Kiss Me, Chloe

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  The hedgerows ended, and the view opened up to endless rolling farmland with the occasional cluster of cottages marking the odd village. We passed over a narrow stone bridge, water rushing beneath as it tumbled toward the sea.

  “This is it,” Jamie said, pulling up in front of a modest, Victorian-era red brick house. It was surrounded by a lovely English garden complete with stone wall and wrought iron gate. It was all perfect kept and wonderfully charming, like I’d just stepped into a fairy tale.

  We left the bags in the car and hurried inside. The entryway was narrow with a floor of original tiles patterned in crosses and stars. The mustard, navy, and red were an unusual but cheerful combination. To my right, a staircase with well-worn oak treads stretched to the first floor (what Americans refer to as the second floor). I smelled the rich aroma of roast beef. Somebody shoved a glass of red wine in my hand.

  “Hi, I’m Mina.” A woman about my age with chestnut ringlets and bright blue eyes the same color as Bram’s leaned forward and gave me a peck on the left cheek. “Bram has been going on about you for ages. I can see he didn’t exaggerate.”

  He’d been talking about me for ages? To his family? “About what?” I asked cautiously.

  She grinned and for a moment looked almost exactly like her brothers. “About how gorgeous you are. Come.” She linked her arm through mine and dragged me from Bram’s side before either of us could protest. “I want to know everything. How did you two meet? Was it super romantic? I hear you’re from Portland. I love it there. Amazing place. Let me tell you, some days I miss Voodoo Doughnuts like crazy, although, really, I’m more of an ice cream person.”

  “Mina, for goodness sake, let the poor girl catch her breath.” A woman the spitting image of Mina, but about twenty-five years older, poked her head out of what I assumed was the kitchen. “Hello, Chloe. Lovely to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I really must get this roast out of the oven before it’s nothing but coal.” She disappeared, and I was left blinking at the space where her head had been.

  “My mom, Lucy,” Mina said with a grin.

  “Don’t tell me your grandmother was obsessed with Bram Stoker, too.”

  Mina’s grin widened. “Actually, nothing so exotic. It’s a family name. Fortunately, my mother broke the mold. There are already far too many Lucy’s in our family.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Last count? Fifteen.”

  I stared at her. “You’re kidding me.”

  “That’s counting all the second cousins twice removed and whatnot, of course, but yes. Fifteen. Seems a bit much for one family, don’t you think?” She led me into the living room.

  “Daddy,” she all but shouted over the noise blasting from the television. There was a football game on, naturally. British football, that was, aka soccer. “This is Bram’s girlfriend, Chloe.”

  I started to protest that I wasn’t Bram’s girlfriend, but no one was paying attention to me. I shut my mouth.

  Bram’s father didn’t even turn around, just waved an arm vaguely in the air. His eyes remained firmly glued to the screen.

  Mina laughed. “Sorry about that, but when the footie is on, Dad’s pretty much catatonic.”

  “That’s totally okay. It’s pretty much the same with my dad.” I glanced at the figure on the couch. “He hasn’t got a Bram Stoker name, does he?”

  “Naw. Daddy’s quite boring. He’s called Henry.”

  “I guess as long as he doesn’t end up with six wives, you’re safe.”

  She snorted over that one.

  Bram’s family was loud, friendly, and big eaters. I liked them all immediately. No one looked at me funny or told me I was eating too much. No one seemed to think it odd that a hottie like Bram was with a bigger girl like me. And no one said anything mean about him being a musician. When Henry asked how the job was going, Bram said “fine,” and everyone left it at that. I still didn’t know what Bram did, and I didn’t want to ask in front of his family.

  After dessert Lucy begged us to stay longer, but Bram told her we needed to catch our train. She insisted on wrapping up leftovers to take with us and Jamie gave us a ride to the station.

  “Your family is lovely,” I told Bram as we settled into our seats on the train. “We could have stayed longer. I wouldn’t have minded.”

  “I’m glad you liked them,” he said, wrapping one arm around me. “Normally I would stay longer, but I have some work to get done tonight. Plus I know how overwhelming they can be. I didn’t want you running for the hills.”

  I laughed. “No way. They’re super nice.” I decided it was now or never. I needed to know what Bram did for a living. I needed to know if he was reliable. “What is it that you do, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing exciting. Just finance stuff, you know.” Finance. Code for accounting. Boring, dull, safe. I relaxed. He couldn’t possibly be a flake. “I like my job well enough, but music is my real passion,” he continued. “By the way, I’m attending an awards dinner this Friday. I was wondering if you’d be my date.” Bram glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, an arm still around my shoulders. I could feel the tension in him, as though he was nervous.

  I couldn’t imagine what kind of awards dinner a part-time jazz musician would be attending. Probably one of those little events for indie bands or whatever. London was full of such things.

  “I know it’s kind of late notice, but I only just found out I’m required to attend. I’d really love for you to be my date.”

  “Sure. That could be fun.” I’d never been to an awards dinner before.

  “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday. Dress nice.”

  The Creeper

  IF YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED, weird things happen to me on buses. For Kate, it’s the Tube. For me, buses.

