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Batman: “It’s obvious. Only a criminal would disguise himself as a licensed, bonded guard yet callously park in front of a fire hydrant.”
— Batman (1966–1968 TV series)
Desperate boredom called for desperate measures, and this new mantra of mine was how I’d found myself at a secret society marriage meetup on a Thursday night as a favor to a coworker, under an assumed name, wearing a wig, and having just been abandoned by the person who was supposed to escort me for the entire evening.
No problem. I can do this. I can pretend to be an auburn-haired, forty-year-old cultured heiress with impeccable manners and unsurpassed elegance.
Gathering several deep breaths from my spot overlooking the ballroom, I descended the stairs to the main floor, doing my best to feign an air of imperviousness. The glasses of champagne I’d downed earlier helped, bolstering my confidence. It’s not that I didn’t have confidence typically. I probably had too much confidence, which probably had more to do with never leaving my comfort zone.
That said, I used to have an abundance of any-time, any-place confidence. Not so much anymore. But that ended tonight!
I stepped down from the bottom stair. Though I felt out of my depth here, I was glad for the opportunity and would make an effort to milk this experience for all it was worth. Who knew when I’d have another chance to pretend to be someone else like this?
Eyeing a few clusters of well-dressed, artfully coiffed, white-teethed people, I debated how to approach. Or should I wait for them to approach me? Or . . . what?
I’d agreed to Chelsea’s request on a whim a mere two hours ago, which had given me zero time to talk myself out of this little adventure. Talking myself out of fun or weird or interesting things tended to be my modus operandi these days. Discomfort was so uncomfortable, and pajamas and murder shows were so delightfully cozy.
But look at me now! Taking the place of my doppelgänger coworker at this secret society party of rich and affluent people, people who apparently met up annually to find a suitable, marriageable partner. I didn’t blame them. Did there exist even one individual who actually enjoyed online dating? Or bars? Or blind dates? No such thing, bro.
Now all I needed to do was stick around for another few minutes, a half hour tops, and that’s it. I’d promised Chelsea an hour and an hour would be what she got. Never let it be said that I, Ava Archer, shirked her pretending-to-be-someone-else-at-a-marriage-meet-up-in-order-to-save-her-coworker-from-experiencing-tension-in-said-coworker’s-long-term-releationship-as-a-favor responsibilities.
At a loss as I hovered near the bottom of the staircase, I maintained my mask of cool
self-assurance and decided to walk to the bar in the far corner. Once there, I would order a drink, nonalcoholic this time. If no one spoke to me or if nothing happened by the time I finished my drink, I would leave and my night would be over. No biggie. Tonight felt like a big win already simply because I’d stepped out of my comfort zone. Plus, free new shoes. Woot!
I’d made it maybe seven steps from the grand staircase before a guy with brown hair blocked my path. “I know who you are,” he said, a little grin tugging his mouth to one side. He had a British accent. It sounded like my dad’s. Very posh.
Successfully keeping the mild burst of anxiety from my features—again, thank you champagne—I worked to adopt the usual aloof-but-amused expression my coworker Chelsea Albrecht-Walton, aka the aforementioned heiress doppelgänger, wore during department meetings and asked, “Should I know who you are?”
His grin widened and he put his hand out, but not for a handshake. His fingers were facing up, like he wanted me to take them, like we’d be holding hands. I lifted an eyebrow and inspected this man. He wore a carnelian pin. This meant he was old money but not one of the founding members of the secret society.
Assuming he hadn’t been aging backward like Chelsea, I suspected he was in his mid-thirties. His hair was short and reasonably thick, but he didn’t have the hairline of someone in their twenties. No beard. His eyes were a pale, grayish blue. I estimated he was six foot or six foot one. With me in three-inch heels, we were exactly the same height.
Angling my chin, I lightly placed my fingers on top of his. He lifted my hand to his lips and placed a whisper of a kiss on my knuckles, then released me. “Your pictures don’t do you justice.”
