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"I can't," I said, with minimal coherence. "I have an event. I'm going to a benefit with my––"
The sudden absence of Brandon's mouth interrupted my train of thought. I turned to him, and the tight shake of his head informed me I shouldn't tell anyone about him.
I frowned. "My roommate. I'm going with my roommate."
Brandon gave me a contrite smile. I slipped off my stool, wandering in the direction of my bedroom, ignoring the frown behind me.
"A benefit? It wouldn't be the NECA gala, would it?" Janette was asking.
I paused with my arm braced on the doorframe. No one could say Janette didn't have intuition––just in the wrong way. She could track fancy events like a bloodhound, but had no ability to gauge the moods of her daughter.
"Yeah, that's the one," I said. "Why?"
"Well, we were invited to that by one of Maurice's business associates. So, I suppose we will see you there. What fun!"
Before I could answer, I was swept off my feet, suddenly hostage in Brandon's strong arms.
"Don't run away from me," he murmured into my ear, and then bit my earlobe with an intensity that shot right to my center. He took my mouth with a kiss that was at once tender and insistent.
"Oh! I've just had the best idea!" Janette was saying in my other ear, loud enough that Brandon could hear her. "Let's go shopping tomorrow. We'll make a girl's day of it. Get something fabulous to wear and have our hair done before the benefit. What time do you say? I'll have a car pick you up."
"Get rid of her," Brandon growled as we collapsed on my bed together, he on his back, me now sprawled over him. He kissed me again, hard and fast. "Now."
"What?"
My breath was shallow, and I could barely hear Janette's jabbering as I was once again smothered in a kiss.
With a devilish grin, Brandon snatched the phone out of my grasp. "She'll be ready at ten," he barked without breaking his gaze, and before I could say anything, had ended the call and tossed my phone onto my bedside table.
"Come here," he ordered.
And, of course, I did.
~
About twenty after ten in the morning on Saturday, a town car dropped me off in front of Swish, one of the many stores on Newbury Street that catered to Boston's elite. It was one of those stores I'd never had any reason to enter, since most things inside cost more than my rent.
Brandon had left early that morning to meet with his trainer after we had spent the night making out instead of having sex. It wasn't for lack of wanting, but I didn't press the issue, and neither did he. It was like we were content just be together, yearning somehow for a closeness that still wouldn't come.
So in the morning, Brandon left, but not before we had a minor argument about the wad of cash he'd tried to shove into my purse.
"I'm the one who wants you to come," he'd insisted over and over again. "Let me pay for your damn dress!"
"No one is going to pay for anything but me!" I'd yelled back, at one point literally throwing the bills at him in a confetti of green and white that scattered all over the living room.
Eric, of course, had walked out of his bedroom right at that moment. He had gone right back in. Brandon finally left, cash and all, muttering something about a "gorgeous, stubborn ass" that I'd chosen not to hear.
So here I was, already having decided that no matter what happened this morning, I'd go to Macy's for a reasonably priced knockoff. It was hard not to be irritated. I needed to be studying instead of playing Pretty Woman with my estranged mother.
"Courage," I muttered to myself, and walked up the steps of the brownstone building.
Swish was the kind of shop that demonstrated its affluence by having as few items of clothing as possible on display. Its merchandise was treated like art, presented one piece at a time against a minimalist decor. I stood in the entrance of the store, a bland white space that was bigger than it looked from the outside, and immediately found my mother at the far end, gabbing with the saleswoman like they were best friends.
Janette looked the same as she always had: tall and willowy, with light brown hair tied up into a tasteful chignon at the base of her neck, dressed in deceptively simple clothing made of the best possible fabrics. Today she wore a pair of white summer slacks, a navy silk tunic that had just enough design quirks to make her look more like an artist than a socialite, and enough tasteful gold jewelry at her wrists and ears to demonstrate her wealth without being gauche about it.
Despite being raised in New York (albeit on the Upper East Side), Janette looked very French. And very rich. She looked up and spotted me, raising her hand and causing the gold bangles at her wrist to fall downward with an audible clink.
"Skylar! Darling! Come here and let me see you! How long has it been, my love? Three years? Four years?"
