Winona stares at me with a light shining from her eyes like I’ve never seen before. “Wow. You’re hot when you talk about your store like that. You should do it more often.” Then her cheeks flame red with embarrassment. “Oh, lima beans. My brain sometimes operates on a delay circuit and my mouth just says things. What I meant, was… Anyway… We should, uh, you know…” She waves in the direction of the ballroom.
I take pity on her. “Yes. We should.”
She called me hot. And she wasn’t talking about my looks. She was talking about me. My passion. My dreams. She gets it, and she gets me. I know she feels the same way I do. I mean, this is a woman who hand-makes her own outfits, turning them into unique glimpses of her personal self, with beautiful results every time.
My entire body floods with an emotion that I can’t even name, but it’s light and sweet and makes my heart thump in a happy, silly rhythm.
I grasp her hand in mine and lead her through the crowd. Henry is standing by the Parisian bar, chatting with Thérèse. She gives me her usual cold, appraising look, then turns her back on me. Henry waves, indicating he’s seen me. He’ll discreetly keep an eye on me and appear at my side if I need him.
Winona arches an eyebrow. “Henry has nowhere else he’d rather be on a Friday night?”
“Who could want more than this?” I indicate the room in a broad, sweeping gesture as we walk.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’d rather be home sipping a gin and tonic and watching reruns of Downton Abbey.”
“Downton Abbey?” I laugh.
“Okay, that was lazy of me.” The corner of her mouth curls up in a sardonic smile. “Also, he works for you, so he’d probably be studying episodes of Midsomer Murders to figure out where the killers went wrong and how to do a better job.”
More and more people are pouring into the room. They’re Manhattan’s elite, young and old, mingling and flirting and posing for society page photographers.
We’re swept up by a group of acquaintances. I introduce Winona without giving any details other than her name. Disappointment sizzles in the gazes of several highly eligible bachelorettes who’ve been jockeying to get my attention for years, as they rake her with their gazes.
Who are her people? How did she land that guy? How can I take her place?
Winona would never look at a woman and ask herself those kinds of questions.
Then, as a perfect counterpoint to Winona, I spot Sloane across the room, chatting with a few other celebutantes. She’s wearing a slinky, sparkly black dress and towering heels. Sloane’s eyes meet mine, and she waves at me frantically.
I keep my face blank and drape my arm around Winona’s shoulders. Instantly, Sloane’s expression turns murderous. She breaks away from the group and starts making her way towards us.
“Excuse us,” I say to the people whose names I barely remember. “We’re going to Italy, so it’s ciao for now.” I incline my head in the direction of the Italian section of the ballroom.
As Winona and I start moving again, I catch Henry’s eye, and he nods at Cora Jones, an actress who uses our personal shopping services extensively – and who got caught on video trying to abscond with fifty grand worth of designer purses. She owes me a favor for not pressing charges, and tonight I’ve called it in.
Cora moves faster than greased lightning, intercepting Sloane and greeting her loudly. She’s famous enough that Sloane stops in her tracks and instantly pastes on a dazzling smile. Cora loops her arm around Sloane’s waist, and the two of them preen for the photographers. I’ve got a whole lineup of people ready to run interference for me.
Winona and I never make it to Italy. We’re buffeted by the crowd, swept up by one group after another. We make nice with the press, a necessary evil. I’ll never forget what they did to our family with their lies and innuendos, but I want to demonstrate how well Hudson’s is doing these days, and I need the paparazzi to help deliver my message. I even wear my top hat long enough for the photographers to get a bunch of pictures before I finally surrender it to Henry.
I’m trying yet again to steer us towards a buffet table when my uncle’s harsh voice jabs at me. “Blake! Avoiding me?”
If only, I think sourly. But the press are everywhere, so I paste on a politely neutral smile and turn to face my uncle.
Uncle Bill’s gaze flicks quickly up and down Winona, then settles on me. "Dating your secretary? Really not a good look, Blake."
A hot rush of anger zips through me. So tonight he’s going full Mad Men, without the witty zingers. Good to know. I’ll gird my loins accordingly.
I bare my teeth in a predator’s smile. "As opposed to secretly banging your secretary behind wife number three’s back?”
His gaze scuttles around the room. “Can you keep it down, please?”
“Not when you’re wearing your asshole hat, no. Come on, Uncle Bill, these events usually bring out the phony charm in you. What gives?”
“Sloane’s here,” he persists. He looks across the room as if searching for her. “Lovely girl – I don’t know why you’re not together. She comes from such a good family.”
He casts a glance at Winona, and it’s obvious what he’s implying. He doesn’t have to say that her people are trash. The insult hangs heavy in the air like a foul smell.
I drop my arm around her shoulders and pull her a little closer to me. "If by good family you mean a dad who has an escort service on speed dial and a mother who gets along swimmingly with her pool boy, yep. They’re the best.” I raise my voice just enough to make my uncle’s right eye visibly twitch.
“Keep it down!” he snaps, his face flushing. “I play golf with her father!”
“Does he cheat there, too?”
He rolls his eyes and redirects his attention to Winona. "I'm sure you're a nice person,” he says patronizingly.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. "Depends on who’s asking.”
His brows pinch together and his nostrils flare. He makes a small gesture at her. "This isn’t what your father would have wanted, Blake.”
He plays the father card whenever he’s annoyed with me, because he knows how much I hate it.
"You don't get to speak for my father, and you have no idea what he would have wanted for me in a date.”
"Dating’s not the issue. You’re getting close to the age when you should be thinking about looking for a wife." Yes, he went there. He just all but came out and said that Winona’s the kind of woman you screw but don’t marry.
This is over the top, even for Uncle Bill. I'm about to lash out at him when I see that several board members are standing nearby with their spouses, sipping their drinks and watching us with interest. Leroy Dubois, who’s in favor of going public, is standing with Cyril Liates and Albert Statham, who are in my uncle’s “this whole electricity thing is just a passing fad” anti-progress corner.
Of course. My uncle wouldn’t go this far without a reason. He’s trying to provoke me into losing my temper and shouting at him, or throwing a punch. Anything to make me look bad in front of the board.
Winona smiles sweetly at my uncle. “Well, aren’t you cuter than a bug’s ear.”