Lusting For Luke_A Billionaires of Palm Beach Story Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Sara Celi

  Lusting for Luke

  A Billionaires in Palm Beach Story

  Copyright © 2017 by Sara Celi

  Published by Lowe Interactive Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Sara Celi

  The woman in bed next to me had long legs, creamy skin, a tumble of blonde hair, and no clothes. The blue-silk bedsheet had wrapped around her body, and she slept on her side, curled against me. I didn’t know her name.

  Lately, I didn’t know a lot of their names.

  Not that it mattered. These days, the women who kept me company had one purpose, and one purpose only. We fucked. They came. The next morning, they left. Repeat.

  One night only. Never more.

  Sex was one way to pass the time in Palm Beach, one way to make the loneliness that washed over me at night fade away with the ocean waves. For the last few months—no, make that years—I’d torn through the town’s charity circuit and endless line of winter parties looking for something. Something to take away the pain. Something to soothe the blisters on my broken heart. And something to make me feel again.

  One thing remained certain—I hadn’t found it. Maybe I never would.

  I stared at the woman in my bed. She was pretty in the usual ways, but she also had a tangerine tan, and the light streaming into the bedroom from my window didn’t do her face any favors. Just like most Palm Beach socialites, she thought nothing of a visit to the Botox fairy, and it showed in the manmade tightness of her face. When the alarm on my iPhone buzzed, I nudged her until she opened her eyes.

  What a relief. She’ll be leaving soon.

  “Good morning.” I punched the dismiss button to silence the incessant sound on the device.

  She yawned, and I noticed the trace of dark lipstick that still rimmed her mouth. It complemented the mascara smudges beneath her eyes and the shininess on her nose. She wasn’t as pretty in the morning as she had been in the moonlight. “Good morning to you, too. What time is it?”

  “Seven forty-five.”

  “Early.”

  “Sort of.”

  This woman had a European accent I couldn’t quite place…Slovenian? Estonian? Hungarian? I flipped through my hazy memories of the previous night. It started out with a steak dinner at Meat Market, then a meeting with friends from Manhattan for late-night drinks at HMF, the bar inside The Breakers Resort. By then, I’d been too drunk to drive, so I’d taken a taxi home.

  Had I met her at HMF? At Meat Market? Had she been with me in the car?

  She propped herself on one elbow. “Last night was amazing.” Each word she spoke had a crisp, clipped cadence.

  “It…it was.”

  There, that sounds good.

  I got out of bed. My boxers lay on the floor along with my black trousers and gray, button-down shirt. I slipped on the shorts and padded to the three-quarter bathroom located just off the master bedroom. “I’m glad you had a good time.” I turned on the faucet and splashed cool water on my face. How many times had I slept with this woman?

  Damn it.

  I needed to tone down the tequila, and probably alcohol in general. Always made the next morning too fuzzy. I knew better than to let my drinking get out of control. Lately, though, I’d been ignoring my own better judgment.

  That had to stop, too.

  Her hand slipped around my stomach and traveled up my chest. “So? What do you think about meeting up later tonight?”

  I grabbed her fingers and turned around. “Not tonight. I’ve got plans.”

  Her face fell, and it occurred to me once again that I didn’t care if I disappointed her. She needed to leave, and soon.

  “You promised we’d have dinner tonight.”

  “I did?”

  “Right before you made me come three times.”

  “Three?”

  Impressive, even for me.

  She nodded. “And you said there would be more where that came from.”

  I moved away from the sink and back into the bedroom. “Listen, I’m sorry, but last night I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.” I picked up her black dress, which lay on the floor near my discarded loafers. “We had a good time. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I shot her what I hoped was a bland, no-I’m-not-kidding look.

  “My girlfriends told me you were like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cold, closed off. No one gets near you.” Sighing, she snatched her dress from my hand. “I should have listened to them.” She wrapped the stretchy fabric around her body, found her underwear on the floor, and threw it in her straw purse.

  “I don’t do…relationships,” I explained, probably more begrudgingly than I should have let on. The word “relationship” tasted metallic and foreign in my mouth. “Not anymore. Haven’t for a while.”

  I didn’t usually offer this kind of explanation, but something about the weariness in her v
oice made me open a little. Yes, I had a reputation. I knew it. Owned it.

