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At least I don’t feel physically sick at the thought of getting attention from all those strangers. No, my churning stomach is for a different reason.
And he’s standing right over…There.
Charlie’s waiting with the water as a backdrop, and just like that, the butterflies swarm as if I never banished them. My heart flipflops inside of my chest. The feeling makes me want to run toward him and also, to turn in the opposite direction.
Okay. So, possibly I’m not so cool, after all. Possibly, I just forgot how good this man looks in formalwear. He’s in a subtle brown tweed, complete with a waistcoat. It should seem costume-y, but Charlie Fox simply looks like a Burberry photoshoot in the English countryside.
Perfect. Dashing.
A Magnolia Bakery cupcake from head to toe.
“There she is,” he says, smiling at me. “Pulling off the 1920s siren look, I see.”
I flick my fan open. “Back at you, Gatsby. So who’s this shindig for tonight?”
“A buddy from college,” he replies, offering his arm. I take it, trying to focus on what he’s saying, and not the fact I’m pressing closer to him. “He’s a lawyer now and helped out with the articles of incorporation on Mavericks.”
Again, I marvel at Charlie’s social circle. I get along with people fine, but I don’t have a list of hundreds inviting me to be a part of their special day.
Onboard, some of the men are in straw boater hats, but the women really embraced the theme: fringe and feathers and metallics at every turn. The crowd glitters with sequins and gilded pizzaz, and there’s a buzz of excitement in the air as the yacht begins moving away from shore and down the river. “The costumes really help, don’t they?” I muse, comparing this crowd to the staid, super-formal group at the Met. “Everybody feels like we’re playing dress-up, ready to have fun.”
But we’ve barely made our way onto the yacht when he leans close to my ear. “Code Papaya in the blue dress.”
I’m on it. By now, Charlie and I are a well oiled machine. I politely deflect the gorgeous former fling while Charlie busies himself elsewhere. We mingle, small talk, congratulate the happy couple. All totally normal fake-wedding date business.
Not awkward at all.
The problem, today, is that I feel a tug toward him like gravity. Left unchecked, my body wants to move toward his—resting against his side while we make the rounds, my thigh grazing his at dinner.
We’re just developing a comfort level, I tell myself. That’s bound to happen. Par for the fake relationship course.
“Mind if I go smoke a cigar with the guys?” Charlie asks, as the lights of the city twinkle around us.
“Please, get that thing far away from me.” I wrinkle my lip. “Although, sure you won’t need any papaya help?”
He smirks. “I think I’m safe in this group.”
“Just checking,” I grin.
He heads off with the guys, and I drift over to a quiet spot at the back of the boat. Someone’s left a tray of macarons abandoned, and I happily grab one to enjoy as I take in the view.
At least, that’s the plan, but as soon as I take a bite, I spit it out overboard in surprised disgust.
I hear a laugh from further down the deck. It’s a beautiful older woman, wrapped in a shawl with silver hair swept into a chignon.
“Sorry,” I blurt, flushing. “I have good manners, I swear.”
“No need to apologize,” she grins. “I did the exact same thing not five minutes ago.”
“I guess there’s a reason they were abandoned there to die.” I note, smiling.
“Indeed. Katherine Vanderberg.” She moves closer, introducing herself.
“Grace Sommerville.” I nod at her highball glass. “Gin rickey? Good taste.”
“Good eye,” Katherine counters. “Are you a guest of the bride or the groom?”
“I’m a plus-one. What about you?”
