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“Don’t have much choice, do I?”
I shake my head.
No, she doesn’t.
And neither, it seems, do I.
32
BEAU
At seven thirty, I stand in the hallway gazing at myself in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman before me. She’s elegance personified. Perfection. I’ve let Zinnea at me with her bottomless supply of makeup and hairspray, and I’m beginning to regret it. Not because she hasn’t done an amazing job—she totally has—but because it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen this woman in the mirror. A long time since I carried a dress like this. I’m not sure if I know how to anymore.
I peek down at the strappy Jimmy Choo heels that haven’t seen the light of day in two years. And at the YSL purse that’s been stuffed at the back of a drawer for as long. Years ago, I walked out most weekends in heels like these for drinks with friends or work colleagues. Now, I don’t know if I could make it to the kitchen a few feet away.
“It’s like riding a bike,” Zinnea says, pulling my attention to the bottom of the stairs. She’s halfway ready for her evening on stage, her hair and makeup on point, her body wrapped in a tropical kimono. I offer a small smile, silently thanking her for not mentioning where I’m going and with whom again, but rather concentrating on getting me ready for where I’m going and with whom. I’m so thankful for them.
Zinnea must see my gratitude, because she matches my smile and comes up behind me, smoothing my French pleat again before attacking it with more spray. “You look gorgeous, Beau,” she says on a massive sigh, and I see her inside conflict. This is the old me. At least, the old me when I wasn’t in uniform. She’s pleased to see me again, and yet the circumstances of my transformation are less than comforting for her.
“The taxi should be here by now,” I say, glancing down at the sleeves. Long, lace sleeves. James has me covered. Literally.
“And will you be home tonight after your date?”
I flick a knowing smile up at Zinnea as I brush my front down. I hope not. I want to walk the path to nothingness with James.
A car horn sounds outside, and I take in air, silently chanting words of encouragement. “Have a good show,” I say, dropping a kiss on Zinnea’s cheek.
“Be careful, Beau,” she whispers. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” I pull the front door open, glaring immediately at the bushes closing in the pathway. “We really need to get these bushes trimmed.”
“If you’re going to trim bushes, darling, you should do it before your date.”
I gasp and fly around, finding my aunt leaning against the doorjamb with a wicked grin on her face, and now Dexter is with her, laughing like a hyena. I can only shake my head in dismay. “Goodnight,” I say as they back up, closing the door. I walk carefully and slowly down the path, trying not to catch my dress on any of the bushes.
“Evening.”
I glance up, surprised, finding James leaning against the side of his car. In a beautiful black suit. Crisp white shirt. Black tie. My knees go weak under my dress and my tummy flutters as he takes me in, top to bottom, all very slowly. And I do the exact same, every inch of him I explore sending my insides further into bedlam. “Evening,” I murmur. “I was expecting a taxi.”
He pushes off the side of the car and wanders casually over to me, his hands deep in his pockets. He comes to a stop before me, and my eyes rise to keep contact with his. “You look out of this world,” he whispers, removing one hand from a pocket and reaching for the edge of a sleeve, brushing delicately over the material.
I swallow, unable to return the compliment while he’s touching me.
“Do you like the dress?” he asks.
“I do, thank you,” I all but whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. He looks pensive. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” he answers, letting his touch slip to my fingers. My heart sinks, dropping into my belly, seeming to dislodge the anxiety and questions. Damn me. I don’t want to be curious about him. I want to be ignorant. I just want to feel and not think.
I step back, and James frowns, moving in closer. His fingers weave through mine, his eyes watching them closely. “Just feel,” he murmurs, as if reading my mind, placing a fingertip on my collarbone and circling it slowly. My skin is instantly ablaze. My breath catches, my body folding. He watches it all, remaining expressionless. “We’ll be late,” he whispers, dragging his fingertip down to my breast.
“We will,” I reply, swallowing hard, my insides twisting and turning. I’m dreading the opera for a very different reason now.
