“Fine,” I mutter.
“Fine?”
“Fine.”
He crinkles his eyes and nose. “Fine, like you’ll let me buy you a dress?”
“Yes,” I murmur under my breath. I hate when he wins.
A small smirk flashes across his face as he turns toward the nosy attendant.
“How may I help you?” she asks him and purses her lips together, not even acknowledging my presence.
So we are off to a great start.
The intimidation is real. She has a long and lean body, with a perfectly symmetrical face. She’s wearing a shit ton of gold jewelry over a snug blue knit dress that probably costs more than my car. Her dark, red hair is pulled into a flawless French Twist, and I feel a little less female because that is something I’ve never been able to pull off. I’m like a fifth grader standing next to her.
“We’d like to get a gown for a black-tie event.”
“Yes, of course,” she says, laying it on real thick. She takes a step closer to Reid. “What did you have in mind, sir?”
“Well, that’s for the lady to decide.” He takes a step back and motions to me.
“That’s me. I’m the lady,” I joke since it’s basically the first time I receive her attention. And boy do I get it. She examines me, top to bottom, and I imagine that she’s making mental notes about my physical characteristics.
“Well, let’s see what I can put together,” she says as if I pose a difficult challenge. I follow her toward the back while she asks my size and pulls a few dresses off the rack. “Based on your height, I don’t think a long gown would work.”
“Yeah, I guess not,” I concede, yet still annoyed that she went ruled it out immediately.
“A long gown can be altered and delivered to us in Wells,” Reid says. It’s not a question, it’s a directive.
She stares at him a second too long before answering. “Of course, yes.”
Reid always gets what he wants, that much is clear.
French Twist pulls a couple of long dresses as well and leads me to the dressing room. Reid follows along too and takes a seat in one of the brown suede chairs in front of a three-way mirror.
“I thought you had some stuff to get?” I ask.
“I do, but I don’t mind waiting.” He picks up a travel magazine from the coffee table and starts to leaf through it.
“Oh. Okay.” Well, this should be interesting. Butterflies take flight in my tummy. Does he want me to model the dresses for him? Oh, lordy.
Hand to god, the dressing room is larger than my kitchen back home. “Wow,” I whisper to myself.
French Twist leaves and comes back with a few different types of corset bras for backless or strapless pieces. “I guessed about the size.”
“Thanks,” I respond and stare at the dresses, wondering which one I should try on first.
“Your boyfriend is a sharp dresser,” she says out of nowhere.
I quickly correct her. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, my apologies.” She smiles, her perfectly applied lipstick stretches to the limits.
“But I think he has a girlfriend,” I add because I want to wipe that smile off her face.
It doesn’t deter her. “Call if you need any assistance,” she instructs me and leaves me on my own, I assume to go flirt with Reid, girlfriend or not.
I try not to care and focus on the dresses. The first one is a green satin, one-shoulder number. It’s very puffy and totally not my style. I try it on anyway, after fumbling with the corset bra. Sure enough, I’ve transformed into an emerald mushroom. The next two dresses don’t work either. I am not going for mother of the bride.
The fourth dress is scarlet red, with an intricate lace and ribbon bodice that pleats at the skirt. Taking a closer look, it has a long slit up on the left leg. It’s elegant, yet fun and not completely stuffy. For the first time, I’m excited to be here. I slip into the dress, which fits very well, but I can’t zip it myself since the bodice goes all the way up my back. I need help.
I open the door to my dressing room and peek out. French Twist has disappeared. “Hello?” I call. Nothing. I try to zip it again and make my arms bend in ways they just shouldn’t, but I can’t do it.
I tiptoe on bare feet out of the dressing room area and poke my head around the doorway to see if I can spot her. She’s not there, but Reid is still sitting in the chair, reading. I quietly pull back and lean against the wall, too afraid to ask for his help. It’s silly, I know. All I need is help to zip it up. Whether he has a girlfriend or not, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s going to have to zip it up the night of the gala anyway, so I take a deep breath and push myself around the corner.
Reid
“Red shoes?” the shop girl asks.
“Yes, or whatever will match the red gown,” I tell her.
“How do you know that’s the one she’ll choose?”
How do I know? Perhaps it’s intuition, or maybe it’s merely my wish, either way, I hope I’m right. “Let’s just take our chances, shall we?”
“As you wish,” she says and winks at me before taking off.
Instead of returning her flirtation, I return to the travel magazine in my lap. I flip the page and stumble upon a familiar sight.
Hollyhock House.
It’s one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s earliest Southern California architectural designs and a structure I studied in great detail at university. While I’ve never seen it in person, the photographs of it in the magazine are so familiar to me that it’s like I took them myself. As I read about a California driving tour of Wright’s work, I idly wonder if I will ever have the time for a proper vacation. It’s unlikely with my current workload.
“Reid?” Cara squeaks out, quiet as a mouse.