  “Everyone in Palm Beach knows what you’re like, Luke.”

  “Then you know that I don’t do commitment. It’s just not my thing.”

  “Someday, it will be.” She eyed me. “Because you can’t keep living this way. No one can. Don’t you think that Faye—”

  “I think your shoes are downstairs. And I have a meeting at nine.”

  Wrong. I had a 9:00 AM tee time at the Everglades Club. Not a meeting. But last night’s flavor didn’t need to know that, and she didn’t need to pry into my personal life, either. She stared at me for a moment, and I wondered if she wanted me to flinch, or to change my mind.

  “Fine,” she finally said. “I’ll go.”

  Less than ten minutes later, she disappeared in a cloud of perfume, disappointment, and confusion. They always did.

  “Have you seen this?” My aunt Helen walked around the reception desk at Yoga Ohm, the studio she owned, and handed me her phone. The screen showed me the Facebook event page she’d been focused on for the last few weeks. “Five hundred online RSVPs.” She grinned. “Five hundred. Can you believe that? This is going to be huge.”

  I scrolled through the invite page. Already, several dozen commenters had posted in the discussion section. “Wow. Activists from all over the area are coming.” I peered up at her again. “Even some from Miami.”

  She nodded. “A bunch of them. People from all over South Florida.”

  For the last year or so, protests and marches had been happening every weekend in downtown West Palm Beach. Suddenly, community activism was in vogue, and Helen hadn’t wanted to waste a second of that. She’d spent the last two months organizing this march, which would center on equal pay and women’s rights. She called it the second most important thing she’d ever done.

  My aunt snapped her fingers. “By the way, that reminds me, have you heard from Karen?”

  “She’s on her way. Texted her this morning, right after she left Kissimmee.”

  “Excellent. So glad she’s coming.”

  “She’s lucky she got off work.”

  Karen, my mom and Helen’s older sister, still lived in the house where I grew up, in a neighborhood of 1950s ranch homes in the not-as-desirable end of Kissimmee. Life for her, and me, had always included a decent amount of struggle. Even after twenty years, she had no idea when she’d be able to quit her job as a radiology tech at Osceola Regional Medical Center. Still, she tried not to dwell on it. “At least I can see the fireworks from Disney World,” mom often said whenever she admitted that the house, and her life, weren’t as great as she had hoped. “Better than nothing.”

  Helen was fifteen years younger than my mom. She left central Florida right after high school, drove south, enrolled at the University of Miami, and never looked back. Now, she owned Yoga Ohm, and she’d been kind enough to give me a job after my own graduation from the U, when I hadn’t been able to find full-time work marketing work in Miami.

  I owed her a lot, and we both knew it.

  “So, she’ll be here around seven tonight?” I handed the phone back to Helen.

  “Maybe a little after.”

  “Perfect.” I glanced at the computer behind the reception desk. We had about fifteen minutes until I needed to teach our 2:00 PM yoga class, a mix of billionaire wives and stay-at-home moms with thousand-dollar investments in the latest athleisure apparel. That day’s class had ten less students than usual, though. “Listen, do you think we should be worried about enrollment? Just seems like we’ve been a little light lately.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You’re not?”

  My aunt shrugged. “These things happen from time to time. The students always come back.”

  “I know, but…” I took a moment to regroup my thoughts. “It just feels like I’m noticing a trend.”

  The implication hung in the silence between us.

  “I know you’re still upset that I cut your days back from five to four last week.” Helen sighed, and defeat shook in every word she spoke. “Like I told you then, it’s just temporary.”

  “I hope so.”

  My thoughts turned to the electric bill at my apartment, which I had already gone a month without paying. I couldn’t do that much longer, and I also had to make my student loan payment. Those two bills alone wouldn’t leave much breathing room for the rest of my expenses.

  Maybe I should get a second job as a barista…

  “I promise, sweetie. As soon as I can give you a few more hours, I will.” Helen picked up her black gym bag from the block of cubbyholes that lined the wall behind the desk. A “The Future is Female” sticker still adorned the side pocket, but the edges had begun to curl away from the fabric. I wondered what she’d do once the sticker finally fell off the bag. “You’re okay here the rest of the afternoon? I have so much stuff to do.”

  “I’ve got it handled. No problem.”

