Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) (9 page)

“So you’re going?”

“Okay. Yes… I guess.”

Radha sighed. “I’ll go for you.”

“He invited me, remember?”

“Whatever. Get me a blonde wig and, boom! I’m good to go. I can pretend to be you, just so long as no one asks me how the housing market is currently doing in Tahiti or wherever.”

“I don’t have a dress.”

“So get one.”

“You of all people know it’s not that simple.”

She switched the cross of her ankles, kicking her bright blue heels into the air as she did so. “I take that to mean you’re acknowledging how stylish I am.”

“Of course.”

“In that, I’m the perfect person to tell you this isn’t as dire a situation as you think it is.”

“Most of the people there will have designer outfits made specifically for them, Radha. I can’t just go down to Macy’s and pick up some dinky little cocktail dress.”

“We’ll make one.”

I laughed. “I know you can design something amazing, but since when do either one of us actually sew?”

“We’ll figure that detail out. We’ll reconstruct something. Listen, okay?” She excitedly waved her hands around. “The theme this year is Myth and Magic.”

“How do you know that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Half of New York knows that.”

“Soooo… I go as a fairy?”

“Not quite. Usually, people wear outfits that hint at the theme. It’s not an all out costume soiree or anything. Some people don’t even go with the theme. They just wear something Armani or Vera Wang made specifically for them.”

“Hm. Okay. I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“That’s why we’re going with the theme. And with this year’s theme, we’ve got a lot to work with. All of human history, actually, since every culture has had its myths. Really, this is the best year you could get invited to.”

“Thanks… I guess.”

“I have this vintage cocktail dress that we can start with.”

“That gold one?”

“Yep.” She nodded with satisfaction.

“Radha, no.”

“What?”

“That dress is practically an antique. I can’t let you ruin it.”

Her lips pursed. “It’s for a good cause. And we won’t ruin it. We’ll make it better.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We could go with the Grecian theme. It’s floor length, kind of like something the statues wear.”

I cringed away. “I won’t have to show one boob like a statue, will I?”

She laughed, pressing her hand against her lips. When the chuckles subsided, she peered at me with interest. “That’s the best joke you’ve made since…”

She trailed off. Dust collected in my throat. I wanted to talk even less than she apparently did.

“Yeah,” I told the floor.

Her voice came out small. “It’s a good sign.”

“That I’m moving on?” The question came out so bitter that it shamed me. I didn’t want to be snarky. I guess I was though.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice timid.

I didn’t want to move on.

I wanted to go back. Back in time. Back to Peter’s living room. Back to his cool, smooth leather couch. Back to the stupid and meaningless coaster. Back to the glass of water he always put there for me. Back to his strong, warm arms.

Fuck this stupid world.

A long silence stretched on. Radha finally broke it by standing up. “Let’s go to my place now and get started.”

I hesitated, but didn’t know what to say.

Radha gazed down at me, her hands on her hips. “What else are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “Sit here and cry.”

She reached a hand out to me. “You can cry on the subway. Everyone’s done it at least once or twice.”

I let her pull me up. “Fine.”

*

I turned slightly to the side and continued to stare at the floor length mirror. It was perhaps slightly vain, but I couldn’t stop looking at myself. Radha was a miracle worker. She really was. Not only had she created a beautiful dress for the gala, she’d also done my makeup and arranged my hair in a loose but elaborate do.

It paid to have a best friend who was a trend setting hair stylist. On my own, I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half of what she did. She’d pressed flowers onto the skirt of the slim, twenties cocktail dress, then taken one of the short sleeves off to give the gown more of an ancient Grecian feel. With my hair twisted into loose waves and half pinned up, I looked much like one of the statues she’d promised me I would.

The whole procedure had taken her less than a few hours total, and she’d slipped out my front door just minutes before.

Pulling my gaze away from the mirror on my bedroom door, I glanced at the clock. Two minutes before Owen arrived.