“Yes?” I respond and look up to find her hovering around the entrance to the dressing room. To my absolute delight, she is wearing the red gown, and she is stunning in it. The bodice wraps beautifully around her torso as the skirt flows like waves off her waist. There’s a large slit up the left side, which I missed when it was pulled from the rack. Her toned leg peeks through it and makes my mouth go dry. The color is striking against her creamy skin. I’m utterly and completely powerless to her. I swallow hard and repeat, “Yes?” Barely audible to even me.
“Will you help me zip this up? I can’t reach it on my own,” she says and twists around to show me her exposed back.
I swallow hard a second time and slowly close the magazine, setting it to the side. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
She steps in front of the three-way mirror and turns her back to me again. I take my place right behind her and examine the zip that rests at the bottom of her back, just above a backless corset of some kind. She sweeps her hair over a shoulder, and the rest of her back is exposed to me. Pink and peach freckles are scattered across her skin like pebbles on a sandy beach. I want to place my lips on each and every one.
She’s watching me via the mirror. I’d love to know if this is as exhilarating for her as it is for me. My jaw twitches and not even a second later she catches her breath. Perhaps it is.
I gently grasp the zip and some of the dress material. It’s soft between my fingers as I pull up slowly with a very tender touch. Cara shivers a little and goose bumps spread across the back of her arms. It could just be the air on her exposed skin. Or it could be something more. I exhale a heavy breath onto her neck, and she inhales sharply in the next beat.
When I reach the top, I have to use a little more force to push a pearl button through a loop. Damn thing. I feel victorious when I finally get it and rest my hands on her shoulders.
“There,” I say and meet her eyes in the mirror.
She smiles at me. “Thank you. So what do you think? Will this dress work?”
Keeping my eyes on hers, my reply is short and breathless. “Yes.”
Cara’s eyes unfocus a little as if she’s lost in thought. I would give up the entire estate to kno
w what she’s thinking. She gives her head a little shake as if she’s coming to. “Where did she go?”
It takes me a second to know who she’s talking about, and then it dawns on me. “I asked her to fetch matching shoes. I hope you don’t mind.”
Cara’s eyes narrow and her lips bunch up. “How would she know what to get?”
I blink and take a few steps back. She turns toward me, waiting for an answer.
“I had a feeling you would pick the red dress,” I confess.
Her mouth falls open. “Really? Why’s that?”
In a bold move, I reach out to gather some of the skirt material and rub it between my fingers. “It looked like you,” I tell her, deciding to keep it simple. She doesn’t need to know that I hoped she would pick this one.
She blinks a few times and then gives me a drop-dead gorgeous smile that makes my heart thump hard in my chest. It grows quiet between us as this meaningful moment transpires, but as the moment goes on her smile slowly fades away. “Do you think Evan will like it?”
Evan.
The idea of him enjoying Cara in any possible way makes my skin crawl. She is a goddess in this dress, and I’m certain Evan is not even remotely worthy of her. “I’m sure he will,” I say sadly.
* * *
After a minor freak out at the cash register when Cara saw the total price of the dress and some matching Prada shoes, we made our way to an H&M for essentials. Her idea, of course. I’m standing by holding loads of tops, shorts, skirts, and tights while Cara digs through the racks with enthusiasm.
She holds up a thin Henley top in white. “See, you don’t have to spend a boatload to get stylish stuff.”
“Ah, so you’re going to teach me how to be thrifty.”
“Something like that. Who cares about labels?”
I chuckle and follow her like the diligent helper I am, right into the lingerie section. I try to avert my eyes like a true gentleman, but it’s like expecting a starving lion to look away from a side of lamb. Or more like asking a man to look away from the object of his affection shuffling through lacy pants. I’ve seen many bits and pieces of Cara Montgomery, but not the full package. My imagination gets carried away, to say the least.
Every now and again she catches my eye and flashes a little smile in my direction. It’s possible that she wants me to look, but if that’s the case, why did she put a stop to our moment on the couch last night?
Hopefully, she didn’t stop it because of Evan. That idea is unsettling, to say the least.
Once she’s done, I carry the massive haul to the checkout desk. We’re greeted by a young woman with frosted pink hair, a lip ring, and very flirtatious eyes pointed directly at me. She certainly isn’t my type, but I play it up a little because I’m curious how Cara will react. Does the green-eyed monster live in her the way it’s currently living in me?
The total comes out to be roughly two hundred pounds. I pull out my wallet to pay. “I’ve got this,” I tell Cara and put on a phony smile for the check out girl.
“Aren’t you a total sweetheart,” the girl behind the counter says.
Cara doesn’t protest much about the money, because she’s too busy sliding closer to me and placing her hand possessively on my arm while never taking her eyes off the poor girl.
I smile to myself.
With the bags in hand, I wait for Cara to go in front of me. As we walk out, I let out a huge breath. So Cara does get jealous. Interesting.
