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“I feel like I’m about to stand trial,” he said. “Exhibit A,” he added, with a nod at the silver Jaguar parked in front of us. “Jefferson is here.”
Autumn slipped her hand across his shoulders and into his hair. “I hate that this is so hard for you.”
Connor forced a smile. “Nah, I need to chill. My parents will love you.”
Autumn didn’t say anything, but I could almost read her thoughts in the downward curve of her lips.
It’s not me they need to love.
Connor punched in the security code on a panel at the front door and opened it.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” he said.
The house hummed with talk and laughter. The scent of cooking hung in the air—baking bread, roasting meat, vegetables simmering in thick sauces.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” Autumn said. Her neck craned from the ruffled collar of her simple blue dress. As she turned this way and that to gaze up at the high-vaulted ceiling with its crystal chandelier, the tendrils falling from her loose bun danced around her porcelain face. She started fidgeting with her bag on her shoulder. “Now I just got nervous.”
Connor’s mother emerged from the sitting room then. “Hello, my darlings.”
Senator Victoria Drake wore an elegant, pale beige pantsuit with a string of pearls at her throat. Her hair was down instead of the severe coil she wore in D.C. She radiated refined elegance with an underlying mom warmth, but her eyes were sharp. A woman who wrote laws for a living, for Massachusetts and the Drake household.
“Hi, Mom,” Connor said.
Victoria embraced him and held his face in her palms a moment, then turned to me.
“Wonderful to see you, Wes,” she said. “You look handsome as ever.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Drake.” I gave her a light peck on the cheek and was suffused with perfume, and the chalky smell of her makeup.
“And you must be Autumn.” Victoria offered her hand for a brisk shake. “So lovely to meet you.”
“Wonderful to meet you too, Mrs. Drake,” Autumn said, then bit her lip. “Or…Senator…?”
“Please. Call me Victoria.”
I smirked. Mrs. Drake had been asking me to call her by her first name for years, and it was impossible. Connor’s mother exuded the aura of a famous person—one step removed from mere flesh and blood like the rest of us. She was far warmer than Mr. Drake, but still intimidating. If Autumn ever felt comfortable enough to call her Victoria, I’d eat my shorts.
“Connor tells me you’ve petitioned Harvard to create your own major?” Mrs. Drake asked.
“I will be,” Autumn said. “I’m still putting the project together.”
“Connor’s older brother, Jefferson, is set to graduate Harvard Business School with Honors this spring.”
“I heard,” Autumn said, her gaze flickering to Connor for a moment, her smile stiffening. “What an amazing accomplishment.”
“We’re very proud.” Mrs. Drake beckoned us deeper into the house. “Come. Everyone’s here except for your mother and sisters, Wes. Miranda called and said they’re all driving up tomorrow.”
“The Wahlberg show will have to wait,” I muttered to Autumn.
She grinned. “Whatta pissah.”
I barely contained the laugh that threatened to bust out of me.
God, this girl.
We adjourned to the lavish sitting room of polished mahogany and glass tables. A fire burned in the fireplace. Mr. Drake and Connor’s older brother sat with a tall blonde woman dressed impeccably in slacks, and a cashmere sweater. Jefferson’s fiancée, I presumed. Perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. A dystopian film director’s wet dream of the perfect woman.
I glanced down at Autumn—small and delicate, but holding her own in this intimidating space, a genuine smile on her full lips.