Oh. He’s only seen Chelsea’s picture.
I was so relieved he’d never met Chelsea in person before, I didn’t catch my retort before it fled my mouth. “Should I hire a new photographer?”
He blinked like my response surprised him, then he abruptly threw his head back and laughed. Loudly.
I had to try very, very hard not to squint at him. My question was nowhere near as funny as he was making it out to be. Amusing maybe. Not funny.
“You’re very witty.”
“Indeed.” Like when I performed my impersonations of Chelsea at work—all sanctioned and done in front of her—I kept my teeth slightly closer together and barely moved my lips while I spoke. “And you are?”
“William Toussaint.” His gaze skated over me, giving me the impression he was waiting for me to recognize the name.
I did recognize his last name. The Toussaints were notable clients of my law firm’s London branch. I was fairly certain his mother or grandmother was a duchess or baroness or something like that. Look at me! Chatting it up with a baroness’s son. Or grandson. Or nephew. Point is, he was a relative of someone fancy.
As an aside, technically I was the granddaughter of someone fancy on my dad’s side. He never talked about it, or wanted to talk about it, thus we kids never asked.
But the reminder that this Toussaint guy in front of me had a mother and grandmother somewhere spurred me to ask, “And how is your family?” Everyone had a family, and therefore it was a safe topic. “I trust they’re all in good health?”
“Oh, you know.” He sorta rolled his eyes, his cheerful pretense dropping. Abruptly, he looked quite put out. As put out as Lady Catherine de Bourgh from the Keira Knightley film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.
Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?!
“Made the trip special for this,” he said, twisting at the waist and lifting his rocks glass, making a vague gesture indicating to the room at large. “I’m here with Henri Wickford, mind. Though I’ll be damned if I know where he went.” William sniffed once, his chest puffing out a bit, and I got the sense Henri Wickford was a name drop. “Not sure you know Henri, do you? I’m guessing you want an introduction.”
I stalled, glancing at my watch. Now that I was faced with meeting people and having conversations, I wasn’t sure I should. I wasn’t nervous anymore, but what if Chelsea ran into these people later? I should write a report for her describing who I met and what we talked about, bring her up to speed.
Ultimately, I evaded his question. “You tell me. I’m not staying much longer and haven’t much time.” Whoa. That sounded good. Disinterested. Nice.
“Oh, come off it.” William breathed out a snort. “Everyone wants to meet Henri.”
“How about this.” I lifted my empty champagne flute toward a passing waiter and placed it on his tray, now in entitled-heiress mode. “I’ll allow the introduction if you help me escape immediately afterward.” Ha!
This was kind of fun.
“Pardon?” The word was ripe with skepticism.
“Don’t you think I’m more than capable of making an introduction on my own, if I’d wanted one?” I affixed a politely dismissive smile on my face and sidestepped around him, only to be brought up short by the placement of another person standing directly in my path.
Rocking backward, I looked up, prepared to say “Excuse me” and continue on my way, pleased with my performance and myself, and therefore ready to leave.
The words died on my tongue because the most coldly beautiful man I’d ever seen gazed down at me, his features like a Greek statue, carved marble, blond hair arranged in masculine ringlets—if you can imagine such a thing is possible, which I would’ve doubted if I hadn’t seen his hair firsthand—his eyes summer-sky blue and yet lacking any ounce of warmth.
I blinked up at him. He stared down at me, his cold expression reminding me that I wasn’t presently Ava Archer. I was Chelsea Albrecht-Walton. Unlike Ava, Chelsea was also a boss at being chilly when necessary.
Sighing in character, I said, “You’ve interrupted me on my way to the bar.”
His mouth opened at the same time I spoke, making me think I’d interrupted some planned statement from him.
Smiling tightly in a way I’d witnessed Chelsea do with junior attorneys who asked silly questions, I lifted my hand and motioned for him to move, flicking my wrist. “Please.”
