“We’re not even in the club yet and I feel unfaithful,” Rosie admitted, cupping her knees in her hands. “I’m in this weird place where I’m not sure if I’m afraid to piss off Dominic or if that’s exactly what I want. And I would never look at another man while we’re still married—that’s not what I mean. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll never be able to look at another man. But this dress and this situation where he can’t confirm my safety would be enough to drive him crazy.”
Bethany sighed. “I’m sorry it’s so complicated right now,” she said. “Look at it this way—if going out in a sexy dress is enough to make him lose his shit, the deed is done. The shit has been lost. But you’re here. Might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” They both glanced toward the other end of the limousine where Kristin was trying to fix Georgie’s hair and getting her hand slapped away. “We didn’t come here to meet men, Rosie. It’s just going to be us girls dancing and curating hangovers. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Rosie’s spine straightened. “You’re right.” She blew out a breath. “I deserve this.”
“You’re damn right you do,” Bethany drawled, tossing back the rest of her champagne.
“I’m going to dance until I get blisters.”
“Ouch, but yes. Who says fun can’t be bloody?”
The limousine started to bump along the cobblestones that signaled their arrival in the Meatpacking District. Their destination appeared in the window, and Rosie’s excitement level rose, eclipsing her trepidation. While they’d been getting ready earlier that evening, Bethany had regaled her with stories of nights out at the Gansevoort Hotel. It was a sleek black building, looming high above the packed Friday-night street. After their driver helped them out of the limousine, the women linked arms and clicked on their heels toward the entrance.
As soon as the seemingly identical doormen swung open the double doors, sexy, earthy music rode over Rosie’s bare skin and she inhaled the myriad scents of expensive perfume, cologne, and the rich, polished tones of the hotel lobby. It was darker inside the hotel than on the street, the staff almost intimidatingly good-looking in all-black uniforms.
The women piled into an elevator with several strangers and hit the button labeled Lelie Rooftop. It took them to the penthouse club in three seconds flat, letting them out into one of the most decadent spaces Rosie had ever seen. Just like downstairs, the atmosphere was dark, lit up tastefully with modern chandeliers and muted red candlelight. The club took up the entire rooftop of the building, sprawling in every direction with lounge areas and a dance floor, with a bar in the center of it all. Every side of the club afforded a different view of the twinkling New York City skyline and the Hudson River beyond. It was luxurious and magical.
“Wow,” Georgie breathed, getting off the elevator beside her. “And I thought the Waterfront was lit,” she said, referring to Port Jefferson’s favorite date-night spot. “I should have practiced dancing before we came. I’m going to look like a tawdry chicken out there.”
Rosie giggle-snorted. “No, you’re not.”
Bethany signaled a passing waitress, said a few words to her, and they were led through the undulating masses of people, through another set of glass doors, only to be seated in the very corner of the closed-in terrace on a collection of low leather couches. Around them, the avenues stretched out in between the tall buildings like arms wrapped in Christmas lights. They were high up enough to see the downtown sprawl that made up Lower Manhattan and uptown toward the Empire State Building, which was lit orange and yellow for fall.
“You weren’t kidding when you said this wouldn’t be a half-assed girls’ night out,” Rosie murmured when Bethany came up beside her to look out over the city. “I would have been happy with fancy sushi and a rom-com.”
Her friend was visibly trying not to look smug. And failing. “The club owner owed me a little favor. We were in a bidding war over some lighting fixtures online. I let him win in exchange for the VIP treatment next time I ventured into Manhattan.” She threw her arms out wide. “Witness the spoils of décor war.”
They high-fived.
“But wait, there’s more.” Bethany slipped something that looked like a credit card out of her clutch purse and pressed it into Rosie’s hand. “He hooked me up with a free room in the hotel. I thought you could use a night to clear your head.”
“I’m staying here?” Rosie took the shiny gold card, turning it over in her palm with a puffed laugh. “I didn’t bring my pajamas.”
“Don’t you know by now I think of everything?”
Rosie wanted to ask for more details, but Bethany left her standing at the railing and went to sit down. After taking in another deep breath of the city, she followed.
“They don’t have many places like this in Georgia,” Kristin said, as they all sunk down into the lush leather couches. “This is the type of establishment churches sign petitions against in my hometown. I bet my mama senses my proximity to the devil right this second. She’s probably itching up a storm.”
“Way to perpetuate the sexy vibe, Kristin,” Georgie said, patting her sister-in-law on the shoulder. “So do we order drinks at the bar or—” Just then, a giant bottle of vodka was plunked down into an ice bucket at the center of the table, along with a selection of fruit-juice mixers. “Oh, okay. I can get behind this.”
“I bet Stephen is beside himself right now,” Kristin breathed, her expression gleeful. “He about died when I told him his dinner was in the microwave. I blew out of the house like a turkey trying to escape Thanksgiving. His face. I’ll never forget it.”
Georgie turned to Kristin. “Why do you like torturing our brother so much?” she asked. “Don’t get me wrong. I know he’s a natural target because everything gets under his skin. But you seem to take particular joy in inflicting misery.”
“If there’s one thing that has been passed down between the women in my family—besides our recipe for sweet potato pie—it’s the knowledge that a man must be kept on his toes at all times. The second he gets comfortable, the magic fades.” She shifted around in her seat with a sniff. “I plan on being chased and placated until I’ve got both feet in the grave.”
“How very uplifting.” Bethany golf-clapped. “I plan to enjoy watching that from the sidelines.”
“Oh no you won’t,” Kristin shot back. “You’ll be getting chased yourself.”
“By who?”
Kristin worked her neck like a strutting pigeon. “You know who.”
“Uh-oh,” Rosie muttered, fishing the bottle of vodka out of the ice and beginning to pour drinks for everyone. “At least let her get a buzz before bringing up Wes.”
“Wes?” Bethany uncrossed her legs and doubled over, laughing loud enough to draw attention from the surrounding patrons. “You can’t be serious. You think Wes is going to chase me? If he tried, I would slap the ego out of him with both hands.”
Georgie raised an eyebrow. “You’ve given this some thought.”
“I’ve given him no thought. None whatsoever.”