Chapter Ten
Ghosts
Reid
We’re seated at a table for two in the center of a swanky hotel restaurant. A flickering votive candle provides a warm glow over the menu Cara holds tightly between her hands. She studies it carefully, and her mouth falls open more than once, probably at the prices. Her face is so responsive, and it’s one of the things I enjoy most about being around her.
“Relax,” I whisper across the table.
Without even looking up at me, she replies, “Well it’s not a taco stand back home, that’s for sure.”
“That it is not. So, what are you having?”
She flips the menu over one more time. “The roast chicken.”
“The least expensive entree?”
She laughs a little and lifts her eyebrows. “Mmm-hmm.”
I’m unable to keep any semblance of a straight face. “Well, I’m choosing the scallops and pasta. I’ll call the Sommelier over. I’m sure he’ll find something that complements both our dishes.”
While I speak with the Sommelier at length, I glance over at Cara who watches me closely with narrow eyes. After the wine arrives and I accept it, she clears her throat and asks, “Where did you learn how to do that?”
It’s such an odd question. “I don’t know where, or when for that matter. Practice over the years, maybe.”
“You certainly know your way around wine.”
“Are you calling me a lush?”
“I would never,” she jokes and takes a generous sip. “But seriously, I guess what I’m asking is, where did you grow up?”
“Well, believe it or not, I was born in the States.”
“You’re American?” she asks, astounded.
“Technically, yes, I’m also an American citizen. My father’s company sent him to New York for a couple of years. That’s where I was born.”
“Funny, I’m the opposite. Born here and then grew up in the States.”
“I was curious about that. How did your citizenship get worked out?”
“Sea World.”
“Sea World? Like the place with the killer whales?”
“Yep. My mom met a friend through a single parent’s forum that turned out to be some bigwig at Sea World. She was able to hook my mom up with a work visa at the park. That’s how we ended up in San Diego. ”
“That’s mad.”
“I know, right? But it paid the bills. She saved up for the best lawyer she could afford, and we worked toward becoming citizens. It took ages and every spare penny we had, but it was a really cool day when we took the Oath of Allegiance.”
“Well, that is quite the journey.”
“For sure. So, how long did you spend in New York?”
“No time at all, really. Shortly after I was born, we came home and lived in London. At least that’s what the address read.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was at school most of the time.”
“That wasn’t in London?”
I chew on my cheek before answering. “No. I was away at boarding schools.”
Concern flashes across her face. “Oh really? Away from your parents?”
“Yes,” I answer. It’s hard to talk about my parents in general, it’s even harder to talk about all the missed opportunities we had to spend time together.
“The whole time?”
“Yes. For primary, I was over in Berkshire at a boys school, and then I went to Eton in Windsor.”
She starts tapping her fork against the table. “Eton? That sounds familiar.”
Of course, it sounds familiar. “I’m sure you know it because of Prince William and Harry. They went there.”
She almost spits out her wine. “Christ, do you know them?”
“Not really,” I answer, keeping it simple. There are lots of social circles in England. Many of them overlap.
She studies me for a long beat, bites her lip, and glances at our waiter across the restaurant.
“What?”
Her eyes travel back to mine. “Nothing really, I was just wondering what my life would be like if we never left England. Would I be running with the royals?”
I tilt toward her. “Is that idea appealing to you?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. My public school, working-class upbringing made me who I am, and I’m happy about that.”
“I’m happy about that too,” I say, and it’s true. It’s refreshing to be around someone different.
Her lips purse before easing into a gentle smile. “So
you went to boarding schools, did you miss your parents?”
No one has ever asked me that. My throat tightens as my response comes out in a near whisper, “Sometimes.”
“Mrs. McHenry told me that your father passed away when you were young. When was that?”
It’s another unexpected question and a bold one at that. My eyes snap to hers instantly. “I was fifteen years old.”
“I’m sorry,” she sympathizes. “How did he die?”
She’s holding her breath, never once taking her eyes off me.
“Brain aneurysm. It was immediate.”
“So you didn’t get to say goodbye?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
“How did you get through that year?”
Her question sends me back to that time. The pain, the hollowness that would never quite leave me. I focus on the cutlery as I make myself answer her because as painful as it is to go there, I want her to know me.
“I launched myself into my school work and picked up rowing. That became a passion of mine. I love being on the water. It’s very peaceful. I also have some really great friends and to be honest, I had your grandfather. He helped us pick up the pieces.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” she says, but her smile doesn’t match her eyes. I hope she’s not envious that I got to spend so much time with him.
As the moment gets heavier, our salads arrive, and it’s a welcome disruption.
With a forkful of spinach dangling from her hand, she asks, “So you went to all boys schools?”
I can’t resist the crooked grin I flash her. “Yes. No distractions of the opposite sex. It was intense.”
“I bet,” she replies, and her eyelashes flutter. “Where did you go to college?”
“Cambridge.”
“They have girls there, don’t they?”
“Yes, they have girls there,” I reply with a chuckle. I have no idea where she’s going with this, but my heart starts pumping faster.
Be What Love Is Page 11