  I’d taken the bus to Oxford Street one Saturday to do a bit of shopping on my own. I’d needed new shoes. Well, to be honest, I wanted new shoes. I’d been hunting for the perfect pair of pumps. Something crazy. Maybe zombies or superheroes.

  A few hours later, without shoes but with a fantastic new peacock scarf, I was on my way back home. I sat at the front of the bus, earbuds in, listening to the latest Taylor Swift and reminding myself not to sing aloud lest I get kicked off the bus for being drunk. Yes, it had happened.

  I wasn’t really paying attention to my surroundings. You get that way in London. Head down, mind your business, get on with things. People don’t look around or smile or engage. I did it more than the locals did, but I’d still taken on a bit of the London “keep to yourself” attitude, especially when on public transport.

  The bus ground to a halt at my stop, and I swung off, heading down the street toward my house at a swift clip. There was a little bounce to my step as I kept time to the zippy tune. I was nearly home when someone stepped right into my path. I stumbled to a halt before crashing into the person.

  It was a man. Very tall, well over six feet. He was slender and average-looking, with greasy hair and an eager expression on his face.

  He said something, so I took out my earbuds. “Sorry, what?” “You are beautiful.” At least, that’s what I thought he said. His accent was pretty thick.

  “Uh, thanks. Excuse me.” I started to move around him, but he stepped in front of me again.

  “I follow you.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “I see you get on the bus. I think, ‘that woman is so beautiful.’ So I follow you onto the bus. Then I follow you off the bus.”

  Holy crickets. The guy had followed me, like a creepy stalker, and he’d told me like he was proud of the fact. Like he’d done something noble that I should be grateful for, flattered by. Holy crickets. This would only happen to me.

  “Okay. Great. Well, I gotta go.” I tried stepping past him again, but he got in my way. Across the street was the little flower shop that sold ridiculously overpriced but incredibly gorgeous flower arrangements. Inside, someone was moving around. Could I get there bef
ore Creeper did something really crazy? Like abduct me or something?

  “Go to dinner with me.”

  I blinked. “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I’m married.” I don’t know what made me blurt that out, but it seemed like a smart idea. Make him think I was taken, then he’d back off, right?

  “I don’t see a ring.”

  I practically growled. Like that mattered. As if my saying no wasn’t good enough. “Not all couples wear them. I’m still married.”

  “You never know. You might get divorced.”

  Now that was the way to a woman’s heart. Tell her she’s going to get divorced, and you’ll happily pick up the pieces. What a nutter.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. It’s good to make new friends.”

  It was, but he was definitely not the sort of friend I wanted to make. “I’m busy. I can’t.”

  “But I have a job.”

  “Um, that’s nice for you. Still can’t.”

  “And I’m legal.”

  “Very impressive. Still can’t.”

  “You have to eat. Eat with me.”

  “My husband would get mad.”

  “Good. You get divorced faster. Then I marry you.” He was downright serious.

  I bit back a snort of laughter. “That’s quite an offer.” I tried to back up, but he moved closer. I smelled unwashed sweat, the unpleasant musk stinging my nose.The door to the flower shop slammed open, and a tiny woman marched out, brandishing a broom. She was all of about four foot nothing and mad as a hornet. A frilly, floral-print apron was tied around her waist, and her gray hair stood out in a shot of spikes like a dandelion.

  “Hey, you!” she shouted at the Creeper. “Young man.” She stomped right up to him and wacked him in the head with the broom. “I told you to stop accosting women. Get on with you before I call the police.” She hit him again.

  The Creeper backed away, hands out. “I didn’t mean nothin’. Come on, lady.”

  “Don’t you come on me, mister. This is the third time this week. Pervert.” Whack. “Now move along before I call the bobbies.” Whack. “And then I’ll tell your priest.”

  That did it. He took off down the street, his slightly too-big shoes slapping against the pavement. I let out a breath as he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  “You all right?” the florist asked, lowering her broom.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for the rescue.”

  “You gotta watch that one.” She shook her head. “Slimy bastard. Pulls this just about every time he sees a human with boobs.”

  “And here I thought I was special,” I said cheekily. “He seemed to think I was the love of his life.

  She snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

  Chapter 18

  THE REST OF THE WEEK seemed to drag. When Friday finally arrived, it was with a sigh of relief. Work had been mental, and things were finally easing off. I ended up ducking out an hour early so I could get home and change before Bram’s awards dinner.

  I waffled between a funky purple and black striped number and a somewhat more traditional blue wrap dress. I finally went for the purple and black. This was a music thing, after all. Funky was no doubt expected.

  It was really more a tunic than a dress, with long, slightly full sleeves that cuffed at the wrist. It fitted in the bodice and then fell like a baby doll dress from beneath the bust to mid-thigh. It was rather bohemian and definitely bright. I paired it with a pair of black leggings and matching purple ankle boots with three-inch heels. For jewelry I chose a big chunky necklace of multi strings of beads and large enamel flowers in yellow, green, purple, and blue. I grinned at my reflection. Definitely a statement. I’d fit right in with Bram’s artsy friends.

