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Reynolds felt every muscle in Waverley’s body tense, and he fought back the urge to punch the old man in that long patrician nose for saying something so mean, no matter how he tried to veil it.
“I’m well aware of who Waverley was before that whole…mess,” he said, careful to keep his tone light and not like he wanted to take everyone’s head off, “so I can confidently say that she’s never looked more healthy, happy, or beautiful. Losing the extra baggage of that ex of hers was the best thing she could have done. Now, if you’ll all excuse us, Waverley has promised me a tour of the house,” he said and guided her away.
He didn’t have any direction in mind as he kept his arm around her and walked down another hallway, heading in any direction that would lead them away from the party.
Waverley was still silent as they walked, and he hoped she wasn’t taking anything they said to heart. “Hey. They’re all narrow-minded assholes who don’t appreciate how wonderful you are, Waverley.”
He stopped and waited for her to turn to meet his gaze. He was prepared for sadness, maybe even some tears. He wasn’t prepared for the glitter of amusement in those eyes or the way her lips shook with laughter before she brought her hand to her mouth as if to quiet the sound.
“Oh, goodness,” she said, her voice light and filled with laughter. “I don’t know if anyone has ever stood up to my father like that. It was amazing. And the look on Edith Johnson’s face?” She burst into more laughter again. “I hope I never forget it.”
He smiled, relieved that she found the humor in the situation. He could only wonder at the snide comments and taunts she must have been subjected to over the past few months, and he fought against the urge to return to that room to tell everyone to go to hell. Especially if it brought her such amusement.
“All in all, I think your father’s starting to really like me,” he said deadpan, earning another fit of giggles and she rested her hand on his chest.
He stared at it, enjoying not just the sight of her hand on him but how it felt. Even more, he liked having her all to himself.
“So you going to show me around the place? There’s got to be a dungeon in the basement for those peasants your father doesn’t deem up to snuff.”
Waverley grinned. “I have another idea. Come on,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the second floor.
She stopped at a door at the end of a long hall, smiling at him as she pushed it open. He stepped inside of a bedroom that was large enough to fit his entire office inside twice over.
The walls were covered with paneled wood that might have once been a richer color but were now painted cream, making the entire space bright and cheery. An impressionist painting of a mother and child was featured on one wall, while the other walls were covered with color and black-and-white photos of models dressed in what might have been high fashion from an earlier period.
A large, canopied bed with swaths of white gauze wrapped around the upper support rails, sat on one end of the room. And in the opposite corner was a desk covered with stacks of fashion magazines and sketchbooks, and a board pinned with different pictures and styles and fabrics hanging on the wall behind it.
“Is this your room?” he asked, looking around the tastefully decorated but definitely feminine room.
“It is,” she said, following his gaze. “Or it was. For fifteen years.”
He nodded. “Now this feels like you.” He walked over to a dresser and stared at some of the photographs propped on it. A high school graduation photo of her looking so serious and solemn with the slightest smile on her lips, one of her standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, probably somewhere in her early college years, and one with her and her father dressed in formal wear standing in front of a mantel decorated for Christmas.
There were two more photos on the end, but he didn’t recognize the people in them at first glance. He lifted one of them and studied it. A smiling woman somewhere in her early thirties, with dark blond hair and a wide, engaging smile, her arms tightly wrapped around a young girl around ten years old stared back at him.
He looked closer at the chubby cheeked girl wearing a purple sweatshirt with a picture of the Powerpuff Girls on the front of it. “Is this you?”
She came to stand next to him, not answering right away. “Yeah. Me and my mom.”
Of course it was. The girl in the photo looked a lot more like the Waverley before him now, but far happier and freer. “You were adorable.”
She studied his face as if trying to see if he was laughing at her. “I was a regular little butterball.”
“Hey. Don’t do that,” he said, hating to hear her put herself down. “You were cute, no matter what your size.”
He hadn’t realized that Waverley Abbott hadn’t always been supermodel thin, and it changed his perspective of her and what he’d thought her childhood would have been like. “I can see the resemblance. Between you and your mom.”
“Thank you. I was nine in that photo and, if you can’t tell, a big fan of Powerpuff Girls.”
“You and Poppy both.” He wouldn’t mention that he might have caught an episode or two back then or that, thanks to a horrifying moment where seven-year-old Poppy announced to the crowd at the pool they all had to hurry home to catch the latest episode, he would be taunted with the nickname of Buttercup all through middle school.
He picked up the other picture. This one of Waverley looking a few years older, standing in front of some canoes with another girl. “And this?”
“That’s me and Cece Greenwood. A friend I made the summer I went to Camp Winnauke. A nice name for a place that I learned was a fat camp when I arrived.”
He set it down and turned to look at her. “You’re kidding. Who the hell sends their kids to a fat camp?”
She smiled a little sadly. “My father apparently. My mom was furious when I wrote her and told her. She actually called the camp and insisted she talk to me so she could come and pick me up.”