My heart rate picked up, but I couldn’t tell just what was causing its sudden increase. Nerves over going to such a celebrity packed event? Apprehension over what an evening with Owen really meant to him?

He knows, I reminded myself. He knows what I’m going through. He’s not trying to date me.

Maybe my anxiety had to do with something else though. Maybe I was just being resistant to excitement. Because the idea of going out with an extremely handsome and intelligent man was very, very exciting.

Owen’s hazel eyes popped in front of my vision. They’d shone in the light coming through the coffee shop window. They’d danced, actually.

Just like Peter’s.

I clutched my stomach, half sure I was about to actually hurl.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go. I needed to call Owen and tell him I’d suddenly become sick. I needed to change out of this preposterous dress. I needed to tear the bobby pins from my hair. I needed to wipe the makeup off my face. Needed to crawl underneath a blanket on the couch and hide from it all…

My intercom buzzed.

Lead filled my veins, turning me into an actual statue and making it impossible to move.

It wasn’t too late. What if I just didn’t answer? I could act like I wasn’t there. I could send him a text with some sort of lie about being in the emergency room.

The intercom buzzed again.

It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, Radha had said. She was right. I had no clue what would happen if I went to the Met Gala that night. But I knew what would happen if I stayed home. It would be a repeat of so many other painful nights.

“Screw it,” I muttered, picking up the front of my dress and marching down the tiny hallway.

I hit the button to open the building’s front door. While I waited for Owen, I worked on my posture and air kissing. I didn’t know whether or not air kissing would really be happening. The last I’d heard, it hadn’t been in fashion since the dress I wore was. But better safe than sorry.

Doing something also helped quell my nerves a bit.

A knock on the front door made me jump. I peered through the peephole, just to make sure it was Owen. The sight of the man on the other side of the door made me catch my breath. With his hair combed to the side and a perfectly fitting suit resting on his broad shoulders, Owen looked just about as good as any man possibly could. The bow tie around his neck was the cherry on top of it all.

I drew back from the door and forced myself to inhale and exhale slowly. The panic was there again, rising up in my throat and threatening to suffocate me.

“I can do this,” I whispered, reaching for the chain.

Owen’s entire face changed the second he saw me. The smile he’d been wearing dampened slightly, but I could tell he was anything but displeased. His eyes lit up, and he inhaled sharply.

A long moment stretched on, during which the two of us just looked at each other like complete doofuses.

“Hello,” he finally said in a voice just as proper as his attire.

“Hi.”

“You look amazing, Claire.” His eyes swept down my dress, all the way to the slight train coming from the back of it. As if catching himself in some inappropriate act, his eyes snapped back up and onto my face. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Let me just get my bag.”

I turned and grabbed the black clutch I’d set on the little table by the door. His eyes were on me the whole time, the pressure of the gaze so strong I had to suppress a shiver. I kept my gaze down and on my hands as I locked the door securely behind myself then checked it a second time.

“Ready,” I announced, turning and smiling up at him.

He stepped aside and motioned for me to go first. Picking up my dress, I shuffled across the hall and towards the stairs. My apartment sat on the second floor, which thankfully meant the number of steps to the street were doable no matter what state you were in.

“You look good too,” I said over my shoulder. “Sorry. I forgot to tell you that.”

“Thank you,” he rumbled. “But I certainly don’t have you beat.”

His compliment made me flush. I was glad to not be facing him.

It’s not a date. It’s not a date.

A black limo sat right in front of the building, its engine running. I stopped on the sidewalk and stared at it. The slightest touch trailed across the small of my back, then Owen stepped forward and opened the limo’s door.

He looked at me expectantly. I took the cue and stepped forward to climb into the back seat. With enough space to seat ten people, the limo was certainly more than the two of us needed. Owen slipped in and took a seat directly across from me. Reaching his knuckles up, he rapped on the divide separating us from the driver.

The car took off, fluidly cruising down the street.