  “Great. Thank you so much. I can always rely on you.” She tossed her phone into the bag then leaned forward to give me a hug. “And don’t forget, I need you to be there at seven thirty tomorrow for setup.”

  “I won’t forget,” I said as she pulled away.

  “Perfect. You’re the best, Natalie.”

  Helen disappeared through the front door and got into her black Toyota Corolla at the far end of the parking lot. Once she drove away, I turned back to the list of women signed up for our 2:00 PM class. The first ones in this class of eleven would arrive soon. I knew most of them, right down to the small details, like the fact that Jennifer only drank French sparkling water, Gretchen drove a Mercedes G-Wagen, and Yvette had four children she refused to put on anything but a low-carb, vegan diet. I also suspected more than a few things about them, too. Their thin bodies and chemical-peeled faces gave them away.

  These women had it easy. So easy.

  They were upper-class, white, pampered women who didn’t have to worry about anything beyond what time the nanny would arrive, and what dress they’d wear to a fundraiser. Women who would spend eons of their lives making sure that they’d stay well preserved.

  Those kinds of women.

  The front door jangled, and Gretchen walked through wearing skin-tight yoga pants, silver loafers, and an oversized green top. She breezed up to the reception desk and removed her gold sunglasses. Her long, brown ponytail wrapped partially around her shoulder.

  “Oh, gracious, Natalie,” she said through her professionally whitened teeth. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Traffic is a nightmare already.” Her eyes widened, and she handed me a keychain with our studio membership tag attached to it. “It’s a disaster. I hate season, don’t you? So many snowbirds.”

  She couldn’t have sounded snobbier if she’d tried.

  “A lot of people are in town this year.” I swiped the tag through our system and tried my best to keep my expression stoic. I knew better than to engage too deeply with our clients. Best to keep our conversations on the superficial. Anything else could be bad for business. Keep the clients happy, and we’d stay happy, too. I turned to the computer screen and clicked through Gretchen’s account, checking her in for the day. She had an unlimited pass to our studio, and usually attended classes three times a week.

  “And the Southern Bridge is going to be a nightmare this weekend, too. That traffic is as bad as New York City. You’ve been to the city, haven’t you?”

  I flinched. “No, I haven’t.”

  In twenty-five years of living, I’d only traveled outside of Florida once—a weekend trip to my uncle’s funeral in Chicago. It had been cold, rainy, and forgettable, not unlike so much else in my life.

  “Well, you must go.” Gretchen dropped her large Louis Vuitton bag onto the lip of the reception desk and rooted around inside it. She produced a white business card, which she handed to me. “That’s Pierre at the Four Seasons Hotel downtown. Call him when you go, and tell him you know me. He’ll give you
a great deal.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I took the card. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I would never go, and could only guess how much a room at that hotel would cost.

  “Meanwhile, I hope that they get that bridge construction done, and soon. I am so tired of sitting in traffic for half an hour just to get somewhere.” She sniffed. “I even told Samuel that this weekend we can stay in West Palm for dinner—even if it means eating at a fast food restaurant, for god sakes.”

  I gave her a fake laugh. She’d rather die a death by a thousand cuts than be seen in a place known for things like combo meals, oversized hamburgers, and salty French fries. “Do you think a lot of the others will be late?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it.” Gretchen pulled her bag closer to her body. “I’m going to get ready for class. See you in there.”

  “See you in there.”

  She headed in the direction of the changing room, and once she disappeared, I sighed. I just didn’t have anything in common with the women who frequented the studio, and the last few months had proven it. Still, I needed them. We needed them. Without them, I couldn’t come close to paying my bills. I bit the inside of my bottom lip. Something good needed to happen. I needed a break. We needed a break.

  Soon.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Two days later, Helen stood in the center of the Meyers Amphitheater with a large megaphone in one hand. “We gather here right now to say that we are united! We are together in this fight!”

  The crowd cheered. From my vantage point, it seemed like almost a thousand people had showed up for the rally, and they covered the park lawn, leaving almost no green space. Many of them carried homemade signs, and the best of those had snappy slogans like, “A woman’s place is in the resistance” and “My daughter will know she’s more than just a pussy” and “Brains over bodies.” I held one myself; it said, “Female rights are human rights.”