The Belle Tower is one of the swankiest hotels in Philadelphia, nevertheless, it’s a concession. If my father had his way, we’d be at the Four Seasons, but his donors enjoy the feel of old money, something my family has never known.
“Don’t sweat it.” I loop a red silk tie around my neck and button my top button. “Remember, they’re just people like you and me.”
Quinn arches a brow that clearly callsbullshit,and a smile breaks across my face.
“Let me help you with that,” she says, stepping closer and taking the ends of my tie.
I can do it myself, but I’m not about to turn down an opportunity to feel her hands on my body.
Besides, I know better than to go inside without ensuring it’s perfectly straight.
My father would have a shit fit.
Quinn ties the knot with deft fingers, a skill I choose to believe she learned from Noah. She tightens it at my neck before smoothing the fabric over my abs.
“I suddenly feel underdressed.” She gives me a slow once-over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something she only seems to do when she’s nervous. “Haley was right. I should’ve worn heels.”
“Hey.” I cup her chin and tilt her face to mine. “You are gorgeous, with or without heels.”
If I weren’t so damn stressed, I’d have pulled over for a quickie on the way here. The little black dress she’s wearing is a classic, but it leans just this side of sexy with a wide neckline that reveals the gentle slope of her clavicle.
Who knew bones could be so sexy?
I rest a hand on her lower back, cursing the lack of privacy. I’d like nothing more than to claim her mouth and show her just how much I like the dress, but we have an audience.
One that isn’t accustomed to Greek Row PDA.
“We might as well get this over with.”
The sooner the better.
Just like ripping off a band-aid.
We enter the lobby and Quinn’s eyes go wide. “Holy crap. This place is like something out of Bridgerton.”
I have no idea what Bridgerton is, but I had the same reaction my first time here. The combination of polished marble, gilded woodwork, and crystal chandeliers isn’t what you’d call subtle opulence.
We take the elliptical staircase and make our way up to the ballroom, which is humming with energy. A guy near the door is quoting the polls, which are currently predicting a second term for my father, who’s done a masterful job of painting himself as a man of the people.
It’s total bullshit.
Our ancestors may have been blue-collar dock workers, but my father hasn’t done a day of hard labor in his life. Not that you’d know it by hearing him talk.
I scan the crowded room, marking the bar, and spot my parents near the stage. Because of course there’s a dais for my father to impart words of wisdom and give some farcical speech about democracy when the race is called later tonight.
Like me, he’s tall and broad shouldered, but that’s where the resemblance ends. My fair coloring and good looks are all my mom, who’s practically invisible in the crowd of reporters and sycophants gathered around them, angling for face time.
My father spots us as we approach and I paste on a smile that’s fake as hell—just like his—as he disentangles himself from the crowd of well-wishers.
Quinn and I wait in silence as the last of the hangers-on disband.
Finally, my father turns to us, a practiced smile on his face. At his side, my mother’s smile is one hundred percent authentic.
Relief floods my veins.
It’s been nearly three months since I left for training camp and though we talk on the phone regularly, it would be easy for her to conceal trouble at home.
I lean down to hug her and the comforting scent of Chanel No. 5 fills my nostrils as she rubs my back, just like she did when I was little.
