Scott
My life is markedly better with Ellie in it. She makes all the usual stressors seem less dire, or maybe less important. I’ve become a regular optimist.
Lolita hasn’t contacted me since the girls’ choir performance? Instead of dreading the inevitable call, I’m thankful for the delay. My mother’s work calls me looking for her on a Monday? Instead of worrying myself sick that she hasn’t been home in a few days, I revel in the peace and quiet around the house. Jorgie shows up for work so hungover that I have to send him home? Instead of being royally pissed, I tell myself I’ll have legitimate cause to fire him sooner.
Because at the end of even the shittiest day, I get to see her. I get to talk to her, laugh with her, hold her, and make love to her. I’m not going to get all cliché about it and say she makes life worth living, but . . . damn.
If only there was no flip side to this idyllic coin.
Because the flip side involves some very unsteady ground for me. I don’t like uncertainty or indecision or doubt, and this thing with Ellie, well let’s just say that I’m worried that I’m completely out of my depth. That I love you fiasco? I didn’t handle it well and she’d rightfully gotten more than upset over it. I hate that I’d caused her pain again after I promised I wouldn’t.
What if I mess up so badly one day that she can’t forgive me and I lose her? Or worse, what if the girls come to adore her like I do, and we lose her? The idea turns my stomach. Which is probably why Ellie hasn’t met them yet. Even if the girls ask about her daily, and Ellie does the same. Even if the birthday cards they made for her still hang on her fridge and I catch her peeking at them all the time, I still haven’t pulled the trigger. I’m undecided if I’m being protective or cowardly.
God, I hate uncertainty.
Plus, I’m still scratching my head as to why Ellie’s under the impression that I’m some kind of catch. Because the gaps between us are real. Not only is she years older than I am, she’s a college girl. An Ivy League college girl. What would a woman like that want with a guy like me? A guy who got his GED last year, works construction, and has limited prospects?
And then there’s this charity thing.
Fuck me.
Over the last few days, I’ve questioned myself countless times. But I haven’t once seriously considered backing out on her. Not even when I went for the tux fitting. I’m not interested in disappointing Ellie, not for anything in the world.
Hopefully, I don’t ruin anything because this girl sitting beside me is something special. We’re in my truck on our way to the gala and she’s rapping along in Spanish to classic Molotov, looking incredible in a pale pink sleeveless dress with her hair up, and it takes everything in me to keep my attention on the traffic.
She directs me through downtown to her dad’s office building where we scan the pass he gave her to get into the underground parking. The pass has a specific stall number on it, a prime location right near the elevators. Reserved 24 hours, Summers & Fieldstone, LLP, the plaque reads.
We get out and as I wait for her to come around the back of the truck, I notice a brand new, very shiny, Audi Q8 in Metallic Samurai Gray a few spots down. I’m thinking that some lucky bastard gets to drive around in the equivalent of a small fortune when I see the plaque attached to the spot. Reserved 24 hours, Jonathan Summers.
A choked laugh crawls its way out of my throat. “That’s your dad’s car?”
Taking the hand I hold out for her, Ellie shrugs, neither impressed nor seeing the irony of my little truck being parked anywhere near a Q8. She does frown though. “It’s not like him to work so late on a Saturday.”
Her heeled steps echo against the concrete walls of the parkade. “You cold, Opal? You want my jacket?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. And you look way too good to start messing with that tux.”
Hitting the elevator call button, I give her a pointed once over. “No one will even notice me standing next to you. You look . . . amazing.” The V neck of the dress leaves her collar bone exposed and gives just a hint of cleavage. She’s sexy, yet classy, and I’m irrationally pleased that she’s proudly displaying the pendant I got for her.
“Thanks, honey,” she sasses playfully, but then turns serious. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your first choice when it comes to Saturday night entertainment.”
“Or fiftieth.”
The guilt on her face immediately makes me feel bad.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “Ignore me. I’m being an ass. If this is where you need to be tonight, then I’m with you. I kind of like us being a team.”
Her expression softens and then she says, ever so earnestly, ever so softly, “You are so getting laid tonight.”
I laugh as I lean in for a kiss, but she turns away. “Ah, ah, ah, not on the lips.”
“Fine,” I grumble and instead place a line of open-mouthed kissed along the column of her neck.
“Oh,” she breathes, her whole body shivering. “If I didn’t think security would lodge a complaint with my dad’s office, I’d say we should fuck, right here, right now.”
“Opal,” I whisper hoarsely. “You can’t be saying shit like that.” I pull her close so she can feel me. “A hard-on will seriously ruin the lines of this monkey suit.”
Thankfully the loud ding signalling the elevator’s arrival is enough to pry us away from each other. The ride up to street level and then the short walk to the hotel is made in silence while I do my best to picture images of the least sexy things possible to beat my dick back into submission. I’m only partially successful until we hit the lobby of this fancy-ass hotel and then my nerves work wonders to solve the problem. I don’t know if she feels my trepidation or what, but I appreciate the way her hand tightens around mine as we follow the signs to the ballroom.
There’s a short line outside the room where two employees are checking tickets and gesturing to the seating chart behind them. When it’s our turn, Ellie hands over the tickets and the woman checks her list. “Thank you so much for joining us this evening, Ms. Summers, Sir. You’ll be seated at table 14, which is here.” She points to the chart, and then hands back the tickets. “I hope you enjoy yourselves.”
Inside the doors, there’s a big sign that reads The Elizabeth McCarthy Foundation proudly welcomes you to The First Annual Action against Poverty Gala, but I barely scan it because the room takes up most of my attention. It’s huge and filled with glittering people, standing around in fancy clothes, holding champagne glasses.
“Let’s do this,” Ellie mutters beside me. I turn in time to watch her square her shoulders and paste a smile on her lips. Despite my nerves, I have to grin. That’s my girl.
She takes my elbow and we venture in. “We should find our table first. I’ll ditch my clutch, and then we can scope out the people on my list.” Before we left her apartment, Ellie showed me pictures of all the important people she wanted to meet tonight. She’s done her homework; I have to respect that.
We’re approaching our table when I hear a frosty, “Piper.” We both turn, and Ellie stiffens. “For fuck’s sake,” she hisses under her breath. “I’m so sorry, Scott.”