grabbed some cloves of garlic from the enormous Sub-Zero.

  “Fantastic.” Ryder Thompson settled onto one of the bar stools and fixed himself a drink. He looked at his watch. “Suzy better get down here soon, or we’ll miss the dinner and have to join you! Though the way things are smelling, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” He smiled and Mara began to understand where Eliza got her charm.

  Suzy blew through the kitchen wearing a wrinkled black evening dress, her hair its usual frizz bomb, magenta lipstick on her teeth. Mara knew Suzy worked so much she hardly had time for her kids, let alone for grooming herself before going out on a date with her boyfriend (though it was weird to think of Eliza’s dad as somebody’s boyfriend). “Mara!” Suzy cried when she saw her. “Does Cook know you’re in here?”

  “She does, and it’s cool.” Mara wiped her hands on her apron and tried to look as responsible as she could. Earlier today she’d had to practically beg the Finnemores’ formidable cook to let her use the kitchen. Florentia was very strict about keeping order in her domain and had tried to convince Mara to just get takeout. Mara had to swear on her life that she wouldn’t touch the complicated oven controls, since Florentia seemed equally worried that Mara would soil her pristine kitchen as that she’d burn the mansion down.

  “Okay.” Suzy nodded dubiously. She turned to Ryder. “Darling, are you ready? Do you have the tickets?”

  “I thought you had them,” he said, his forehead wrinkling in concern.

  “Oh!” Suzy exclaimed, opening her clutch and dumping the contents on the kitchen counter. Out tumbled a BlackBerry, a cell phone, a mess of gum wads, and a broken makeup compact as well as a dirty white envelope.

  “Yes, here they are. Okay.” Suzy nodded and began to haphazardly stuff everything back into her purse.

  Ryder Thompson raised his eyebrows at Mara and then downed the rest of his drink. “Well, we’re off. If you see my daughter, tell her that she does still have a curfew and that while she thinks I don’t notice when she doesn’t sleep here, I certainly do.”

  “’Kay.” Mara giggled. Parents. “Bye, Mr. T., Ms. F. I promise I won’t burn the house down!” she called after them as they made their way out the door in a frenzy of smiles and a frizz of red hair.

  Mara hummed cheerfully as she chopped up the garlic and tossed it into the sauce. It had been weeks since she and her friends had sat down together, as they’d all been remiss in making their weekly catchup meals. Earlier in the summer they’d been better about hanging out, but lately it felt like they were three different trains running on separate tracks. Of course, Jacqui and Eliza spent a lot of time together, but from what Mara could gather, hanging out gave them little time to chat—those Saucy Aussie boys, or whatever the hell they were called, were always around.

  She put some chopped vegetables in another pot to steam and glanced up at the clock. Eight thirty already. Jacqui and Eliza were running late. Typical.

  * * *

  An hour later, Mara sat at the counter, quie
tly simmering as much as the pasta sauce. She was about to clear the pots and pans when she heard the front door slam.

  “Ouch!” There was a yelp from Jacqui. “Deus, who moved the umbrella stand there?”

  “Shhh …,” Eliza whispered, laughing.

  Hearing her friends joking together while Mara sat alone, waiting, stung. It reminded her too much of their first summer in the Hamptons, when Jacqui and Eliza tore up the party scene while she was left to take care of the Perry kids on her own. Bored and lonely, she’d spent her nights pining for Ryan, who didn’t even know she existed back then. It was three years later, but had anything really changed?

  Mara tried to tell herself things were different now as she got up and turned the heat on under the sauce to warm it up. First off, Jacqui and Eliza were now her friends—not two strangers who gave her the cold shoulder. And second, her days of pining for Ryan were well over. Sure, she’d felt the odd flash of jealousy on seeing him with Tinker, especially at first, but her weird fixation with making Ryan see what he was missing earlier in the summer had just been about missing her own boyfriend and needing some male attention.

