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My Lyft cruises down Beacon Street and I’m flabbergasted by the opulence and history.
“That can’t be it up there,” I say to the driver.
“Wicked,” he says in a strong accent. “Yooz going to tha part-ay?”
Several groups are walking up to the door. Everyone is dressed in suits and evening gowns.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. I’m winging it, and there’s no turning back.
I exit the car and stand on the sidewalk feeling the cool evening breeze and wishing I’d thought of a shower and change of clothes before I made my grand entrance.
I look like a schmuck and worse, I don't even know if Rylie is home. Or on a date – which would be much worse. My return flight to Hawaii is leaving in the morning. Which means I have less than eighteen hours to find Rylie and convince her that we deserve another chance.
I walk up to the front door of the Westfield residence and take a deep breath.
A short, portly man with a scowl on his face opens the door. He’s dressed in a black-on-black tuxedo, and I extend my hand.
“You must be Mr. Westfield, sir,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ethan Hayes.”
The man frowns. He’s failed to extend his hand, and I feel awkward with my outstretched hand hanging in the air, so I drop it to my side.
“Are you on the guest list?” he asks. “Mr. Westfield is at the bar. Shall I summon him?” He gives me the once over, and I realize that being dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and a leather biker jacket is a dead giveaway that I’m not an invited guest.
“I’m actually here for Rylie,” I announce. “Rylie Cole?”
He frowns again. “Is she expecting you, Mr. Hayes?”
“I…well, no, actually,” I admit. “But, if you could be so kind, perhaps you could let her know I’m here. At the door. I’ve flown a long way to see her.”
“As you wish, sir,” he says.
Then shuts the door in my face.
Fuck.
I stand alone there and the evening chill begins to get to me. Five minutes pass and I’m still not certain that Rylie is even here. Or that what I now realize was a butler is even going to inform her of my arrival.
The door opens, another man, statuesque with breeding, wearing a well-tailored suit, steps outside. He closes the door behind him.
“I’m Charles Westfield,” he says. “I understand you’re Ethan Hayes.”
“Yes,” I say extending my hand. “Major Hayes, sir. I’m just in from Hawaii. Pardon my intrusion and excuse my shambolic appearance but I need to speak to Rylie.”
He takes my hand and gives me a polite, but cold, handshake. I wait for him to say something, but he appears to be in deep thought. “I’ll announce you, Major,” he finally says to me. “But, I can’t reassure you that she'll be willing to speak to you. Please, come in.”
I follow him into his luxurious home. Shit, is this what Rylie’s become accustomed to now? He directs me to an antique chair that looks like it’ll break into pieces under my bulk. I lower myself gingerly and wait.
Voices reverberate from the party the Westfields are hosting, but nobody else comes to investigate my presence. After ten minutes of sitting in the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever experienced, metal springs poking my glute muscle, I’m restless and edgy.
Another couple of minutes pass and I hear women arguing.
I recognize Rylie’s voice and my stomach churns, with an uptick in my already pounding heart rate.
Uninvited, but drawn to track Rylie's voice, I enter the massive dining room. Every single one of the two dozen guests turns their head and stares at me.
A woman that looks enough like Rylie that I’m sure it’s her mother scowls. The guests, all dressed in suits and gowns, have either disdain or astonishment on their faces. Ya, I know I look like a fucking tramp. What on earth made me wear this bad boy jacket to come meet her parents?
Rylie, sitting beside the woman I assume is her mother, finally speaks, “Ethan, what are you doing here?” Her voice starts strong but breaks down into a tremble.
