The Fortunate Ones
Page 14

Whatever. Who cares. I have more important things to worry about, like these two boxes (!!!).
I kick my door closed and drop them carefully on my bed. First, I open the big one. The ribbon is silky between the pads of my fingers as I release the bow and slide the top of the box to the side. Inside, there’s black tissue paper for miles. I pull apart the layers gently, like an archeologist handling a delicate artifact. Finally, I reach the bottom and lay eyes on the dress. My breath catches.
It’s silky and black, just like the box. The name on the label catches my attention: Vivian Palermo. She’s a local Austin designer whose dresses usually retail for the price of a prize pony—I know because Ellie and I saw one hanging inside Nordstrom last week and started drooling until we saw the price tag. My dad might have money, but that doesn’t mean I do. I work for every dollar I have, so while designers like Palermo hang abundantly in my imagination, they are nowhere to be found in my closet.
Until now.
I carefully extract the dress from the box and hold it up.
A laugh erupts out of me before I can stop it. Something is wrong. The dress is nothing more than a slip, really. The thin straps give way to a plunging neckline, and though the skirt seems like it will fall to a decent length on my thighs, it’s deceiving—the short fringe on bottom won’t conceal a thing once I have it on. It’s a modern take on a 1920s flapper dress, and I’ll be lucky if I make it through the night without at least one boob and most of my vulva being on full display. Thanks for nothing, Beth.
In the smaller box, I find a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. The heel is sky high and thin, completely impossible to walk in save for the slender ankle strap. The shoes are delicate and sexy, and I want to find them as ridiculous as the dress, but I don’t. Even if James asks for the outfit back, I won’t forfeit these. They’re mine now.
The outfit I described to Linda back at Milk + Honey was nothing like this. I was anticipating some kind of dress worthy of a gala or fundraiser. This dress, despite its beauty, is more fit for a Halloween superstore. I cringe at that thought; I’m not giving it enough credit. The designer knew what she was doing, and as I slip it on—just to see how it fits—I’m not sure how I feel about it. I spin and take in the dress from every angle using my thin floor-length mirror. It fits like a glove, tight across my chest and stomach before it flares out slightly below my waist. I add the shoes, because well, I have to, and when the whole ensemble is complete, I feel like someone else, someone who wears dresses like this and accepts party invitations from total strangers. I’ve had my fair share of wild nights and spontaneous adventures, but never with someone like James. I know I’m out of my league, and that only intrigues me more.
In the end, the dress stays on, but it gets concealed beneath a giant wool coat. It’s early summer, so I’ll burn up the moment I step outside, but the alternative is walking through the halls of the co-op in nothing but a wisp of silk.
There’s no phone call or text waiting for me at 8:30 PM. No new emails either. So, once I’ve checked and rechecked my makeup and hair and adjusted my dress so it’s concealing as much as possible beneath the coat, I head downstairs.
His Porsche is waiting at the curb in front of the co-op—I know because half of my roommates are pushed up against the living room window, trying to get a good look. When I make it to the bottom of the stairs, I pause and listen for a second.
“Who is that?”
“Batman?”
“I don’t know. He just pulled up.”
“Do you KNOW what kind of car that is?”
“Jerry, since when do you care about cars?”
“Is someone selling drugs for the cartel?”
“Oh shit, what if he’s here to collect on debts or something? Should we, like, hit the deck?”
Ian is among the small group of twittering numskulls, and he’s the first the see me. I pull my coat closed. He glances from me, to the waiting car, and then back.
“I think your carriage is here, Cinderella.”
Half a dozen heads swing in my direction. I put on an awkward smile and wave as I scurry toward the door.
“Brooke!” one of them yells after me. “ARE YOU SELLING DRUGS?”
That question is followed by an audible oomph. “No, you idiot. Look at her. She’s going on a date.”
“Huh. Must be some place fancy…”
“Can you ask him if I can get a ride in his car when he drops you off?!”
Sure. Yeah. Whatever. I say what I need to before I rip open the front door and spill out onto the paved walkway. The driver’s side door of the Porsche opens and James steps out wearing a fitted tuxedo. James in a tux is the human equivalent of ice-cold milk with warm chocolate chip cookies. On their own, they’re each pretty great. Together, they’re otherworldly.
His hair is styled more formally than I’ve seen it, the short waves tamed and smoothed back. He’s sharp edges and dark brows, almost more intimidating than handsome—almost. I don’t want to overplay just how devastatingly handsome he looks. I mean, the heavens do crack open and tiny angels do start singing from above. That part is real, but I’m not sure if the earth really does tilt on its axis or if I’m just feeling unsteady perched on these Manolos. I’ll have to confer with a seismologist at a later date.
James steps forward to catch my hand before I step off the curb, and though it’s meant as a polite gesture, it becomes abundantly necessary as I step down and lose my balance, teetering on my heels for a moment. I blush. I’m a five-year-old girl who raided her mother’s closet. No, worse—I’m a woman 11 years his junior. I half-expect him to come to his senses, drop my hand, and drive away in his very fast, very sexy car, but instead, he smiles down at me.
“That’s some coat.”
His tone is teasing, and his hand is still wrapped around mine. I’m sweating. I want to rip the coat off and swallow big gulps of air. I want to look away from his clean-shaven jaw and come-hither eyes, but I can’t. Moth, flame.
“Well…” I counter. “This is some dress.”
I’m breathy, like the way I sound right after really good sex.
He nods and drops my hand, but his smirk doesn’t budge. “I asked Beth to send me a link so I could see it, but she said it should be a surprise.”
I love Beth.
“I’d like to see it now,” he continues, “but I’m assuming you want to wait until we aren’t in full view of your…housemates.”
I cringe as I turn around to find even more of my roommates crowded around the window, peering out. They wave excitedly and Jerry mouths, Ask about the ride!
“Yeah…they’re kind of an eclectic bunch,” I say fondly.
“I’d love to meet them, but we’re running a little late.”
Of course. I nod and turn back to the car. He leads me to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I’m very aware of the fact that I’m about to get into James’ car. Not three weeks ago I wondered what it would be like inside, and I’m not disappointed. There are buttery leather seats and a fancy-looking computer system on the dashboard. “I Can’t Go On Without You” by Kaleo—a sexy, crooning rock song—is playing from the speakers.
James: 1.
Actually, James: 6. The tuxedo counts for at least 5 points.
He slides behind the wheel and glances over, his gaze locking with mine as he asks if I’m ready to go. There’s a hidden meaning to his question, I’m sure of it, but instead of running for my life (while I still have one), I smile and nod. “Let’s go.”
As he pulls away from the house, I fire off a quick text to Ellie.
BROOKE: I’m in James Ashwood’s car at the moment. If you don’t hear from me by morning, don’t bother sending a search party. Wherever I am, I want to be there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It takes 10 minutes to get from the co-op to the party, and James takes two phone calls in that time. The first is from Beth, who calls with important news about a distribution center in East Asia. I only follow every other word, and that isn’t enough to clue me in on what’s going on. The second phone call is even more coded, though it doesn’t seem intentional. I consider myself a lover of language, but I don’t speak techie.