“I told you I wasn’t gay.”

“And is that the reason you haven’t been with anyone up here?”

“No, that’s because of the other female. The one I didn’t marry. The one who is naturally beautiful and way too good for me.”

“I’m going to need a Venn diagram,” the guy muttered. “Goddamn it, why didn’t you talk about all this?”

Lane shook his head even though his old friend couldn’t see him. “I was in running mode.” Man, he hated that Chantal had called it right. “It was all too loud in my head. The whole thing. So how’s you?”

“You drop all that and cap it with a how’m I?”

“I got drinking to do. Talking is only slowing me down, but I’m free to listen.” He swallowed a long draft. “So … what’s up?”

“I’m good, you know, work is the same. Ten thousand screamers calling, a boss who’s up my ass, and sixteen Motrin a day to keep my head from exploding. Same ol’, same ol’. At least the money’s there—especially now that you’re not taking me for a quarter of a million dollars every week across the felt.”

They spoke for a while more about nothing in particular. Poker games, Wall Street, the woman Jeff was banging. And even though Lane wasn’t much for phone convos, he realized he missed the guy. He’d gotten used to the quick talk, the fast wit, and especially that hint of a Jersey accent where words that ended in “a” were pronounced with “er” and people waited on line instead of in line. And it was “birfday,” instead of “birthday.”

“So I guess this is good-bye,” his old college roommate said.

Lane frowned and pictured Lizzie. Heard her voice. Remembered her caution.

Then he rearranged his persistent arousal.

Was there a possibility he might not go back to New York, he wondered.

Then again, he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. When it came to getting Lizzie back, it took two to tango. Just because he was ready to resume the relationship didn’t mean she was ever going to jump back into things. And then there was his family. As if he could imagine living at Easterly again? Even if Miss Aurora got back on her feet fully and he and Lizzie worked things out, the idea of coexisting with his father was enough to make him think fondly of the Canadian border. And even that wouldn’t be far enough away.

“I don’t know if I’m staying permanently.”

“You can always come back here. My couch misses you already—and nobody plays Texas Hold’em like you do.”

The two of them hung up after a set of good-byes, and as Lane did another round with the lax-arm, phone-flopping-down-on-the-concrete-floor thing, he refocused on the ancient still across the way. The thing had been used for decades around the turn of the century and was now an artifact to be viewed by the tens of thousands of visitors a year that came to the Old Site.

For some reason, it dawned on him that he’d never had a job. The extent of his “professional endeavors” was avoiding the paparazzi—which was more about survival than anything you should make a career out of. And courtesy of all his trust fund junkie stuff, he didn’t know about bosses, or annoying cube mates, or bad commutes. He didn’t think about needing to be somewhere at a certain time, or performance reviews, or headaches caused from too many hours at a computer screen.

Funny, he’d never once considered the fact that he had so much in common with Chantal. The only difference between them? Her family money wasn’t enough to keep her in the lifestyle she’d been accustomed to—which was why she’d had to marry him.

And then there was Lizzie, working so hard, paying off that farm of hers. Knowing her, she’d probably hit her goal already.

It just made him respect her even more.

Also made him wonder exactly what he had to offer a woman of substance. Two years ago, he’d been all raging hard-ons and family drama, so hungry for her physically, so captivated by her mentally that he’d never looked at himself from her point of view. All his money and social position were only valuable to people like Chantal. Lizzie wanted more, deserved more.

She wanted real.

Maybe he wasn’t so above that wife of his, after all.

Ex-wife, he corrected himself as he kept drinking.

FOURTEEN

“To what do I owe this honor.”

As Gin’s father spoke, it was a statement, not a question, and the tone suggested that her standing in the doorway to his bedroom was an intrusion.

Too bad, she thought.

“I want to know what the hell you’ve done with Richard Pford.”

Her father didn’t miss a beat over at his bureau, continuing to take the gold studs out of his French cuffs. His black tuxedo jacket had been folded once and laid on the foot of the chaise lounge, and his black and red suspenders had been shucked from his shoulders and dangled from his waist like ribbons.

“Father,” she barked. “What have you done.”

He left her hanging until he’d undone his bow tie and pulled the thing free from his collar. “It’s time you settled down—”

“You are hardly in a position to advocate for marriage.”

“—and Richard is a perfect husband.”

“Not for me.”

“That remains to be seen.” He turned and faced her, his eyes cool, his handsome face impassive. “And make no mistake, you will marry him.”

“How dare you! This isn’t the turn of the century. Women are not chattel—we can hold property, have our own bank accounts—we can even vote. And we sure as hell can decide whether or not we want to walk down the aisle—and I will not, ever, go on a date with that man, much less marry him. Especially if it benefits you in some way.”