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Murphy
If you’ve grown up in or around Philadelphia, the Union League is one of those buildings that you’ve seen a million times. Located on Broad Street in south Philly, it’s a 150-year-old brick and brownstone building with two matching circular staircases leading to the front doors. That’s the extent of the information I know about this building, but I’ve always wondered what it looked like inside.
Sabrina, however, knows everything.
Once we’ve checked into the Inn at the Union League and dropped our bags off in our surprisingly modern room, we make our way down to the fundraiser. Sabrina links her arm through mine as she allows me to escort her through the labyrinth of this building, giving me the history of everything we pass along the way.
Pulling us to a stop in front of a twelve-foot-tall painting of George Washington, she leans in close to me as if we’re about to share a secret. Her eyes are glittering, and her smile is spectacular. “This is one of only two copies of this painting that exists. The other sits in the White House. It was painted when Philadelphia was still the country’s capital and is thought to have inspired the image of Washington that’s printed on the dollar bill.”
Her breath tickles my skin, and that’s all it takes to take me from half-mast to full-on ready to take her back to our room. Part of me wishes we could do that right now. The other part of me, the slightly less caveman part, wants to see my girl in her element. “Show me your world, Princess.”
Sabrina’s light laughter soothes my soul. I don’t like a stuffy crowd, and this place has me a little on edge. We move further down the long hall with her adding commentary as we go.
“The Union League was founded in the mid-eighteen sixties to support the Union army and President Lincoln. Every US president has made an appearance in this building since its inception. It’s a private club. Until somewhat recently, it was a men-only club, but they’ve finally chosen to move into the twenty-first century. Imagine a country club on steroids, and you’ve got the Union League. Of course, my family has been members for something close to a hundred years. Elite, uptight, and political screams Cabot.” She winces but hasn’t stopped smiling.
We stop at the mouth of a ballroom, which is covered in dark wood paneling framing massive crystal chandeliers. The room has been set with large round tables covered in white linens with gold, ladderback chairs around them. There are red, white, and blue floral arrangements sitting in the center of each table with candles lit.
I think I’ve heard too much wedding talk lately if I know what this shit is. Seriously, ladderback chairs? What the hell’s the difference?
People are milling around everywhere, and waiters dressed in tails are walking around with trays of hors d’oeuvres. “See that man over there?” Brina discreetly points to a tall man, around her father’s age, holding court in the far corner of the room. “That’s David Martin. He sits on at least three different boards that I know of. He owns the largest beer distribution center in the state and is arguably the most powerful person in this room. If you don’t have David Martin’s backing, you can’t get elected in the state of Pennsylvania.”
Sabrina dazzles me with her smile and her endless knowledge until a waiter stops by and offers us two glasses of champagne.
Declan appears next to us, takes the glasses from the tray and offers one to Annabelle, shocking the waiter. “These two aren’t twenty-one. You want to get them some soda?”
I may or may not quietly call him a dick, and he may or may not calmly answer me with asshole. But, in our world, they’re terms of endearment.
“Don’t let anyone catch you grabbing a drink, Murph. You’re not twenty-one, and you can’t be photographed like that.”
“I’m not that stupid, Dec.”
Declan lifts his brows in question.
Sabrina and Annabelle are completely ignoring us. Belle looks pretty tonight in a sparkly nude colored, flowy dress that has a square neckline and thin straps. Then she turns, and I can see the back is completely open. Wrapping my arm around Sabrina’s waist, I butt into their conversation, “Belle, you look smokin’.”
She laughs at me. “Thanks, Murph. You’re looking pretty fine yourself.”
If I’m not mistaken, Declan’s trying to incinerate me with his eyes. What the hell’s that about?
Crazy to think this time next year, he’ll be my brother.
A guy walks over, underdressed, in a mismatched sports coat and dress slacks, smelling like whiskey. “Sabrina. How are you, kid?” He grabs her hand and kisses it. I tighten my hold on her waist. Who does this fucker think he is?
“Pat.” She pulls her hand away and places it in her pocket. Who puts pockets in ball gowns?
“It’s so nice to see you. Is your wife here too?”
“No, she’s home with the kids. They offered me an extra ticket at the last minute, but I didn’t realize the dress code. This jacket’s one of the extras they keep on hand for guys like me.” He smiles a little too big and a little too hammered. The scent of whiskey is wafting off him. “Anyway, just wanted to say hello. Have a nice night, Miss Cabot.”
I wait for him to get out of earshot. “Who was that?”
Brina looks at me, giggling. She’s not really making any attempt to conceal how funny she thinks this moment is. “Aiden Murphy, you’re not seriously jealous of Pat Donovan, are you? He’s a harmless ward leader from South Philly. Nice guy, but he’s got to be forty years old, and he’s only being sweet because of my dad.”
Annabelle smirks. “Aww, Murphy. Are you jealous? Who knew you could be so cute?”
“I am not cute, Belles.” I purposely puff up my chest. “I’m manly.”
“Never good when you have to announce that you’re manly, Murphy.” Of course, Coach Sinclair had to join us just then. And with his arm wrapped around my mother, no less. It’s funny seeing Coach and Declan both dressed in tuxes next to each other. They’ve got the exact same build, but that’s where the similarities end. Nat and Coop look like Coach, with light hair and blue eyes. Declan looks like his mom, with olive skin, dark hair and dark eyes.
