He slowly pulled away from the kiss and knelt beside her. “This is getting really cozy. Soon it will look like a real studio.”
“And you’re really sure your mother won’t mind?”
“Oh, she’s going to bother you in here more often than you’ll like,” he prophesied with an amused grin, before glancing at his watch. “Crap, we need to leave in an hour.”
She immediately averted his gaze, shifting her weight on the tiled floor and running a hand through her hair. “You could go without me, Patrick. I mean … I don’t even know the host.”
“So you can sit around the house boring yourself to death?” he asked lightly. “Not a chance.”
“But you needn’t have made this long detour,” she protested weakly. “You raced home from Manhattan only to turn around and go back to Manhattan in an hour. You could have saved yourself all that driving if I didn’t come.”
He knew she just wanted to avoid having to present herself to strangers at Sarah’s housewarming party. But he also thought it was cute somehow, Amy’s insecurity.
“Have you considered that I might want you there with me?” he asked softly, tugging at a strand of her blond hair.
“Patrick—”
“I’m serious, baby,” he cut off her mumbled protest. “It’s high time I showed off my beautiful wife.”
She frowned doubtfully. “Look at me. I have nothing to wear! I’m only going to embarrass you.”
“That’s absurd. How would you even be able to embarrass me? It’s practically impossible.”
She shrugged and heaved a sigh.
He carefully traced the line of her neck with his thumb. “We haven’t seen each other all day,” he murmured. “Let’s spend a little time together. And don’t be afraid of ending up beholden to one of Barbara’s silly charity events. It’s only a housewarming party, and Sarah’s really nice. She’s about your age.”
Her blue eyes searched his. “It’s just … I like your sister … I really do …”
Her tone was hesitant, which made him grin. “I’m sure she’d be glad to hear that.”
She swallowed. “Yes, I like Barbara. She called me yesterday and asked if I’d like to go to Manhattan with her tomorrow so she could show me a bit of the city.”
For a brief moment, he felt guilty for not having taken the time to do the very same thing, but then he felt nothing but relief that Barbara would go to such lengths to welcome Amy into the family. “That’s a great idea,” he replied truthfully.
“I know, and I’m looking forward to it …”
“But?”
“But …” She heaved another sigh and chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Barbara’s so glamorous.”
“Glamorous?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Yes,” she insisted. “She’s so stylish, and articulate and polished, and she dresses so elegantly. Next to her, I feel like some Amish girl who’s never seen a car before.”
Patrick couldn’t help himself; he burst into a bout of laughter that wouldn’t stop even when she swatted his arm in outrage.
“Stop laughing, Patrick! I’m serious.”
He wiped a tear from his eye and grinned at her, trying to dispel the storm clouds on her brow. “That’s total nonsense.”
“No, it’s not.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “When she was talking about her charity groups at the dinner table, and then Stuart described the kind of women who go there—I knew I could never be like that.”
“And thank God!” Patrick raised his hands, as if frightened by the possibility. “You shouldn’t want to be like that! I know most of those women. I don’t know what I’d do if you turned into a snobby, high-society diva with strings of pearls and ridiculous hats.”
Her eyes betrayed her confusion. “But … But your sister and your mother …”
“My mother isn’t like that at all,” he reassured her with a grin. “And while Barbara may look like Jackie Kennedy sometimes, she isn’t like all those awfully spoiled ladies either. Far from it.” She didn’t look entirely confused, so he prodded gently, “Why did you think you’d embarrass me just being yourself? Don’t you know I love you?”
“But everyone will realize right away that I’m different.” She gesticulated with her hands, apparently having difficulty turning her concerns into words. “I don’t know how to play golf or polo, I didn’t go to an Ivy League school, and I have no clue which fork to use for which food at dinner. All your friends will think I married you for money.”
He cringed internally. “I should never have mentioned that. Now it’s a fixed idea in your head. But I promise you my friends—my real friends—would never think something like that.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s get some things straight, Amy. First of all, you don’t embarrass me. Quite the contrary. You’re not only absolutely stunning, but also extremely intelligent, lovable, and charming.”
“You’re just saying that to calm me down,” she whined, her face beet-red.
“Of course I’m not,” he snorted. “Why else would I have married you?”
“But—”
“And second of all,” he continued, “I wouldn’t care if you ate with your fingers and ignored all the cutlery.”
“But it’s not just the cutlery. Dinner in general is …” She lowered her head, embarrassed. “Two days ago, we had scalloped oysters, and last week, it was snails. It may sound silly to you, but … I could hardly swallow the stuff.”
Patrick wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so he merely shook his head. “Are you telling me you ate all that stuff even though you don’t like it?”
Her eyes told him that she had.
“Oh, no … honey.” He couldn’t stop himself from giggling a little. “Do you really think I … Look, my dad hated escargot. And my mom doesn’t touch clams, mussels, or oysters.”
She gave him an imploring look. “I’m just afraid of what’s next. Frog legs?”
“They taste like chicken,” he teased.
“I’d be happier with a sandwich,” she replied earnestly.