His eyebrows ticked up a few millimeters, like he was surprised but kept his expressions on a tight leash. “Please what?” Was he American? Or British? I couldn’t tell.
“Please move.” I noted his pin was moonstone. Ugh. New money. How odious. Yeeeeah. I was fully in character now.
Oddly enough, his mouth tugged to one side at my dismissive gesture. He didn’t move, instead subtly tilting his head to the side, his cold eyes moving between mine. “Didn’t you want an introduction?”
“I don’t recall requesting one.” I stepped back, crossing my arms lightly over my middle. “What I do remember is needing a drink, and now you’re in my way.”
This pretty person continued looking at me like I was confused, and that confused him. But all he said was, “Is that so?”
“That is so.” On a whim, fueled by an Oscar-worthy performance thus far, I asked,
“How will you make it up to me?”
He blinked, like this question also surprised and confused him.
I loved how in K-dramas heroes were always flirting with heroines by asking the question, “How will you make it up to me?” It was cute.
The blond angel seemed to think it was cute too. His gaze didn’t warm precisely, but he suddenly looked infinitely less bored. “Must I make it up to you?”
“Absolutely.”
“What do you suggest?” His voice lowered and so did his gaze, dropping to my chin or neck for a brief moment before returning to mine.
“If you need me to provide ideas, then you are simply incapable of making reparations.” I plucked my clutch from under my arm and prepared to haughtily walk around him.
He stepped in my path again. “Please,” he said “I have ideas. Many ideas.”
“Good for you.” For some reason, I was smiling. But it was definitely a reserved Chelsea smile and not a big old toothy Ava smile. I gave myself a mental fist bump for my character immersion. Truly, I should switch careers. I was an acting genius.
Extending his hand—not like William’s platform fingers earlier, but perpendicular to the ground like a regular handshake—he said, “I’m Henri Wickford.” However, like William, he watched me as though waiting for me to recognize his name.
I didn’t recognize his name other than from William Toussaint’s earlier reference to it but accepted his handshake. “Chelsea Albrecht-Walton.”
“I know,” he said. Before I could react to that, he asked, “What are you drinking?”
“Nothing, thanks to you.” My response was rapid-fire. I was born to play this role! After tonight, I would take to the stage. I would conquer Broadway first, then Hollywood. It was my destiny!
Looking mock-mournful, Henri placed a hand over his heart. “Allow me to remedy the situation. William,” he said, calling to his friend. Or associate. Or whatever they were.
William appeared at Henri’s elbow. “Yes?”
“A manhattan for Chelsea.”
Ava wanted to frown, but Chelsea kept her features dispassionate. The Toussaint
family was notoriously snobby and this Henri Wickford dude was treating their grandson like he was a waiter. Who is this guy?
“Absolutely,” William nodded, looking cheerful again. “Anything for you, Henri?”
“Nothing you can give me.” Henri said this without taking his eyes from mine.
I allowed myself to cock an eyebrow after William left to fetch my drink. Like he was a dog instead of the heir to an old money empire.
Henri must’ve been extremely competent at his job or insanely wealthy. A fascinating truth I’ve learned about life in my twenty-five years is that many (not all, but many) nonrelatives and nonfriends will put up with oddness and poor manners in the subjectively very physically attractive, the extremely competent, or the staggeringly wealthy. But if you’re none of the above, you better be lacking in all eccentricities or incredibly charismatic.
“Tell me, Chelsea. Your accent. Where are you from originally?” He took a half step closer.
“Chicago. And you?” I didn’t think anything of his question. Chelsea did have a strange accent. She’d given me good-natured pointers whenever I impersonated it and had praised my pronunciation of certain words, saying I sounded a lot like her grandmother had.
“Delaware.”
Hmm. What would Chelsea think about someone being from Delaware? I decided Chelsea would think Delaware was fine. “Are you in town just for tonight?” I asked, honestly curious. “Or did this event happily coincide with other plans?”
