"Whatever." Brandon ground his teeth meditatively. "Doesn't mean my girlfriend needs to get physical with every guy in the room. Especially not a little prepubescent shit like him."
"Girlfriend? That's rich." I crossed my arms over my chest. "We both know I'm closer to something else at the moment."
The vein in Brandon's neck popped as he clenched his teeth. "Don't start, Skylar. You're drunk. You know I hate it when you talk about yourself like that."
"If the shoe fits."
The thing was, even though the words were intended to make him feel bad, they just made me feel even worse. I was realizing just how much I hated this arrangement––I hated being his dirty little secret.
Brandon exhaled long and heavily through his teeth. Then, with sudden determination, he snatched my hand and started dragging me out of the main hall, much to the interest of the attendees still around. Luckily, they seemed even more intoxicated than I was.
He pulled me down one of the long corridors leading off the hall, past several closed doors.
"Where are we going!" I yelped, trying and failing to free my hand as I scooted unwillingly behind him. I smacked him on the shoulder with my clutch. "Brandon! I'm not going to have sex with you here!"
He came to an abrupt stop in front of a large wood door.
"Will you keep your voice down?" he hissed. "That's not what I'm doing!"
I snatched my hand back and cradled it against my chest, lest he make another grab for it. "Then what are we doing? I'm still really fucking mad at you!"
"You're so fuckin' difficult, you know that?" Brandon looked at me with a hard gaze that gradually softened. "But I love you anyway." He leaned down and smacked a brief, intense kiss on my lips. "I'm sorry, okay? And not for nothing, but you look insanely hot in that dress."
Oh. I dropped my hand and swallowed. "Thanks. I think."
Brandon picked my hand up and kissed my palm gently. "Come on, Red. There are some people I need to talk to, and I want you to see what this is all about. Then we can leave, and I'll show you just how sorry I really am for being late."
Before I could say anything else, he pressed a broad palm against the door and pushed.
As soon as we stepped into the room, the chatter comprised of predominantly male voices came to an immediate halt. Several pairs of eyes shot to Brandon's and my still-clasped hands. Brandon, to his credit, just squeezed tighter.
"Sterling!" A deep voice called out from across the room. "You made it. Traffic didn't kill you getting back from New York, did it?"
At that, the din resumed, and Brandon steered us toward the owner of the voice, a trim, younger man with graying black hair. He stood next to a set of bookshelves with a few other cohorts, including my stepfather, Maurice.
"Hi, Maurice," I murmured as I joined them.
Maurice just gave a curt nod and glanced at the hand that Brandon still held.
"Skylar," Brandon said, pulling my attention away, "I'd like you to meet Cory Stewart. He's the guy who will be my campaign manager if I decide to run. For now, he's in charge of PR at Ventures."
I reached out to shake Cory's hand, ignoring his sharp concern. Everything about him was sharp, actually. His posture under the black and white tuxedo was ramrod-straight; his face, with pointed angles, a razor-edged nose, and beady eyes that darted up and down my person with lightning-quick judgment, had the warmth of a steel knife.
"Pleased to meet you," I said with a forced smile.
"And you," he replied. He looked anything but pleased, and darted a quick look at Brandon. "Listen, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but we're going to have to save introductions for later. You've got a room full of people here who only want to know the answer to one question: are you running?"
Again, the room silenced as everyone turned to hear the answer. After a few bemused moments, Brandon just cracked a smile.
"You're a crafty one," he said, shaking a finger at his maybe-campaign manager. "Can you believe this guy?" he asked the room. "Could charm someone out of their last kidney, I swear."
The room erupted in low laughter, and its occupants once again turned back to their conversations, satisfied that Brandon's decision wouldn't be made tonight. I looked on curiously. I hadn't realized just how many people were invested in his plans.
"Well, since you're determined to keep us all in suspense, can I convince you to meet a couple of prospective donors?" Cory asked. "If your...friend here doesn't mind letting you go for a few?"