He laughed. “Fine, then I’ll let Hatty know.”
“Please don’t,” she pleaded. “She’s so nice, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
He grinned and placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. “You’re so sweet. To be honest, I actually think Hatty is only doing all that for your sake.”
“For my sake?”
Patrick nodded thoughtfully. “I can’t remember the last time we had scalloped oysters or snails for dinner. Probably a few years. So I’m sure she’s serving up such lordly fare to impress you, since you did just come from Italy.” He nodded reassuringly. “Normally, we put our pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else.”
She attempted a laugh. “I’m terrible, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re not,” he told her firmly. “But we need to get ready now. Come on, boozehound, chin up!”
“Don’t you dare call me that tonight,” she said, before allowing him to pull her to her feet.
He grinned without remorse, while she bent to pick up the envelope he’d brought her, which had slipped from her lap when she rose. “What is this?”
“A few papers and forms you need to sign.” Patrick shrugged.
“Forms?” She opened the envelope and peeked inside. “What kind of forms?”
While Patrick debated whether there was time to take a quick shower, he stifled a yawn. “Just some basic stuff. Application for you to be added to my health insurance, plus what feels like a hundred bank forms.”
“Bank forms?” she echoed, waiting for him to explain.
“Yeah.” His mind was still elsewhere as he stepped closer to one of Amy’s paintings, smiling at the colorful composition. He secretly decided he would have it framed and hang it in his office before his mom could lay her hands on it—she had been saying she needed a new painting for the entrance hall.
“What are these, Patrick?”
He threw a surprised glan
ce over his shoulder and found her holding all the forms in her hands and staring at him with a thoughtful expression.
He shrugged a dismissive shoulder. “All kinds of stuff. An application for a credit card, I think, authorization to access my bank accounts …”
“What?” She shook her head defensively. “No, I don’t want a credit card, and I don’t need to be authorized for anything.”
He felt almost offended as he turned around, crossing his arms over his chest. “Listen, Amy, you and I are married—”
“That doesn’t mean I want access to your wealth.” She shook her head with finality. “That’s not why I married you.”
He thought he was going to go crazy. His shoulders sagged as he struggled to employ a sensible tone. “Honey, we are married. What’s mine is yours.”
She shook her head even more brusquely, took a step toward him, and handed him the stack of papers. “No.”
Wonderful, Patrick thought as he watched her march out of the room. After that, the rest of the evening would surely be a walk in the park.
***
Champagne was rather tasty, Amy decided as she sipped her second glass. After the embarrassing episode in the club in Rome she had vowed to herself that she wouldn’t drink a single drop for the next decade, but now it was terribly reassuring to have a glass to hold on to. After all, she was at a party where she knew zero people, yet everyone seemed to know who she was.
The place was an extravagant loft space in central Manhattan. There was a hip buffet of sushi in all imaginable varieties, and the guests were dressed in expensive suits and carried apparently even more expensive purses. The result fit Amy’s image of the New York upper class to a tee. She stood lost in the midst of it, listening to people talk about flotation chambers, Botox treatments, and yachts in the Caribbean.
Her mood was tetchy anyway, after Patrick had handed her those papers so casually, papers that would give her access to all of his money. She’d never sign them!
A tiny voice in her head told her she shouldn’t have reacted like that, because it was perfectly normal for married couples to throw everything together and share. Her mom had lived on her father’s money, too. She’d stayed home while he earned the money working as a lawyer at a tiny, small-town firm. But how could she take Patrick’s money and sleep easy, knowing what some people might be saying about her already?
She didn’t want Patrick to think even for a second that she might be a gold digger after all. She’d rather scrape together a living cleaning people’s houses than allow that to happen.
Not to mention she didn’t need money at the moment. She wasn’t paying rent, buying groceries, or paying for any insurance. No, she refused to let him give her access to his accounts, or even a credit card. She had her pride, too.
She was grateful, however, that he’d stuck by her side the entire evening, either wrapping an arm around her waist or letting it dangle over her shoulder. She’d have felt terribly awkward without him, not least because of the bluntly assessing stares, which came mainly from the female guests of the party. Among their smart clothes, Amy felt nondescript and even a little inadequate in her simple white top, snug-fitting black pants, and the heels Patrick had bought her in Italy.
When she’d dressed three hours earlier, she’d been proud and satisfied with her getup, feeling that it was exceptionally neat. She’d blow-dried her hair to wear her natural curls untamed, and her face was made up unobtrusively. Thanks to the Italian sun, her skin possessed a healthy glow, which she didn’t want to cover up. She’d been happy with her simple outfit and fancy shoes.
But as soon as she’d set foot in the apartment, her gaze had found a group of women wearing fantastic dresses with plunging necklines, short skirts, and extravagant cuts. They had picked eye-catching accessories to match, and they’d smiled haughtily at the sight of her.
Suddenly she’d felt like a wallflower.