“If I had plans prior to now, I honestly can’t recall them.” He sounded dishonest and flirty.
“Maybe you’re suffering from short-term memory loss,” I said, and tried not to cringe because that sounded like something Ava would say, not Chelsea.
Thankfully, it made him grin. “Should I get myself checked out?”
“It’s not a bad idea.”
“Would you do it? If I asked?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“No. You just play one on TV, right?”
Did he just quote a movie?
No.
YES!
Also possible, this Henri person had quoted the original source, actor Chris Robinson’s Vicks Formula 44 cough syrup commercial from the 1980s.
Unable to help myself, I asked, “Big fan of General Hospital? Or do you have a cough?”
His eyes brightened, losing their frost for the first time. “You watch General Hospital?” He placed his hand on my elbow and leaned forward, his voice hushed.
“Reruns. I shipped Jason and Elizabeth. How about you?” I whisper-answered in his ear before I could think better of it. Later, I would blame the champagne and the heady feeling of finding someone who also liked to quote famous lines from TV, books, and movies. No one at work ever seemed to realize when I was quoting a movie, so I rarely did out loud, for obvious reasons.
A choking sort of laugh emerged from him. “Not Sonny and Carly?”
Now I laughed. “No way. Too much drama.”
“But isn’t that the point? Of a soap opera, I mean.” He leaned closer.
“What? No! I don’t think so at all.”
“What do you think?” Henri’s volume dropped further to a whisper, his gaze making a detour to my lips again.
“I think—”
“Oh my God. Is that you? Celeste?!”
Automatically, my head turned toward the sound, and this was for two reasons. First, Celeste was my middle name and only one person in my life ever called me that with any frequency. Second, my subconscious recognized the voice that said it. And then I saw him.
The room narrowed, all sound falling away. I felt the color drain from my face but wasn’t aware of much else because Des was there. My Des. Dressed in a dark gray suit. Vivid blue tie. White shirt. Strolling toward me. My childhood and teenage-hood best friend. My person. My—
No. Wait. It wasn’t my Des. It was adult Des. Very adult Des. I’d never seen adult Des.
Taller, wider shoulders, more substantial and angular features. But the eyes, they were the same as when we were fifteen, before he left me, before he cut me out of his life. Electric blue beneath dark auburn eyebrows.
Hawkish and sharp.
Before I knew it, he’d wrapped me in a tight—very tight—hug, squeezing the breath out of me, his big hand coming to the back of my head and pressing my cheek firmly against his chest, over his heart.
What. The. Hell.
I’d barely processed anything by the time he released me. I sucked in air through my nose to replace the breath I’d lost from his harsh hug. My brain told me he smelled great.
Des’s hands still on my arms, he leaned back with a meanish-looking curve to his lips to say, “It’s been, what? Ten years? How are your parents? And what are you doing here? Is your mom still with the CIA? Also, what’s with this wig?”
“Being bipolar is like not knowing how to swim. It might be embarrassing to tell people, and it might be hard to take you certain places. But they have arm floaties. And if you just take your arm floaties, you can go wherever the hell you want.”
— Taylor Tomlinson: Look at You (2022 Netflix special)
Ava’s voice had carried to me. The accent and words were all wrong, but the voice was exactly right. At first I thought I was imagining things. I’d never hallucinated during one of my psychotic episodes, my last one being seven years ago, but that didn’t mean it was outside the realm of possibility.
But, you know, one thing at a time.
Excusing myself from the conversation I’d been having with a pretty doctor and her hedge fund manager brother under the pretense of needing another whiskey, I’d searched the crowd for Ava and spotted her easily. I wasn’t drinking whiskey. It was iced tea. I can’t drink alcohol. But lying about whether diluted decaf Earl Grey was actually Johnnie Walker was the least of my deceptions tonight.
I don’t keep count of the lies, but I’m very good at keeping my story straight.