Brandon looked down at me.
"Do you mind?" he asked. "You can stay with me if you want. But this is just networking around the room."
"It's actually pretty boring," Cory added. He was trying to sound friendly, but I could feel, rather than hear the tension in his words. He wasn't happy I was there.
Brandon just waited patiently and squeezed my hand again. I squeezed back, then let it go.
"It's okay," I said.
I meant it. For the first time that evening, I actually wanted to sit back and observe. This was the real reason that Brandon had asked me to come.
He leaned down like he was going to kiss me on the cheek, but then clearly thought better of it and straightened. I tried to convince myself it didn't matter.
"I won't be long," he said. "There's someone with drinks around here. Get comfortable."
I located a server taking orders for the kitchen. I wouldn't be having any more alcohol tonight, but I could definitely use some water.
"Go ahead," I said. "I'll be fine."
I took a seat on one of the large Chesterfield chairs that sat around the perimeter of the room. It was a library or study of some sort, a rich man's version of intellectualism, with the dark wood, built-in shelving, and large, masculine furniture.
"I didn't know it was public news."
I turned from my observations to Maurice, who took a seat in the chair next to me and sipped what looked like brandy. I was surprised he was actually speaking to me; he'd barely acknowledged my presence all evening.
In a roomful of uptight New Englanders, Maurice looked irrevocably French. With his lithe, diminutive stature and a head full of salt-and-pepper hair, he wore a classic black tuxedo with a black tie instead of a standard bowtie. With a nose that was a little too long and dark eyes that sunk into his face with Gallic circles, Maurice was handsome in a patrician sort of way. However, I had yet to see him smile.
"What news?" I asked.
"That my stepdaughter is involved with Brandon Sterling," Maurice replied evenly in his thick Parisian accent. He watched me with cold calculation. "Janette," he said, "she told me that you knew him, but the way she talked, it seemed...how do you say...a dalliance?"
I frowned, unsure of what I was supposed to say here. I didn't consider Maurice family, even though technically we were, and I'd as much as admitted my relationship to Janette. But despite the fact that with a simple hand hold, Brandon had basically told everyone in the room that we were involved in some way, I didn't know what I was at liberty to say. I didn't know what they thought.
"No," I finally said. "Not a dalliance. I've never been one to...dally." The word sounded as awkward as it felt.
Maurice crossed one leg elegantly over the other. "I see. And what do you think of all of this?" His accent was incredibly pronounced, perhaps an effect of the brandy. "Are you interested in being a part of politics?"
I looked at the crowd of people who now surrounded Brandon. Tall and strong, with his head of gold hair, he was the sun to their orbit, a center of gravity that drew them all in. It wasn't hard to see why. He exuded both charisma and a kind of genuine goodness that would attract anyone. If he chose to run for mayor, I had no problem seeing it happen. Nor, it appeared, did anyone else.
"I don't know," I answered, and that was the truth. But I was willing to figure it out in the end. Brandon was my sun too.
"I see," Maurice said again as he swished his brandy in its sifter. "I see."
Before I could reply, a pair
of white pants appeared in front of us. I looked up and gulped. Kieran, looking anything but happy.
"Hi-hi," I managed to stutter.
She didn't move, just peered grimly down at me.
"Hello," she said. "I was surprised to see you out there. I'm shocked to see you in here."
I had to force myself to maintain eye contact. Kieran's piercing stare was one of the most formidable I knew. She glanced at Maurice, who just held up his drink in a sleepy salutation.
"This is my stepfather, Maurice Jadot," I said, gesturing in his direction.
Kieran acknowledged Maurice with a curt nod before leaning down to talk to me a little more closely.
"You shouldn't be in here," she said bluntly. "It's not good for him to be seen with you."
"You make me sound like some call girl," I said bitterly.
"If his wife ever gets wind that you were here, and she will, that's basically what everyone here will think of you," Kieran retorted. "Skylar, I'm doing my best to get him out of this marriage so that you can be together the way I know you both want, but you are not making it easy by showing up here."