Now she was standing opposite one of those women, a red-haired woman who’d slapped on a sweet but very fake smile. She was standing with a small group talking about the election campaign of a politician they were all friends with, and Patrick had steered Amy to join. But they’d changed the subject as if on cue, instead grilling Amy and Patrick on how and where they’d met. Patrick answered their nosy questions graciously enough, while Amy forced herself to ignore the curious gaze of the redhead.
“What did you do in Rome, Amy?” the hostess, Sarah, asked with genuine interest. She, at least, seemed perfectly normal and very satisfied with the way her housewarming party was going.
“Amy is a painter,” Patrick replied in her stead, pressing a kiss to her temple for everyone to see. “She’s exceptionally gifted.”
She blushed with embarrassment and qualified hastily, “Patrick exaggerates.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice betrayed a grin—and a whole lot of pride in her. “I’m sure there’ll be a sweeping exhibition of her work pretty soon.”
A slightly portly man with a whiskey glass in his hand laughed, patting Patrick on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Oh, I’m sure there will be, considering your mother knows all the prominent gallery owners in town.” He raised his glass and nodded at Amy, giving her a wink that overstepped all her boundaries. “Don’t you worry, Eleanore will take care of that.”
Stifling an outraged gasp, Amy stiffened, but Patrick hastened to intervene. “Amy won’t need an advocate, Dylan,” he declared with conviction. “She’s going to make it on her own.”
Despite Patrick’s clarification, Amy’s hackles were raised.
At least the others seemed to have taken the hint that it was time to change the subject, for Sarah broke into a dreamy sigh. “Now tell me about your wedding! I’m so very jealous. I’ve never been to Rome!”
“Oh, yes,” the redhead purred with a little shake of her head, making her showy, gem-encrusted earrings glitter. “I’d like to know everything about this shotgun wedding.”
All eyes were on her, so Amy swallowed and stated modestly, “It was a really small affair. The ceremony was in an orange orchard beside an ancient church. On the Aventine Hill in Rome.”
Sarah emitted another dreamy sigh. “That sounds so romantic!”
“It sounds like a feast for mosquitoes,” the redhead quipped, tilting her head to one side. “No offense, I’m sure it was wonderful.”
The man named Dylan made a face. “Rome is an interesting city, no question, but the hordes of tourists can really spoil the fun. Which reminds me, Patrick, did you have dinner at La Pergola? It has three Michelin stars and honestly has the best truffles I’ve had in all of Europe. The food there is like a revelation.”
Amy had lived in Rome for an entire year, and could claim to know every corner of the city, but she’d never heard of that particular restaurant. Maybe because she’d never even consider setting foot in an establishment of that sort.
Before Patrick could answer, the redhead cut in again with an exaggerated groan. “I’ve had my run-ins with the obnoxious tourists as well. Last year when I was flying to Europe, I took a quick detour to Rome to buy this purse I had set my sights on at Bottega Veneta. But as soon as I stepped into their flagship store, there was this huge group of female tourists with backpacks and baseball caps squashing their oily noses against the display cases. That made me lose my appetite for Bottega for good, I’m afraid.”
Amy struggled to keep her mouth shut, but Patrick was once again admirably nonchalant. He smiled smugly at the redhead. “Since Amy speaks Italian and knows Rome like her own backyard, we actually only frequented places where you could avoid the tourist crowd. She knows all the locals’ favorite spots. Nobody to bother you there.”
Amy gave him a wide smile. “Sweet-talker,” she teased.
He lowered his lips to her ear, ignoring the looks from the others, and whispered, “Boozehound.”
This time, she couldn’t be mad about the moniker. She would have leaned into him with happiness if they hadn’t still been the cen
ter of everyone’s attention. Patrick was grinning as well, but a moment later, he raised his head and froze. He was looking over someone’s shoulder.
Amy wanted to know who or what had made him stiffen and frown, but Sarah commanded all her attention with questions about the Vatican museum.
Less than ten minutes later, Patrick cleared his throat and gave Sarah an apologetic look. “The party is wonderful, Sarah, but I’m afraid we’ll have to say goodbye. Tomorrow morning, I have an early—”
“Yes, sure,” the hostess cut him off with an amused look. “You have a meeting. Sure.” She gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek and asked, “Do you want me to fetch your coats?”
“No, I’ll do that.” Patrick handed Amy his glass, kissed her on the mouth, and tried to smile. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Okay.” She was puzzled by his sudden rush, so she stayed where she was, looking for a place she could leave the glasses. She decided to take them back into the kitchen to save Sarah some work.
As she put the glasses in the sink, someone cleared their throat behind her. It was Peter, Sarah’s brother and Patrick’s best friend, who she had met briefly when they’d arrived.
“I wanted to save Sarah a little work,” she felt compelled to explain, giving him a shy smile. Peter struck her as a reserved specimen of the male species.
The smile he offered in return didn’t seem genuine. “That’s considerate,” he replied, leaning against a cabinet and studying her with his beer bottle raised to his lips.
“I think Patrick’s waiting for me.”
“Sure.” He shrugged and shifted his weight. “Hey, Amy?”
“Yes?” She stopped and crossed her arms, feeling insecure.
Just one kiss (The Ashcrofts Book 1) Page 13