  Finally, the kitchen door swung open and Jacqui and Eliza tumbled in, giggling and holding on to each other. They smelled of champagne and cigarettes, and their faces were red and flushed. Both girls wore floor-length, exquisitely draped goddess gowns, samples from Eliza’s upcoming fall collection, Jacqui’s with a cutout in the middle to show off her sleek, tanned stomach. They looked red-carpet glamorous, if a little worse for wear.

  “About time,” Mara said irritably. Not only were they late, they were drunk? “What’s so funny?”

  They told her about some prank the boys had pulled on an insufferable bore at the party. The twins had pretended they were one and the same person and kept popping up at opposite ends of the party, making the poor guy think he was losing it.

  Eliza leaned on the counter, still laughing, while Jacqui investigated the pots and pans simmering on the stovetop. “Mmm, chica, this smells great,” she said, sticking a ladle into the thick sauce and licking it. “I’m starving.”

  Mara handed the two of them plates. “I thought you guys would have eaten by now,” she said curtly. Neither of them had thought to apologize for their lateness, and she wasn’t about to let it slide.

  “Nah, you know what those parties are like. Lots of standing around. Cocktails, but no one eating anything,” Eliza said, scooping up pasta from the pot onto her plate, not caring that it was getting cold.

  “I wouldn’t really know.” Mara tried to sound wounded as she grabbed silverware from the drawers.

  “Aw, Mar, don’t be like that,” Eliza said soothingly, noticing the resentment in Mara’s voice. “We’re sorry we’re late, but you know how it is. Anyway, we asked you to come with,” she pointed out, settling down into a bar stool at the counter.

  “Well, I can’t really get off at, like, six to go to a cocktail party, can I? Not with five kids to watch,” Mara added, setting the silverware down in front of them with a clang and looking meaningfully at Jacqui. She felt a bit like the nagging, irritated housewife, complete with dirty apron.

  “I’m sorry, Mar, I know I promised I’d be back,” Jacqui said guiltily, looking down at her empty plate. She felt bad about leaving Mara with the kids so often, but she couldn’t help it that she had a busy shooting schedule to attend to, could she? Fashion waited for no man (or woman), and it certainly wasn’t going to wait for her to clean up baby spittle. “How about you sleep in tomorrow and I’ll take the kids to gifted camp?” she offered, making her way to the stove to get some pasta now that Eliza had cleared the area.

  “All right,” Mara relented. She stood up and grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge. She could never stay mad at her friends for very long anyway. “So how’s the shoot going?”

  “The photos are insane,” Eliza said proudly, grating cheese on her spaghetti. “Wanna see?” She dug out a black binder from her bag and placed it on the counter. The three of them crowded around to look.

  “Wow, Jac. Is that you?” Mara gushed, taking in the glossy, gorgeous shots. “You’re a superstar!”

  Jacqui blushed. She hadn’t expected to enjoy modeling so much. It was almost too easy to be believed. But the boys had told her it was difficult to find models as photogenic as she was and who responded to direction so naturally. And it certainly didn’t hurt having Marcus at every shoot—it made her practically glow with happiness.

  “Did you see this one?” Eliza asked, pointing to a risqué photo of Jacqui lying facedown in bed, wearing only a languid smile and a black Gucci thong. She was barely covering herself with a pillow.

  “Whoa,” Mara cried. “Racy!”

  “It’s going to run in ‘Socialite Centerfold’ in Hamptons mag,” Eliza said proudly.

  “Marcus took it one morning,” Jacqui explained, blushing slightly. She smiled as she remembered the morning Marcus had taken the photo, the admiring look in his eyes. He was everything she could possibly ask for: a funny, fabulous, and sexy guy who was crazy about her. She’d been single for so long, she’d forgotten how incredible it was to have a boyfriend. With NYU in the bag and Marcus in her arms, Jacqui was on top of the world. The whole supermodel-for-a-summer thing was just icing on the very sweet cake.

  “Don’t forget, tomorrow we have to be in Bridgehampton early for the equestrian shoot,” Eliza reminded Jacqui, getting up to refill her plate. “I’m famished,” she said apologetically as she took another heaping portion.