"He asked me to come," I protested weakly. "He said it was important. What was I supposed to say? No?"
A thin, raised brow told me that was exactly what I was supposed to say.
"You should know better than anyone else that Brandon has a habit of doing stupid things for people he loves," Kieran said. "So you need to think about his best interests better than he does. And right now, that means you should go before people get the wrong idea, and definitely before Miranda shows up."
I crossed my arms defiantly. "He said she wasn't going to come. I wouldn't be here if that were a possibility."
"Miranda has a habit of showing up in a lot of places Brandon thinks she won't," Kieran said dryly. With a flash in her dark eyes, she looked around the room. "You'd be better off to remember that."
As if her words were a clear omen, the door to the study burst open, and another magnetic field of charisma entered. The chatter quieted.
"Hello! Oh, hello, nice to see you, Henry! Love that ascot!"
I froze at the sound of a voice I had only heard twice before. Both times were burned into my memory. All the blood drained from my head.
Next to me, Kieran stood up to her full height and closed her eyes in anticipation.
"Fuck," she said so low no one else but I could have heard her. She looked at me. "You need to go." Then she darted through the crowd, presumably to distract the newest guest at the party.
This wasn't happening. Just when I thought the night couldn't get any worse, it absolutely did.
I stood up to see Miranda Sterling née Keith giving people air kisses as she moved about the room. She looked, as ever, like a movie star, dressed in a red column dress that fit her long, lithe form like a glove. Her thick brown hair was pulled back at her neck to reveal a massive wreath of diamonds that paired with the ones at her ears. Her full lips were painted a bright red to match the dress. She looked like she had walked off a Vogue cover, like money, charm, and confidence. Everything I wasn't.
"Bran, darling, I made it after all!"
By now the room had gone completely silent, as everyone looked to where Brandon stood, still surrounded by Cory and several others. I was never so glad that I was watching Brandon the moment she spoke, as I was able to see the look of complete and utter shock on his face. He hadn't known she would be here. He never would have invited me; perhaps he wouldn't have come himself.
I started to edge my way around the perimeter, wary of Maurice's curious gaze as I did. Miranda and I were two of only a few women in a room full of men. We stood out just by virtue of our dresses in a sea of black tuxedos. I needed to get out of here before I was noticed.
As Miranda continued to chatter, I wove through the room, doing my best to take advantage of my short stature. The study, unfortunately, wasn't crowded quite enough to hide me. Miranda Sterling's sharp gray eyes zeroed on me just as I was about to reach the door.
"Oh, hello!" she crowed with a wicked smile. "If it isn't our little red-haired Calypso!"
To an outsider, her tone might have sounded friendly, as if she were complimenting the Grecian style of my dress, but at least three people in the room knew exactly what she was referring to: Calypso was the Greek nymph who had tried to steal Odysseus from his wife, Penelope.
My face flooded the same color as her dress. Brandon tried unsuccessfully to elbow his way through the group that had cornered him.
"Miranda, that's enough," he called, but his voice only brought more attention to the situation.
"I...I'm going to go," I said to them both, eager to escape the prying eyes surrounding me.
Thank God that most of them didn't know my name. The confrontation between Miranda Sterling and her husband's anonymous, red-haired mistress was bad enough.
"That's probably for the best," Miranda agreed with a critical nod. Her eyes flashed, hateful and bright. "No one here likes cheap goods."
"Miranda!"
I didn't stay to see Brandon's reaction. With my face turning hotter at Miranda's ugly words and the hum of the gathering picking up behind me, I stepped out of the room. As soon as the door closed, I picked up my skirts and ran.
~
Chapter 22
By the time I reached my tiny apartment, the buzz of alcohol had completely worn off, but the heady feeling of the evening hadn't. I sent Brandon a quick text to let him know I was home and that I'd talk to him tomorrow.
