“So you’ll introduce me as your friend then?” I ask before quickly adding, “I just want to play my part right.”
Beneath dark brows, his coffee-brown eyes regard me with bold interest. “I’ll introduce you however you’d like.”
The way he says it ensures I catch his meaning. It’s an invitation.
But then he’s tugging out his phone and tapping away, dowsing the tension between us with a big bucket of ice water.
“I’ll have my assistant drop off something for you to wear. What’s your email address? She’ll need to know your dress size.”
I’m offended. “I can pick something up myself.”
Thanks to my dad and Martha, I’ve attended plenty of fundraisers and galas. I know how to dress for an occasion.
He shakes his head, no room for negotiations as he hands over his iPhone, open to a new contact page. I fill in my name, and though he only asked for my email, I give him my number too. Maybe it’s forward, or maybe it’s expected. I’ll never know, because just then Little Miss Virgin Piña Colada shouts about how slow the service is here. I have to get back to work.
The moms stationed by the kiddie pool spend the rest of my shift trying to pry details of our conversation out of me. I keep my lips zipped, but it doesn’t help. By the end of the day, the entire club has heard about my poolside rendezvous with James.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s Saturday, and James’ party is tonight. I know this thanks to Beth, his assistant. She and I have been in constant communication since I agreed to be James’ secret weapon. Thank goodness for her, because the man himself has yet to use those nine digits I programmed into his phone. Would it have killed him to call or text to confirm that I still wanted to go? Maybe that way we could have gotten to know each other a little better and I wouldn’t be so freaking nervous about tonight. The details I’ve gleaned from Beth aren’t nearly sufficient.
What is the fundraiser called? Have I heard of it?
The party doesn’t have a name, and no, you haven’t heard of it.
Who’s throwing it?
The host committee wishes to remain private.
Where is the party located?
That information hasn’t been released to the public at this time.
I’m half-convinced Beth is a robot, like Siri. Her responses are so austere and impersonal. I’ve even attempted to crack a few jokes, and I got crickets in response. I guess my humor doesn’t translate into robot binary. (Good to know in case they one day take over the planet.)
Beth did tell me what time the party starts.
9:00 PM.
Now, it’s 5:10 PM, and I’m sitting in Milk + Honey in downtown Austin. You see, I’m a genius. I knew I needed to take extreme measures the moment I found out I would be attending a party on James’ arm—well, in the vicinity of his arm, at least. The point is, after I’m done at Milk + Honey, I hope I’ll be able to show James I’m so much more than an interpreter for hire.
The genius part comes in because while I wanted to look my best, I also figured it might be a good time to give in to Martha a little bit. She wanted me to join her and Ellie for a spa day, so here we are. I think this is called killing two birds with one hot stone massage.
We started the morning with manicures and pedicures. From there, we had hydrating facials and massages. During a short break, we snacked on quinoa salad with spinach and red wine vinaigrette and caprese skewers with balsamic drizzle. I’ve been dipped, lathered, waxed, and rinsed. I’m pretty sure the entire top layer of my epidermis has been stripped off at this point, and though I’m hesitant to admit it, I am actually having a good time with Martha and Ellie.
The details aren’t that noteworthy. Our conversation has included such titillating topics as home renovations and Martha’s nagging tennis elbow. I did confide in them about how hard it’s been to find another position as a tutor, and Martha listened intently while encouraging me to keep looking. It’s the longest amount of time I’ve spent with her in years, and I’m finding it harder to dislike her as the day continues, which is annoying. I’ve grown comfortable with the distance between us, and I’m not sure what to do with these new feelings. I am the Grinch with an enlarged heart.
Fortunately, we split up after a late lunch since they want to continue spa treatments (because somehow there are still more to be had) and I need start getting ready for the party. I have the hair stylist give me a Brazilian blowout so my dark hair hangs in glossy waves down my back, and then a nice woman named Linda starts applying my makeup.
“So tell me, what’s the occasion?”
Of course she has to ask—no one gets this gussied up without a place to go. Trouble is, I don’t know exactly where I’m off to tonight. I checked my email at lunch, but there was nothing new from Beth. The last I heard, I needed to be at home and ready to go by 8:30 PM.
I give Linda a generic lie.
“Just a fancy party thing.” I shrug. “I forget the name.”
She waggles her eyebrows as if my ambiguity intrigues her even more. “What does your dress look like?”
I still technically don’t have a dress. I gave Beth my measurements a few days ago, and I was tempted to tack on a few requirements—no ruffles, nothing too sparkly—but I resisted. For all I know, Beth the robot has more fashion sense than I do.
All that is probably too much to unload on a complete stranger, so I tell her what I imagine the dress will look like. It’s a party, no doubt at some ritzy downtown hotel, so it will need to be floor-length and fitted, sleeveless and tight in all the right places.
She hums in appreciation of my fictitious description. “I remember when I used to be able to wear slinky numbers like that. What color?”
I smile. “Light blue.”
To match my eyes.
…
When I return home, I’m a sore thumb inside the co-op. Fortunately, no one is in the living room, so I scurry to the stairs and run smack into Ian, the absolute last person I want to see.
His eyes widen at my appearance. “Whoa…”
I blanch. “Oh, hey Ian.”
He doesn’t oblige when I try to skirt around him. “You look…” His gaze drags down my body, and I’m thankful I’m still wearing the tank top and yoga pants I threw on before the spa. “Amazing.”
This is too awkward for words, so I smile and nod. “Thanks.”
He steps aside and I head for my room.
“Where are you headed?” he asks, his tone more curious than anything. “I’ve never seen you done up like this.”
I swallow and choose my next words carefully. Most of my roommates at the co-op—Ian included—make fun of my job at the country club. It’s kind of funny when you think about it: they make fun of the rich people who choose to spend their time and money at Twin Oaks, and my old classmates and members at Twin Oaks balk at the idea of these artist types living together in a co-op. I guess being judgey crosses all class lines.
“Oh, yeah…just going to some party.”
“For your dad?”
Ian knows I come from a wealthy family.
“Uhh, something like that.”
He quirks his brow, and I can tell he wants to keep pushing the subject, but I don’t have time. It’s already 8:00 PM, and according to Beth, James will be here at 8:30. I wave bye to Ian and then bolt down the hallway. When I get closer to my door, I spot a black satin box with a matching ribbon sitting on the floor. Beside it, there’s another box, much smaller, but no less fancy. I turn back to confirm Ian’s gone, grab the boxes, and push into my room with a massive smile on my face.
It’s my dress. I know it, and I have a hard time keeping myself from squealing with excitement. I’ve had romantic experiences in the past. College boyfriends packed me the occasional soggy picnic or threw together a mix CD full of songs about other peoples’ love, but this—this feels special, even if James didn’t pick out the dress himself. He definitely cared enough to ensure I’d have something beautiful to wear for the party.
For him.
No. Wrong.
I’m attending so I can keep his business associate’s date occupied, and I need to remember that…but what was that he said at the end of our conversation by the pool? That I could be introduced however I chose? Surely he meant that to mean what I think he did.