Page 82 of Hate You More

Sources say the founder tied the knot just days after his $20 billion IPO.

“Hello, next term’s tuition source,” Chelsea murmurs, starting at the piece. “Maybe I’ll just buy a camera and join the paparazzi.”

“I thought it was film school.”

“Might be one, might be both. Right now, the world is my oyster!”

From oyster to crustacean, something clings. It takes me a moment to process, but I begin to reason why Troy’s lobster tattoo might suddenly make sense to me.

No. Really?

Chapter 22

Troy

Neutral, that’s what I need to aim for. I can’t avoid going home every night. So here we are, Friday night at a local restaurant. A little food. Some conversation and plan to come up with a plausible backstory for our marriage.

Insert pleasantry here.

Fuck. There is nothing neutral in how that phrase keeps rotating through my brain. How she mentioned her boobs in our text exchange, then added a sign-off that sounded like an invitation, and my mind just ran with it.

Yes, fucking please! Can I touch them again? Fuck them? Come all over them?

Truthfully, it’s not just the phrase that keeps repeating. It’s the image of her that morning, writhing under me. Tits pressed against me, so lewd and lush. God, how I wanted to suck the hard pearl of her nipple into my mouth and—

“You were saying?”

Come on, brain, focus! I clear my throat and adjust myself under the cover of the table, firmly pulling my head from Clara’s OnlyFans channel. With a subscriber of one.

“Yeah. The Stanley Foundation. Black tie. Cameras. Donors. Board-adjacent folk.”

“The vultures.” She pulls a face. It should look terrible, not cute. Fuck my wife—I mean, life.

“Polite vultures.” I take another swig of my beer.

“Maybe to your face.”

“That’s all that matters at this stage.”

“Fine.” She tears at a piece of focaccia, pressing a chunk of it into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten for a week. As she chews, she’s already tearing off another piece. And to think she was described in three separate bylines this week as mysterious, refined, and sophisticated. Yet here she sits, getting olive oil on her sweater sleeve.

I love it. The contrast, I mean.

“Did I spill something?” She swipes her napkin across her pretty mouth.

“Sorry. I zoned out.” I like watching you eat. You look good. You’ll look even better with a little more meat on your bones . . . uttered Troy never.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry. It’s not you, it’s . . . me. Thinking.” The look she slides me seems doubtful. “We met in the Hamptons,” I say, redirecting the conversation. And my wayward brain. “My mom worked for your dad.”

“We don’t have to go with that story.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. I think it would serve us to stick to it, where possible.”

“Why do that to yourself?”

“I’m not ashamed of where I come from.”