“I’m serious. Nothing. Not a word.”
I guess I don’t have much of a poker face, because Elliot looks at me like I’m threatening to tie him to a chair in the basement with no food or water for a week.
He holds up his palms toward me. “Christ, man. Yeah, okay. Got it.”
I have to keep Summer away from Archie this evening. I will not let that man ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll seal the investment deal, then he’ll be on his way.
It has to be possible to have the money and the girl.
“Great! Thanks, El. You’re a pal.”
I heave the huge front door open and head out to get Summer’s bag from her truck.
21
SUMMER
Elsa crunches the last of the treats I’ve given her and snuggles into the pile of blankets Maggie placed in the corner of the guest room to make her comfy. My scruffy pooch is totally worn out after the truck ride and the excitement of a new place and new people. Doubtless she’ll sleep soundly while I’m downstairs for a couple of hours.
This room is beautiful, the perfect combination of cozy and stylish. The pale carpet is thick and bouncy, the walls are a caramel taupe, and the sofa and bedding are in heavy, natural-colored fabrics. Walking in here felt like slipping into a pot of warm heavy cream.
The delightful twangs of the string quartet tuning up in the foyer waft up the stairs. And guests must have started arriving because the heavy door knocker sounds at regular intervals and is followed every time by squeals of delight and chatter.
My hands tremble a little as I check myself in the full-length, freestanding mirror and prepare to step into Owen’s world.
I don’t own any chic cocktail dresses. Not anymore, anyway. The couple I did have, I donated to the animal charity shop after the Alastair debacle, when I left the Los Angeles whirl behind and vowed to never again go anywhere that required fancy clothes.
But this top I made is one of my favorite things. It has the look of crochet but is actually knitted and nips in perfectly at the waist to make it form-fitting. I love the zigzag pattern in shades of oranges and blues, inspired by a vintage Missoni design. I hold my arm out and admire the flared sleeves. I should make more things like this.
Given I had about two minutes to choose what to bring, I’m happy with my selection. It ends mid-thigh so you could easily toss it on with jeans, but it also goes perfectly over this ankle-length, plain black sleeveless dress. It seems a perfect match for Maggie’s elegant but unstuffy gathering.
Her dress is fabulous, but she’s bound to be more dressed up than anyone—it’s her party after all.
The sound of voices and laughter downstairs gets louder as more and more people arrive. Dishes and glasses rattle and clink in the kitchen. And the string quartet has now launched into a tune.
I lean closer to the mirror and run a shaky finger under my eyes to dust off a couple of loose specks of fallen mascara, then lift a section of hair and tuck a particularly errant curl under it.
I’m about to be the stranger walking into an intimate celebration of family and close friends. The butterflies in my stomach have butterflies in their stomachs.
But I will have Owen by my side, and that thought both calms me and makes my heart surge at the same time.I’ve never taken a risk like this. Even if Owen and I have the magic that can make your insides flutter for the rest of your life, we still live three thousand miles apart. I’m not moving to California again, and he sure as hell won’t ever move here, where we have winter.
But I’ve never felt this unique, all-encompassing, all-consuming, overwhelming desire to be with anyone—to soak in his quick brain, his wit, his presence in the room, and his oh-so-hot ass. And after spending the last eighteen months refusing to deal with anything but certainty and known quantities, here I am, about to take my first tiny step into the unknown.
I take the deepest breath I’ve taken all day and stroke my pooch, who’s already snoozing.
“Here we go, Elsa,” I whisper. “Time to do it.”
Her feet twitch as she chases snowballs in her dreams.
When I open the door, the sound of joy gets louder. There’s no going back now. I wobble along the hallway in my heels. I know exactly what Maggie means about being out of practice. I live in either flip-flops or winter boots these days.
Before I reach the top of the stairs, I grip the rail of the galleried landing and take in the scene below. The strains of the quartet mingle with the happy chatter of groups of guests, filling the expansive foyer. New arrivals and servers with trays of drinks and canapés weave their way through the happy throng.
Owen stands in the middle, his back to me, holding a drink and talking with Elliot and Max.
The jacket of his black suit sits perfectly across his broad shoulders, and a crisp, white shirt collar hugs the back of his neck. His hair is still floppy on top, but in a tidier way than I’ve seen it before.
My breath hitches.