Watching Ava Archer from my spot by the bar, not ten feet from where she spent several minutes making absurd conversation after introducing herself as Chelsea Albrecht-Walton, I listened in and evaluated her performance. Her wig was on straight, and that was the only nice thing I could say about her act tonight.
She was ridiculous.
I hadn’t seen Ava Archer in ten years and yet I’d know her anywhere, didn’t matter if she called herself Chelsea or Samantha or Olaf. Didn’t matter if it was sixty years from now and we were meeting again for the first time on a Yangtze River cruise. And it certainly didn’t matter if she wore an auburn wig, a designer cocktail dress, and a fake beauty mark.
I would know her. That’s what happens when the first fifteen years of your life are shaped by and reliant on primarily one person. And the years after are spent trying not to think about them.
“Who is that chick? She looks so familiar.” the voice in my head—meaning, the voice coming from the virtually invisible earpiece I wore—asked. Sue, my chain-smoking hacker handler, rarely commented or asked questions that weren’t related to the mission while I worked a job. She could see everything I could see through the camera inside the pin at the top of my tie.
“Just someone I know,” I mumbled loud enough so only Sue would be able to hear.
“That’s a wig,” Sue said, matter-of-fact. “And what’s that accent? Mid-Atlantic or some shit? She sounds like Mayor Quimby from The Simpsons. Or, you
know, that Catherine O’Hara character from that TV show. Crappola on a cracker, what was the name of that show?”
I’d decided to let Ava be—the guy she was speaking with, William Toussaint, was harmless— when Henri Wickford sauntered up and blocked her path.
Sighing, I rubbed my forehead and cursed under my breath. Unlike Ava, I was here tonight under my real name, so I wasn’t worried about her blowing my cover. Worst-case scenario, she’d blow her own cover and—
Actually. No.
I amended my previous thought. The actual worst-case scenario was that she’d genuinely catch the attention of Henri Wickford, the asshole with whom she was currently speaking and a jerkoff who—reliable intel suggested—possessed a nasty habit of becoming obsessive with women who piqued his interest. We’d been told he was like a spoiled toddler on a playground: he only wanted the toys that weren’t his, lost interest once they were, and would prefer to break them than see anyone else enjoy them. I blamed his upbringing.
Also, the dickwaffle happened to be my target.
Careful not to frown at the scene playing out in front of me, I gritted my teeth as Henri’s hand came to her elbow and he leaned forward so that she could speak directly next to his ear, like they were playing telephone or telling secrets. When he leaned back, he laughed.
Now I did frown. I couldn’t help it. In the months I’d been building a rapport with that evil bag of shit, I’d never seen Henri genuinely laugh. Five minutes with Ava and it’s like he’s watching his first Arrested Development episode.
Then again, she is ridiculous.
I didn’t like how his hand stayed put on her elbow. I didn’t like how his thumb brushed back and forth over the bare skin of her upper arm. And I really didn’t like how his eyes had flickered down to the front of her dress, cut flatteringly low and showing exactly the right amount.
Leaving her alone wasn’t an option anymore, not as long as she was talking to Henri. The question was, how pissed off would Ava be if I walked over there and outed her? I hoped it was a lot.
Finishing the last of my decaf tea, I set the rocks glass on the bar, did a hand check of my tie, collar, and cuffs, and then pasted on a real pretty smile.
“Oh my God. Is that you? Celeste?!” I decided to use her middle name, not her first name, since I didn’t want Henri to know anything about her.
I was the only one who’d ever called Ava by her middle name, and only when we
were kids. We’d used our middle names as code names, thinking we were brilliant at the time.
From my earpiece, Sue gasped. “You’re blowing her cover? My dude. That’s cold.”
A professional faux pas, but Ava Archer wasn’t in the business. She was a tax attorney last time I heard, nice and safe and nerdy.
Ava’s head whipped toward me and she blinked. Her lips parted. Her eyes blew wide. Then she blanched.
Henri glanced between us as I approached. I ignored him.