  “Oh yeah … I guess I can’t cover tomorrow,” Jacqui said, looking anxiously at Mara.

  Mara blew out her bangs.

  “Anyway, you know how it goes, chica. I covered your ass two summers ago,” Jacqui added playfully, still engrossed by the book of photos. She turned the page. “When it comes to the whole au pair thing, we’ve always traded off doing the actual work, right?”

  Mara was about to protest when there was a buzz from the intercom. Eliza flipped the screen on the television to the security channel.

  “Who ordered pizza?” Mara joked, picking up an errant piece of pasta off the countertop.

  “Oh, whoever he is, he’s cuuuute,” Eliza cooed, leaning in for a closer look. “Tall, dark, handsome. Kind of looks like Ewan McGregor in that movie….” Eliza snapped her fingers, trying to recall. “He’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a varsity fencing jacket. And he’s carrying one of those backpacks that sit on those metal thingys.”

  “A fencing jacket?” Mara asked, standing stock-still over the garbage disposal. That sounded awfully familiar….

  She raced over to the screen. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “It’s David!”

  She felt her heart beat faster. What on earth was David doing in the Hamptons? How had he tracked her down? Had he come back just for her? What did this mean? She was thankful she looked presentable, wearing one of Eliza’s tissue-thin James Perse T-shirts she’d borrowed from her closet and low-riding Nuala yoga pants. She’d learned from her friends the secret to looking sexy but casual.

  “Really?” Eliza raised an eyebrow. She had never had a chance to meet David in New York. Since it was so impossible to find time to get together, she always wanted to spend time with just Mara, and then every time they made actual plans to double date, one of them would cancel.

  “Why do you sound so surprised?” Mara turned to Eliza, a slight edge in her voice.

  “It’s just—Mar, he sounded a little nerdy every time you described him. But if it’s any consolation, I was so wrong. He’s a regulation hottie.”

  Mara knew Eliza could be blunt, so she wasn’t insulted. Much. “What’s he doing here?” she wondered aloud, wiping her hands on her apron. “He’s supposed to be in the Ukraine by now.” Mara playfully shoved Eliza over and looked at the little black-and-white image of David on the screen. She had almost forgotten how cute he was. She was still angry at him, but seeing him standing there under the porch light, her heart melte
d a little.

  The intercom buzzed again.

  “Well, what are you guys waiting for? Let the poor boy in already.” Jacqui laughed. And with that, Eliza buzzed the door open.

  love means knowing how

  to say you’re sorry

  THE KITCHEN DOOR SWUNG OPEN AND DAVID ENTERED. He carried a traveler’s pack on his back, and his suitcase was still in his hand. It looked like he had stepped off the plane and come straight from the airport.

  “Hey, David,” Mara said, as if she wasn’t at all surprised to find him in her kitchen instead of in Kiev. She kept her voice cool, but the sight of him looking so humbled and modest—David always looked confident and assured—moved her. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the Ukraine by now?” And what made you think I’d even want to see you after that e-mail I sent? she added silently.

  “I can explain,” he said, casting nervous glances at her two friends. Jacqui and Eliza were studying him with hooded eyes from behind their glasses of wine. Mara knew they could be an intimidating pair.

  “David, you’ve met Jacqui before, and this is Eliza,” she said, remembering that it was her place to make the introductions. Both girls gave David a guarded smile.

  “Nice meeting you. Mara talks about you constantly. It’s nice to put faces to names.” David looked tan and weather-beaten, his eyes tired and red from lack of sleep, but he smiled politely.

  “Nice meeting you too,” Eliza drawled, eyeing him up and down as if she were taking inventory.

  There was a short silence, and then David cleared his throat. He put his backpack down on the floor. “Mara, do you think we could, uh, go for a walk?”

  They excused themselves and walked out the back toward the beach trail. It was another cool night, and Mara shivered in her thin shirt. David offered her his jacket and she accepted it thankfully. They walked for a few minutes in silence. Finally David stopped, took a deep breath, and looked at Mara. “Listen, I know you’re angry at me. I would be angry too. I feel terrible about what happened at the airport.”