“And does thatextricationhave a prison sentence attached to it?”
His mouth hitched up a smidge at the corner, like he was trying not to smile. And it made me try hard not to smile too. I did not want to share in private jokes with Stick.
“Just what the hell is your real name, anyway? Stick what? And what’s your first name?”
He allowed the grin that time. Of course he had—he knew he’d pissed me off. “It’s just Stick.”
“Like Cher? Yeah, you are kind of a diva.”
“Like the Rock.”
I snorted, and he twirled me in a bit of a dance move that made the skirt of my dress flare out in a soft swath of peach satin.
Much as I didn’t want to be a bridesmaid, I did have to admit that the dresses Betsy picked out were pretty sick.
A fitted bodice, and then the flared skirt. Tea length, with an overskirt of cream lace. It was almost like the thing was designed with my tall, but curvy, frame in mind.
I loved how I looked in it, only wishing that I was wearing it to an event I wanted to attend.
Stick twirled me again, the dress flaring once more. And I felt…nearly beautiful.
I know I’m not. Lily is beautiful. Syd, our other roommate, is too, in a nontraditional way. But not me. I’m not bad looking, and seem to get my share of attention (even from those who don’t know my backstory), but my mother says that comes from my “energy.” I roll my eyes when she tells me this, but it doesn’t mean that she’s wrong.
“Killer dress, by the way,” he said, as if he could read my mind. The song came to an end just as I spotted Montrose at a table with some of the other bridesmaids and groomsmen, presumably his friends from Brown. He was watching Stick and me dance with a serious expression on his face.
I broke from Stick and started walking that way, intending on asking Montrose to dance with me. The band was breaking and some old, jazzy big-band song came through the sound system, the DJ picking right up, allowing no lull.
Stick followed my eyes to Montrose’s table, and grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s make that dress fly,” he said as he pulled me back into the thick of the dancers.
Who knew Stick Whatever would be such a good dancer? He twirled me and led me, and we did indeed make my dress fly. It was almost…joyful the way my body moved with the music. At one point, dancers even moved out of the way to watch Stick twirl me around the floor.
I laughed and caught him smiling, and everything—even Edgar Prescott’s hand on my boob—seemed a million miles away.
Until the music slowed and Stick pulled me back into his arms and I saw all the people sitting at tables along the dance floor edge. And was shocked to see Caroline Stratton and Grayson Spaulding sitting together, their heads close, talking. And looking straight at me.
“Oh, God. We probably shouldn’t have done that,” I said to Stick.
“What? The kiss? Or the kickass dancing?” There was a teasing in his voice and almost a lightness in his eyes when I looked up at him.
“Both. Grayson and Caroline are over there. And looks like they’re talking about me.”
He twirled me around so that he was looking at the tables. His eyes went right toward Caroline’s table. She must have caught him looking, because Stick gave a nod of acknowledgement in her direction.
“I don’t think they’re discussing you,” Stick said.
“I’m just surprised to see them together. From what I understand, they can’t stand each other.” It was kind of like they were both vying for my father back in the day, during the campaign. And from what I’d picked up over the years, it seemed like they blamed each other for my father succumbing to my mother’s…charms. Grayson faulting Caroline for her being what he felt was cold. And Caroline felt Grayson should have been aware of my father’s affair with my mother and nipped it in the bud. Or at least before my mother could get herself knocked up with me.
“Maybe they’re just putting it all behind them to rally around your father. Kind of like you are.”
“So youdoknow who I am?” I said, suspicion seeping through my voice.
“Who your father is? Yeah. How you came into being? Yep. I’ve got the background facts down.” He slowed, pulling me back into his arms, making me gasp in a girly way that I hated. Sliding his hand along my waist, he guided me toward the edge of the floor. “But whoisJane Winters?” He slid his hand down and squeezed my ass. Before I could swat at his hand, he released me and smiled. “I don’t have a fucking clue. Do you?”
He walked away, through the dancers, swallowed up by the tuxes and designer dresses.
Chapter8
January sucked.