I didn’t hesitate to step into her space and manhandle her into a hug. My plan was to force Henri to drop his hand from her elbow. It worked. I also didn’t hold her for very long, but I did give her a tight, punishing squeeze, allowing some of my aggravation to show. She was so smart. Why would she put herself in this kind of situation?
Leaning back but not releasing her shoulders, I smiled. “It’s been, what? Ten years? How are your parents? And what are you doing here? Is your mom still with the CIA? Also, what’s with this wig?” Her mom hadn’t worked for the CIA for thirty years or more. Fiona Archer was the chief operating officer of my father’s billion-dollar security empire and had been since we were kids.
“Wait. Fuck. CIA?” Sue choked out, infinitely chattier tonight than usual while I was in the field.
Ignoring Sue, I kept my eyes on Ava. The CIA question should send Henri running in the other direction. He didn’t much like attention from the worker-bee, waterboarding branches of the US government.
Ava’s face went through a number of fascinating contortions as I’d tossed my rapid-fire questions at her, finally settling on irritation and something resembling embarrassment when I tugged on the end of the wig. Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth, likely to shout at me.
Also, Ava Archer was still goddamn gorgeous, something I noticed against my will. She’d been beautiful as a teenager and she was equally—if not more so—stunning now. Like she had a spotlight on her and she glittered like a diamond kind of beautiful. An epically frustrating development.
Betraying nothing of my thoughts, I rubbed the strands of auburn between my thumb and forefinger, not giving Ava a chance to voice a
reprimand. “Wow. Is this real hair? Do they make wigs out of real hair? I thought it was always plastic. Hey, this color looks like mine.” I pointed to my own head, grinning like an idiot.
Luckily, Henri already thought I was an idiot, so my asinine behavior tracked with the himbo character I’d been cultivating for his benefit.
“What are you doing here?” she seethed, her cheeks hot and pink, yanking the tips of the wig from my grip and throwing ninja stars with her eyes. Beautiful and still cute. A lethal combination.
I told myself not to laugh at her expression. I told myself that, as much as I enjoyed this and as angry as it made her, I was blowing her cover for her benefit. The last person any decent human wanted to get tangled up with was Henri Wickford. Unless Ava had magically morphed into a completely different person over the last ten years, she was the best human I’d ever met.
“I was invited,” I said, still grinning at her. “What are you doing here? Did someone die and leave you a billion dollars?” This wasn’t a lie. I had been invited. As the oldest child of Quinn and Janie Sullivan, theoretically I was due to inherit the privately held family business and therefore $2.3 billion.
“I was also invited.” Her tone sounded cool and the fake accent was gone. Good.
Stuffing my hands in my pants pockets, I rocked back on my heels, making a show of looking her down and then up. “You look different.”
She did look different. More tits and hips and ass. Her cheeks had lost their roundness, and age had matured her features nicely. Very nicely. The makeup she wore made her already large eyes look huge. Her lips, however, were exactly the same.
“So do you,” she said, and something about her voice had my attention cutting back to hers.
Ava no longer looked adorably irritated or flustered. Her eyes had grown impossibly round and seemed glassy, like a puppy’s when they realize you’re going for a walk and you’re not taking them. She’d always been bad at hiding her emotions, bad at acting, which is why she’d always lost at poker.
I stilled, caught off guard by the raw quality of her expression, and my chest suddenly hurt. Was she still mad at me about leaving a decade ago? Impossible. Why would she care enough to be mad at me?
“What’s going on?”
Henri interrupted the moment, drawing both our gazes. I was surprised by the lack of dead behind his eyes. Apparently, he did have expressions in his repertoire other than bored, stoic, and jaded.
Ava huffed, her eyes briefly closing. A second later, she straightened her shoulders and held out her right hand for Henri to shake. “Hi, I’m Ava Archer. Nice to meet you.”
My hands in my pockets balled into fists. No, no, no! Don’t tell him your name!
Henri accepted her hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you . . . ?”