I smoothed the part of the dress around my knees, not sure what to say or do. Owen had only picked me up a few minutes ago and the night was already starting to feel like a date.

Not a date. Nope. It can’t be a date.

So then why did I have that giddy first date feeling? The one I hadn’t felt since…

The sweet sensation disappeared, replaced instead by that familiar nausea.

Peter. I couldn’t think about him. No. Not then. All I needed was a few hours, just a little bit of time to go out and enjoy myself without the memory of him hanging over my head. After that, I could go home and curl into a ball on the bed like every other night. I could lose myself in fantasies and dreams of the two of us together.

But right then I was in the real world. I had to keep it together for just a small amount of time.

“How was your weekend?” Owen asked.

My tongue felt thick, but I somehow managed to answer. “Good. How was yours?”

“Pretty nice. I caught up with an old friend from school.”

“That sounds nice.”

God, I was awful at small talk.

“Your dress,” Owen said and shook his head slightly, almost as if he couldn’t believe something. “It’s amazing.”

I flushed. “It’s all my friend Radha’s doing.”

“She has talent. Is she a designer?”

“She’s a hair stylist, but I’ll tell her what you said. She’s always dreamed of starting her own line. She sketches things out sometimes. They’re beautiful.”

“She could do it. She could be successful. Really.”

In an effort to stop myself from blushing — which was weird since Owen was complimenting Radha and not me — I looked out the window. The limo steadily traveled eastward, headed for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was nearly fully dark, and the colored lights of the city danced around in all directions.

I knew I couldn’t keep looking out the window. Each block was becoming more bittersweet than the last. Pretty soon there would be no sweetness left to be found on the sidewalks. There would just be pain.

I turned back to Owen. “Do you go to this every year?”

“No. I’ve only been to a few.”

“Oh. And how is it?”

“It’s fun. Really, though, it’s the after parties that are the big deal.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded. “It’s a way for some people to show off. They host extravagant blow outs at clubs or lofts that they rent just for the night.”

“Wow. Cool.”

“We can check some out later if you want.”

Did I want? I smiled at him. “All right.”

The limo began slowing down, and I craned my neck to peer up the street. Traffic had seemed to double all within one block. Up ahead, a police officer wearing an orange vest directed the flow of cars.

“Wow,” I breathed. “There’s a lot going on here.”

Owen abruptly switch seats, coming to settle right next to me. My breathing halted over his surprise appearance, but he didn’t seem to notice. He ducked his head to look in the direction I was. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “It can be like this.”

Our driver edged us further into the melee, slipping around cars both moving and not. We were right up on the museum now, and I sucked in a breath as I took it in. There were throngs of people, hundreds more than I could count. Flashes from cameras went off left and right, and here and there, bits of red carpet popped out through the crowd.

Another officer pointed to a spot right in front of the museum. Our limo slid into it and stopped. I started to bite my bottom lip, but then stopped myself, remembering both my lipstick and the cameras waiting outside. Would there be photographers wanting to take pictures of Owen and whoever he was with? Did being the offspring of a supermodel make you semi-famous, and therefore worthy of being photographed?

I had no idea, but I was just as nervous as I’d been back at the apartment.

Had I dropped my compact mirror into my clutch? Did I have enough time to pull it out and check to make sure none of my makeup had smeared?

I started to open my clutch, but right then, everything began moving too fast, and suddenly, there was no time for anything but moving forward.

Owen shimmied over to the far end of the limo as the driver opened the door. A tidal wave worth of noise swept into the car, people honking and chattering and shouting. Beyond the door, lights flashed. Owen climbed out right into them. Steeling myself, I followed by scooting across the seat.

Owen extended his hand into the limo. I took it, the warmth of his touch becoming an anchor. No matter what happened that night, at least I would be close to him.

Cameras flashed all around us, nearly blinding me. I kept my eyes focused on Owen. He smiled down at me, seemingly undeterred by the sudden attention.

“Why are they taking our picture?” I asked.