I swallow down the growing anger and straighten out my thoughts, unfolding the message and reading Annika’s plea for me to join her on her special day. “That came around quickly,” I mutter feebly, dropping my cousin’s note and picking up my menu, burying my face in it.
I hear Mum sigh. “It’s next month, darling. Text her. Tell her you’ll be there. You and Annika grew up together.”
“She invited her,” I seethe, taking my drink from the waiter’s hand before he has a chance to place it on the table. In fact, she more than invited her. She made her a fucking bridesmaid.
“They’re old friends, darling.”
“I’m family.” I can see Anika’s wedding invitation now, lost in one of my desk drawers, stuffed away safely. Ignore it and it’ll go away. That’s what I told myself. No such luck.
“It’s been years, Tyler.”
“Yes, I know. And I’m not likely to forget, am I? You know, since she walked out on me a week after my father died.”
“I know as well as you do that Annabella leaving you was the best thing that could have happened. She was bad for you, son. Demanding and precious. Anyway, you were leaving her, if I recall.”
“Yes, but Dad dying kinda postponed that.” I sink into my chair. “I was distracted from leaving her precious arse because I was grieving.” Annabella. Fucking Annabella. I detest the woman. I can’t stop the burning resentment from churning in my gut every time her name is mentioned. So what if I was planning on leaving her? The fact of the matter is, she left me. A week after my father died. She then waited to file for divorce until after Dad’s last will and testament was read and his estate released. And to add insult to injury, I found out she was screwing a decrepit old has-been behind my back. She left me. Me, for Christ’s sake. For a retired loser who lived in a ten-bedroom mansion in Holland Park. I nearly vomit over the table just thinking about it. I had the looks, the physique, and the charm back then. But I was missing two important assets—according to Annabella: bucket loads of cash and a name people knew. I lacked a personal fortune, and Christianson Walker was only in the dream phase. The old prick she ran off with had the money, and clearly that made up for his lack of everything else. My ex-wife, the gold-digging whore, didn’t only take my pride with her, she took half the inheritance my father left me, too. It wasn’t millions, but it had been enough to set up my firm with Sal. Until she took half. My skin prickles with potent hatred. But she didn’t get the last laugh. Thanks to Mum’s loan to get my dream back on track, I’m now minted, successful in my own right, self-made, and it backs up all my other qualities perfectly. That’s karma, you fucking bitch.
My success now is undoubtedly why she’s been sniffing around again. The call to my office, the burn of my blood when I heard her voice for the first time since I walked out of that courtroom all those years ago. Jesus, the woman knows how to send me off the deep end. I remember swearing down the line at her and slamming my phone down with such force it smashed to pieces on my desk. I remember landing in the bar and drowning the burning anger with liquor. I remember being mortified when poor Gina had to pick me up from the fucking police station the morning after, because I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly. Annabella’s fucking fault. I fucking detest her, and I detest that she still pulls that kind of hatred from me.
“Tyler,” Mum says, interrupting my mental annihilation of my ex, bringing my head back to the dinner table. “Rise above her and be with your family.”
I look at my mum, at her dignity amidst her sadness. I lost my father and my pride when my gold-digger wife left me. But my mum lost her best friend, her soulmate, her love, her person to grow old with. And yet, here she is still trying to pull my head out of my arse for our family. My shoulders drop. She’s right. I need to stop allowing Annabella any more head space. “Fine,” I relent. And then I remember the beautiful words, “plus-one.” That’s the perfect kind of ammo. One last moment of fuck you to the bitch.
“Good boy.” Mum smiles, satisfied. “Now, let’s order.” Her nose goes back into the menu while I flick through the many gorgeous and very willing women who’ve featured in my life since the bitch left me. I need one who will bruise her stinking ego. A beauty. A babe. An absolute, dazzling, shimmering, beautiful goddess. And for added punch, let’s make her smart. Intellectual. Intelligent. Beauty and brains. I smile cunningly.
MY EYES PROGRESSIVELY WIDEN AS I watch Sal neck his first beer before gasping and slamming the empty down on the bar. “I think he’ll have another,” I say to the barman, who’s equally bemused by the sight.
“Ohhhh, that was good.” Sal wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s been a long fucking day.”
“A long day turning over your partner?” I ask in jest, taking a sensible glug of my own beer.
“You still whining about that?”
“Yes.” I level a pissed-off look on my oldest friend. “Don’t think this is being brushed under the carpet. It isn’t. I feel like you cheated on me.”
Sal’s bald head gets thrown back, and he laughs hysterically. I don’t know why. This isn’t fucking funny. “Ty, Ty, Ty.” He chuckles. “Just get over it.”
“No.” I turn on my stool and forget what’s got my goat the moment a woman across the bar tips her martini glass at me before taking a slow sip, keeping suggestive eyes on me. “Well, hello, you stunner,” I muse to myself.
“What?” Sal asks, following my line of sight. When he obviously clocks what has my attention, he groans. “No skirt tonight. It isn’t fair.”
“You’re happily married. Shut up.” I tip my bottle at the black-haired beauty and smirk as I take a sip of my beer.
“I’m married,” he counters. “Who said anything about being happy?”
That soon pulls my attention away from a guaranteed screw. I look at him in shock, and he shrinks in his chair. “What?” I ask, though I know my face is asking that question already.
“I didn’t mean that.” His forearms meet the bar, his head dropped. “It’s been a long day, Mia isn’t sleeping, work is crazy, and Moya just doesn’t seem to get it. It’s all about cupcakes, frilly party dresses, and morning coffee with the mummy brigade. Don’t mind me.” He toasts himself. “I’ll just wither and die at my desk.”
I’m not often stuck for words, but I’m struck fucking dumb right now. Sal and Moya are the epitome of perfect. They’re everything a man or woman wants . . . if they want that kind of thing. The gorgeous house, the gorgeous kid, the money, the— “When was the last time you had sex?” I don’t know where that question comes from, but the need to ask is there, and my man brain can’t ignore it.
When my best friend looks up to the ceiling, clearly trying to recall, my balls shrivel on his behalf. “The other—”
“The other?” I gawk at him, horrified. “The words ‘the other’ should never be used when recalling the last time you got laid. The other Monday. The other Saturday. The other week. Before you know it, it’ll be the other fucking month.” I feel sick.