“I would apologize for giving you the wrong name earlier, but I won’t, because I’m not sorry. I’m doing a favor for a friend. She asked me to show up for a short while, pretend to be her tonight, and so here I am.” She administered a firm handshake, then dropped his hand just to lift hers a second later and point at his face. “And I would appreciate it if you both”—she paused here to swing her finger toward me along with her glare—“would go along with everything and call me Chelsea. This is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me outside of finding a fifty-dollar winning lottery ticket, and I don’t want to get my friend in trouble.”
“Lottery tic—wait. What? This is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to you?” Henri inclined his head, as though he doubted he’d heard her right.
“Yes. By far.”
“May I ask, what do you do for a living?” he pressed, and I couldn’t believe my ears. Didn’t he hear what I said about her mother being in the CIA?
“She does other people’s taxes,” I answered for her, and she sent me an extremely dirty look.
It was also cute, but I didn’t know how to translate it. Was she mad because I’d told him a slight lie about her job? Or was she mad I’d blown her cover? Or was she still upset about me leaving years ago? Or maybe it was all three? And again, why would she care enough about me to still be mad?
“Whoa. Whadya do to this lady? Does she hate you or something?” Sue’s voice in my ear reminded me that my handler was still watching and listening.
Apparently undeterred, Henri drifted closer to Ava, watching her like she was something new. “You’re an accountant? Really? Now see, I find that so interesting.”
I schooled my features before they disclosed my surprise. Henri never found anything interesting. What the hell was happening here?
Ava wrinkled her nose at him, her pretty lips curving at the corners, no dirty look in sight. “I don’t do taxes, I’m a tax attorney. And no, you don’t. No one ever finds my job interesting.”
“I do,” he said warmly, his grin looking entirely genuine.
Stomach tensing, my attention bounced between them. This was not good. I needed to get her out of here ASAP. I also needed her to promise to never accept calls or other contact from Henri Wickford. The guy looked like a movie star but lacked a soul.
“Well, I don’t think it’s right, you lying about being someone else.” I rocked my weight back and forth on my feet again, giving them both my best empty-headed-pretty-boy frown.
Slipping her dirty look back on with lightning speed, Ava glared at me once more. “Can I talk to you? Over there? Alone for a minute?”
I nodded brightly and my fingers circled her wrist firmly but gently, tugging her along. “Good idea. Follow me.”
Not giving her or Henri a single second to react, I pulled Ava from the ballroom toward the entry doors, saying for Sue’s benefit, “We’ll go to a place where we can talk, no bystander traffic, easy access to an exit on a side street or an alley where no cars are parked.”
“Got it.” Sue’s voice responded immediately in my ear. “Hang a left, go down the big hallway past the kitchens, second hallway after, make a right.” Sue paused a moment before giving me the rest of the directions. “I’ve unlocked the third door on the right, an emergency exit, and disabled the fire alarm. It’s an exit to the alley between Bollister and Cacture Avenues, no parking, deliveries only.”
Ava must’ve been surprised by my decisive action. She didn’t say a word, allowing me to guide her past the kitchens and to the second hallway before jerking her wrist away.
I turned and saw she’d opened her mouth again, likely to tell me off. Ignoring this, I gently grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the third door leading to the alley. “I’ll take you home.”
“I’m not going home,” she said, but she didn’t attempt to halt our forward momentum, which was smart. The shoes she wore were three inches high, at least. She’d likely end up with a twisted ankle if she dug her heels into the carpet. “And I can’t leave until I grab my jacket.”
“You can wear my jacket. Do I need to call your parents?” I ground out, pushing through
the emergency exit and into the Chicago spring night.
“Sure. Call my parents. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you,” she spat. “Hey, you know who else would love to get a call? Your parents.”
“Oh. Sick buuurn!” Sue’s obvious enjoyment via my earpiece didn’t improve my mood.
“I talk to my mom every week,” I said, shrugging out of my jacket as the large door closed behind us. “But I’ll be sure to call her tonight once I drop you home.”