But after I pulled off the ridiculous dress, I took one glance at my small space and knew I couldn't stay there. I had two choices: I could roam the city at night by myself and have even more to drink (which probably wasn't the best idea). Or I could take this adrenaline and use it productively.
I grabbed my gym bag and chose the latter.
It was well after midnight when I swam my last lap at my gym, which was thankfully open all night. Only diehard gym rats were in the building; I was the only one in the three-lane pool.
All vestiges of alcohol had evaporated. I could see the evening for what it was: a medium-sized disaster, but not necessarily one I had to flip out about. There would definitely be fallout, but I intended to make sure that Brandon listened to Kieran from now on. I was done being humiliated by his ex-wife.
I finished my last flip-turn and soared through the water, making it halfway down the twenty-five-meters before I surfaced for air. There was someone standing at the end of my lane––likely one of the gym staff sent to kick me out of the pool for the night. I swam quickly to the end, pushing myself until my muscles started to shake. I reached for the concrete edge with my final stroke and pulled myself up to catch my breath.
I pushed my goggles over my swim cap, and it was then I got a look at the shiny black oxfords in front of me. Definitely not the sneakers of your average gym attendant. I yanked my cap and goggles completely off and looked up.
Brandon towered above me, broad shoulders still looking indecently handsome in the all-black shirt and embroidered vest. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and the black bow tie lay loose on either side of his collar. His jacket was gone, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets. His hair was mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it too much, gold waves in haphazard pieces around his forehead. The wavering reflection of the pool water cast deep shadows under the strong lines of his cheekbones and jaw.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms.
"Having a nice swim?"
He squatted down so our faces were only a foot or so apart, close enough that I could see the slight perspiration on his forehead from standing in the humid pool room. His eyes glowed bright like tiger's, despite their brilliant blue, but the faint lines over his brow told me he was tired.
I bit my lip, treading water. "It was all right. How did you know I was here?"
Brandon sighed, his features unreadable. "You didn't answer your phone after you
texted me, so I went to your place. Eric told me where you went."
I blanched. "You woke up Eric?" He couldn't have liked that.
Brandon sighed and rocked back and forth on his heels. "I'm his boss. He was happy to accommodate."
I pulled my damp hair out of its bun, happy to relieve the weight. It fell in thick ropes around my shoulders, causing water to trail over my skin. It was a far cry from my earlier, more glamorous look. My face was bare, wet, and likely had goggle marks around my eyes. My sport bikini wasn't the skimpiest of suits, but the rough intake of Brandon's breath told me it was alluring enough. He looked like he wanted to eat me.
Good, I thought. Fair's fair.
Finally, Brandon blew out a long sigh. "Why did you leave?"
I cocked my head in disbelief. "Come on. Staying wasn't an option."
"I got that. But why didn't you wait for me?"
I pressed off the ledge with my feet, but kept my grip on the concrete, arms straight while the water swished around me. Without moving, I should have been cold, but Brandon's presence lit a fire inside me.
"I had some things to think about, and you were busy." I looked up. "I'm not at your beck and call, you know."
Brandon exhaled heavily through his nostrils and rocked backward onto his heels again. "No one thinks that, Skylar."
"It sure felt that way tonight," I said. "Sitting around waiting for you for two hours, put in a corner like inconvenient arm candy, then forced to flee when your wife busts in."
"You didn't need to run off like that. You knew I'd come back for you. Come on, Skylar."
"I didn't run off," I corrected him, even though I literally did run. "I told you I was going, and then I told you I was home and I'd talk to you later."
"Well, it's not like you have the best track record of following through on those kinds of promises."
His words were almost as bitter as mine, and I flinched, thinking of when I'd left him, still in my bed, to run away to Brooklyn after I'd discovered his divorce papers. He had a point, but he also wasn't the one who had to accept all of this somewhat passively. I wasn't planning to leave him again, but it was still a lot to take. Especially tonight.
Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2) Page 24