The Carlyles Read Online Free PDF

the summer, but feeling off during class this morning had brought back the memory of her Paris embarrassment and left her feeling raw.
    They took the escalator up to Bouchon Bakery, the casual bistro on the third floor, and sat at a table overlooking Columbus Circle. Cars were backlogged in the traffic circle, and tourists lounged around the fountain at its center. Now that she was back with J.P., Jack felt her old confidence returning. So she’d have to eat salads for a few weeks and spend a few extra hours a week in the studio. Who cared? The most sought-after boy in New York loved her. They were all but destined to get married, live in one of his dad’s luxurious buildings, and take fabulous vacations to rest up from their equally fabulous lives. And in the meantime, maybe this year was finally the year they would do it. It it.
    That’d be one way to burn calories.
    The sound of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite erupted from Jack’s pink ballet bag. She pulled out her phone and looked at the display. Her father again. Jack grimaced and pressed ignore .
    “Who’s that?” J.P. asked, taking a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich a skinny, goateed waiter had just set down on the table. Jack could feel her stomach growling.
    “Charles.” Jack shrugged and grabbed a fry off his plate. One wouldn’t kill her.
    “When was the last time you talked to him?” J.P. frowned.
    Jack wrinkled her freckled nose. Just because J.P. was close to his own father and had gone on a freaking summerlong father-son Antarctic expedition, he assumed everyone should have the same type of jovial cross-generational relationship. J.P. was perpetually positive, which Jack loved, because it balanced out her tendency to freak the fuck out if someone got her order wrong at Starbucks. Now, though, she wanted his enthusiasm directed toward her. They could start by sitting in one of the luxurious leather seats in the screening room of the Cashmans’ apartment, watching The Umbrellas of Cherbourg or some other ridiculous French film and taking off one article of clothing every time someone lit up a fresh cigarette.
    She grabbed another fry. Just thinking about J.P.’s hands on her body made Jack hungry.
    Um. Doesn’t she mean horny?
    “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered across the table, dragging her fingers across his tanned upper thigh, pleased when she saw his brown eyes widen excitedly.
    Check, please!

R ’s Enchanted Evening . . . or Not
    Rhys dove into the tiled twenty-five-meter pool in the basement of his parents’ town house on Eighty-fourth between Madison and Park. He propelled his body through the blue water, slicing it with his strong arms in a desperate attempt to sober up after an afternoon spent drinking with the new guy, Owen Carlyle.
    Aren’t you supposed to drink water to sober up?
    Rhys felt seasick as he stopped to take a break at the other end of the pool. It didn’t help that the pool was decorated with distracting hand-painted Italian folk art tiles depicting starfish, kelp, and octopus. He felt like he was drowning in some developmentally delayed five-year-old’s finger painting.
    He glanced at the large, fogproof clock above the teak doors that separated the pool from the rest of the basement fitness center. Seven thirty-five. His girlfriend, Kelsey, was supposed to come over at eight, and they hadn’t seen each other since June. He’d been in Europe all summer, visiting the Welsh estate that had been in his father’s family for generations and spending most of his time at the local pub with his cousins or heading to London via private jet to watch soccer games. Kelsey had been at her Orleans home on the Cape. They had talked on the phone, but less frequently than Rhys would have liked. Between their different schedules and the time difference, they’d kept missing each other—she’d always call when he was asleep; he’d always call when she was at the beach or sitting down to dinner or just not there .