“What about your dad?” Ava placed her hands on her hips while I hung my suit jacket on her shoulders, careful not to touch the bare skin of her neck.
“Do I need to get popcorn for this?” Sue asked unhelpfully.
I fought a growl. “Let’s go.”
“Des—”
“Ava. Let’s. Go.” I reached for her hand again.
She twisted away. “I’m not—”
Advancing on her, I backed her into the door of the building we’d exited, shoved my face into hers, and pointed toward the ballroom we’d left. “That guy is very bad news. Very bad. Worse than anyone you’ve met. In fact, many of the people here are bad news.”
Inspecting me for several long seconds, the fury behind her gaze seemed to wane the longer she stared at me, until her eyes looked almost soft. Fuck.
I hadn’t wanted to look at her directly again, not up close like this, and wasn’t precisely prepared to do so now. Again, I comprehended how beautiful she was, but this time I unwillingly cataloged her features.
The doe-like brown eyes, the dark thick lashes, the high cheekbones, the pointed chin, and the big bottom lip I’d stared at and thought about more times than I could count. Her top lip was also distracting, but it wasn’t as big as her bottom one. This meant when she wasn’t smiling or wearing an active expression, when she was lost in thought or listening intently or reading, she looked like she was pouting. I used to catch myself smiling stupidly because of it.
But now, right now, this wasn’t a passive pout. The searching softness in her expression wasn’t passive at all, and it dug its claws into me, making my chest tight.
I stepped back, gaining essential distance, and softened my voice to match her look.
“Please, Ava. Let me take you home. You’ve done what you needed to do. You showed up for your friend. It’s time to go.”
Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and I narrowed my eyes to keep them from straying down to her chest. Ava had been pretty as a teenager, and looking at her used to be one of my favorite things to do. I’d drawn so many portraits of her, the memory of my infatuated foolishness was embarrassing.
Now she was all grown-up. And looked grown-up. And sounded grown-up. She was obviously still smart and strange, and far out of my reach, light-years away from any wishful thinking I’d given up on years ago. Incredibly frustrating that one single exposure impacted me this way. Where was my pride?
“She looks good in that dress,” Sue said suddenly, reminding me that her camera’s view was exactly at the level of Ava’s chest.
Ripping the camera pin from my tie, I placed it in my pocket. Then, for good measure, I tugged the lapels of the jacket I’d placed on Ava’s shoulders closed, hiding the front of her dress.
“Fine. How about this.” Ava batted my fingers away. She then put her hands through the arms of my suit jacket, angling her chin as she spoke. “I’ll leave now and never contact either of those guys, especially that Henri guy, if you promise to come this weekend to my parents’ barbecue. Almost everyone will be there, including your dad, even the O’Malleys and Runouses are coming from out of town. You spend fifteen minutes—at least—talking to your dad and two hours at the party with everyone else. You promise to do that, and I’ll leave now.”
“Agreed.” I was lying. There was no way I’d show up if Ava was there. And there was no way in hell I’d go if my dad was there.
Ava pulled back the sleeve of my jacket and stuck out her hand. I accepted her shake. Before I could remove my fingers from hers, she tightened her grip and added, “And if you don’t show up, I’ll look up Henri Wick-something and send him an edible bouquet with my full name, address, and driver’s license number.”
“Fine,” I gritted out, giving her hand another shake, then dropping it. “Fine. I’ll be there.” Fuck a fucking duck.
“It starts at two. Try not to be late.”
“Fine.”
“And bring something, like a side dish. Don’t show up empty-handed.” She wagged a finger at me. Again.
“I wasn’t planning on showing up empty-handed.” I didn’t fight the growl.
“Well, how should I know if you’re familiar with basic etiquette?” Ava tossed her hands up. “I haven’t seen you in ten years and the last time we spoke on the phone you were a real shithead.”
“What happened the last time you two spoke on the phone? ...
