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Fancy: I’ll have my personal shopper at Bergdorf send something over for you to choose. Problem solved.
Me: I can’t afford Bergdorf!
Fancy: I can.
Me: Never mind. I’ll find something at the second hand stores.
Fancy: No second hand stores. Stop fighting this. You wouldn’t want to look ungrateful after everything I’ve done for you, would you?
I suck in a horrified breath. Man, he went straight for tender bits with that one.
Me: You fight dirty.
Fancy: Always. Don’t ever forget it.
I step out my bedroom as he’s stepping out of his. Simultaneously we do an open inspection of the other. I have on the J Mendel mini dress the personal shopper sent over along with a pair of black high heeled Manolo Blahnik pumps. The dress is simple and stylish and all kinds of amazing. Audrey would approve; it’s purple. God knows what this thing costs. I’ve never worn anything this beautiful and expensive.
Fancy looks like his usual hideously gorgeous supermodel self in a lean blue suit with a black tie.
“You clean up nice, Vaughn.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Jones. You have your overnight bag ready?” I motion behind me and he moves past me to grab it.
It feels like a date. It does. There, I said it. The whole dang thing is weird. I’m acting weird. He’s acting weird. We’re acting weird together. And yet, as weird as it is, it’s still the best time I’ve had in a decade and we haven’t even stepped out of the house.
If we weren’t headed to this Vaughn family reunion I would actually be giddy with excitement. The night sky is bright with an infinite amount of stars. A beautiful man is opening all my doors. What more can a girl ask for?
I slide into the passenger seat of his Audi while he watches me with a look of confusion, his hand poised to shut the door.
“Christ, Jones, you’re an actress. How hard can it be to act like you’re interested in me.”
What? Wait, what? Whatever he’s trying to communicate is not computing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That look on your face.”
“What look on my face?”
He closes my door and gets behind the wheel. “The one that says you don’t want do this. Look at it this way, if you can’t convince my eighty-five year old grandmother that you’re into me, then what hope do you have of making a career out of acting?” He starts the car and pulls out onto Madison Ave.
“You better watch it, McButterpants, or you’ll get exactly what you’re asking for,” I warn with narrow eyes. “And I wasn’t looking like I don’t want to do this. I was just thinking that if I didn’t have to meet your entire family tonight, I would be having a great time already…and this dress makes me nervous. It’s too expensive.”
There’s that baby v again, sitting smack dab in the middle of his brow. “You were?” He sounds suspicious.
“Yes––I was.” Okay, maybe that came out a little churlish. At the deafening silence coming from my left, I’m forced to look over and I find him wearing one of his panty exploding crooked grins. Which of course makes me begrudgingly smile back at him.
“The dress looks great on you.”
My gaze swings out the passenger window to hide the flush scalding my neck. “Getting a stalkery vibe from you again.”
Half an hour later the Audi pulls up to an elaborate wrought iron gate. He punches in a code at the security box and the gate eases open to reveal an honest to goodness estate.
I can feel the corners of my mouth turning down. “Come on. Seriously?”
“It’s just a dinner party, low key for her,” he explains with a smirk.
I don’t really give a fig about money. Other than for the purpose of it buying fantastic legal representation if you should so need it. Nor do I care either way about people that have money. Parker’s family has money and it never mattered to me. However, this…this is intimidating.
The butler meets us at the door. My eyeballs are going to get a serious workout.
“Hello, James. Everybody here already?”
“Good to see you, Mr. Vaughn. Not yet.” James takes our coats and we climb the marble stairs to the living room. Ethan’s hand has been on the small of my back since we got out of the car, consuming enough of my attention that I don’t have time to be nervous.
“What does one usually discuss at these things? Whose great granpapy came over on the Mayflower?” His eyebrow twitches but that’s about it. That’s all I get from him. “I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t know where my great granpapy came from. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he was a convicted criminal transported to the colonies.”
As usual, Mr. Perfect is unfazed by my rant. “Just be yourself and you’ll be fine,” he nonchalantly states as we enter the room.