  It was almost seven when my phone chimed. It was a text from Bram. He had been held up, but he’d meet me at the event. The car would arrive at seven as planned.

  I sighed and added a tick to the “minus” box. Typical flakey artist, switching plans at the last minute. At least he was sending a car rather than expecting me to find my own way. That was a point in his favor. I added a tick to the “plus” box.

  Then I realized how ridiculous I was being, keeping score on some mental chalkboard like I was deciding whether or not Bram would pass my secret test. How would I feel if someone did that to me? I took my mental eraser and wiped the slate clean. No more ticks. No more “plus” or “minus.” For now, I was going to enjoy what Bram and I had, whatever that was.

  The car arrived as I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup. I added a quick shimmer along my cheekbones and décolletage, and the tiniest bit of glitter to my eyelids. No sense going overboard, but I wanted to fit in with what would no doubt be a very artsy crowd. Satisfied I looked my best, I grabbed my teal trenchcoat and ’70s-style flower-power clutch and headed out the door.

  I paused when I saw the car. It wasn’t quite a limo, but it was close. Low, sleek, and black, polished within an inch of its life, with dark-tinted windows and a uniformed driver. How the heck could Bram afford this? It must have set him back a week’s wages. People in accounting did okay, but they didn’t make that much.

  The driver got out and held the back door open, tipping his hat. “Ma’am,” he said, inclining his head as if I were the Queen mum. He was wearing a plain black suit with a matching tie and a white shirt. A chauffeur’s cap topped it off. Other than the hat, he looked like he should be guarding the president or something.

  I slid into the backseat, and he shut the door. The leather seats were like butter. I swear they were more comfortable than my couch. The driver climbed into the front seat and pulled back onto the street without a word. I sure hoped he knew where he was going.

  After several minutes, he pulled up in front of the Saatchi Gallery at the Duke of York’s Headquarters. This was the place for the awards dinner? It wasn’t quite what I’d imagined for a bunch of artsy but impoverished musicians. I guessed whoever was putting on the awards must have some money to throw around.

  The driver ran around to open my door. The minute I was out, he was gone, curving along the drive and disappearing down the street. I hadn’t even had a chance to ask if he was taking me home. I supposed Bram had that sorted out. The Tube, no doubt. Sloane Street station wasn’t far.

  I climbed the marble steps between soaring Roman columns. At the top of the broad sweep of stairs, a uniformed doorman swung open the glass door. He tipped his hat. “Evening, ma’am.”

  What was with everyone ma’am-ing me tonight? I nodded, smiled, but said nothing. Inside, a young woman took my coat and handed me a ticket.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Must be quite a party, huh?”

  “Indeed, ma’am,” she said, her expression one of bland but pleasant disinterest. “That way.” She indicated another flight of marble steps that led to a pair of double doors that had been flung wide open. I heard music and laughter from within.

  Taking a deep breath, I ascended the stairs. I had to admit, I was excited to see Bram. We hadn’t been able to get together since the previous weekend’s jaunt to Reading, although we’d spoken on the phone. I’d honestly missed him. As I entered the room, I stumbled to a halt. “What the heck?” It was hardly more than a whisper, but several people turned to stare.

  Could the floor please open up and swallow me?

  Bram had said to dress nice. He hadn’t said this was a black tie event. Around me was a sea of men in black tuxedos. The women sparkled like jewels in couture evening gowns and far too many diamonds. And here I was, dressed like a hippie. A nice hippie, but a hippie nonetheless.

  I hesitated. I’d always heard it was better to be overdressed than underdressed. Clearly, I’d chosen the wrong dress for tonight’s shindig. At least the blue would have blended a little better, even though it still wouldn’t have been nearly dressy enough. But who cared? What was it to them if I want
ed to make a statement?

  A little smile quirked my lips. Yeah, that was it. I was making a statement.

  I drew my shoulders back and sashayed into the ballroom, ignoring the stares and whispers. Who cared if I was underdressed? I looked hot, and I was comfortable. They could just deal.

  I kept an eye peeled for Bram, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I didn’t want to bob around on tiptoe like an idiot, so I moved to the edge of the giant gallery where I could stand in one place and search for him without getting in anyone’s way.

  “Well, well, well. Look what we have here.”

  I whirled at the familiar voice. “Geoff,” I said flatly. He was looking positively delicious in his perfectly pressed black tux. And he knew it, too. How had I missed that arrogant tilt to his head? The superior, smug smile that said he laughed at the world. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here because this is my company’s party.”

  “Your company?” I knew darned well the man didn’t own any company.

  He shrugged. “The company I work for,” he said coolly.

  “I don’t understand. You’re an investment banker not a musician.”

  He gave me a strange look. “That’s right. I don’t get the correlation.”

  “Um, I thought this was an awards dinner for indie musicians.”

  He snorted in an elegant manner. “This is a dinner for our firm. To celebrate a very successful quarter and hand out awards to various employees.”

  My heart sank, and I started to feel sick. Maybe I was at the wrong party? But Bram had sent the car, and it had brought me here. This had to be the right place. I realized with a sinking feeling that this must have something to do with Bram’s day job. I’d totally misunderstood.

  “What are you doing here?” Geoff asked.