Authors: DL White
I head toward my car with no intention of speaking to him, unlock my door, climb inside, insert the key into ignition and start it up. I glance to the right, across the interior of my car to his. He's watching me.
I'm watching him watch me, somewhere between creeped out and pissed off. He pulls out his phone and I watch his fingers move across the keypad. My phone buzzes inside the pouch that is still wrapped around my arm. I pull it out and read the text message.
Preston Reid: Waiting for you to leave. Go, so I can go home.
I toss the phone into the passenger seat, put the car in reverse and back out of the spot, roll to the entrance and pull out into traffic. In my rearview mirror, I watch Preston pull out of the lot and head in the opposite direction.
We had a horrible fight. He went back to his car... and waited for me to be done with my run so he could make sure I left before he did?
Why the fuck does he care? I don't get him.
***
The engagement party looks to be a high class affair, if the line of limousines, Lincoln Town cars and other shiny luxury model vehicles lined up at the entrance gates of Vizcaya mean anything. I drive past the line and around the back of the neighborhood to the Resident entrance and use my code to open the gates, and then drive along the lonely, winding road to the house.
Spotlights sweep the sky from right to left, the beams crossing each other at regular intervals. Beaded lights line the wooden walkway from the house down to the dock. The house is lit up like Christmas. Every light in the house is on and there are people everywhere. I pull into my usual spot and press the four numbers on the security keypad that open the door at the base of the house. When it opens, I walk through the finished basement, hike up the hem of my dress and climb the steps to the main level.
I come up into the kitchen, which looks like a colony of ants hit it, if the ants were fully grown people dressed in pristine white shirts, black ties, black slacks and dress shoes. Matt is front and center in a black suit and red tie, deftly calling out orders while plating the largest shrimp I have ever seen.
"Take that tray of champagne out, Marcus. Randy, come get this shrimp and give it to Dana and then go out to the freezer and grab another bag and start plating that. Let's keep it going. I don't want to see empty trays out there."
He lifts his head and smiles in my direction. "Well hello," he says, giving me a quick head to toe once-over, then grinning. "You look great."
My dress is a mid-thigh length, backless emerald green number. It was tight when I bought it, which is why I've been out running every day. Then Preston kissed me and I couldn't eat or sleep and now it fits perfectly, hugging all the right curves and falling in all the right places.
I finished off the look with strappy sandals dyed to match and glittering gold and diamonds-in my ears, around my neck and around my wrist. I borrowed a gold sequined clutch from my mother. She can't remember where she got it or why she still has it, so she'll probably never get it back.
Matt is distracted by another member of his staff walking past him. "Kevin, the stuffed mushrooms are done. Pull them out and get them on trays and out to Dana, please. And check on drinks at the bar." His employees nod and move quickly and quietly.
"I'll let you get to work. Have you seen Morgan?"
"Living room," he says, nodding to his left, already back at work arranging another tray of shrimp.
"Thanks. Make sure you celebrate with us a little, okay?" I feel bad that we've hired him for the night when he should be at Jackie's side, sucking down champagne and cramming shrimp into his mouth.
"Oh, I will. Don't worry about me; I love this stuff." He laughs as his fingers seem to know exactly what to do to angle the bright pink tails. They're all lined up in a pretty row.
I move through the kitchen and dining room into the spacious living room. Romantic, easy listening music drifts from the surround-sound speakers. Tea light candles flicker through crystal holders, sending a fractured light show across the walls and the ceilings. Front and center is a larger-than-life replica of Nate and Morgan's engagement photo, a happy shot of them out on the boat at sunset. Morgan glows; Nate is beaming. They have their arms around each other and there's this... gaze between them. Confidence, love... satisfaction.
If someone took a photo of me today, I don't think there would be any hint of that in my life.
I'm trying not to feel jealous and empty. The more I shove the feelings down, the more they seem to seep around the edges of everything. I don't know how to achieve what Nate and Morgan have. And frankly, though I went to college and law school and got a job and I do good things, I feel like my life is off the rails. The only way I know to put it on some kind of track is... is to leave.
That fight I had with Preston has niggled at me all week, the things he said echoing in my ear.
I wake up every day thinking of a reason to keep hating him.
I wear my feelings for him on my sleeve. They are not good feelings.
I'm not happy unless I'm angry at him. This week has proven that. I've felt so empty without someone to roll my eyes at.
I've let him take up residence in my life while claiming I want him out. He's obviously not going anywhere, so I guess it's up to me. When the wedding is over and we're back from St. Lucia, I'll make my announcement to everyone. And then prepare to move on with my life.
"Hey! You look beautiful, Angie!"
I turn to greet Morgan's mother Katie. She looks the same as she always has–smooth skin, still dewy and youthful, bottle- blonde hair swept back from her face in an elegant chignon, bright whiskey-brown eyes. She and Morgan are practically twins, happy-go-lucky rays of sunshine among hardy, rough-and-tumble men. Morgan's dad, a General Contractor, is a wide, burly manly man. His sons work for him as foremen, building commercial structures like parking decks and grocery stores and office buildings.
Katie and I share a hug and some small talk. I haven't seen her since this whole wedding process began, but she seems overjoyed that Morgan and Nate are finally taking the leap. We chat for a few minutes, until she is called away. I grab a flute of champagne and take a sip, wandering the rest of the house.
Preston is here, of course. So is Troy. Both are wearing dark suits–Preston is black, Troy's is grey. Otherwise they look exactly alike: white shirts open at the collar, dark shoes and one hand shoved in a pocket, the other holding glasses brimming with amber liquid. Preston though... The hair, the goatee, the eyes, the width of his shoulders, the casual, quiet confidence of his stance. My mouth is dry, watching them across the room.
Preston has been conspicuously absent from my life. Where he would normally pepper my day with GTalk messages or random emails about arrangements, he has been silent. A few forwards have come, mostly confirmations, and I've been carbon copied along with Nate, Morgan, Jackie and Brandy.
I should be happy about his sudden disappearance. I'm puzzled that I'm not. Maybe I do miss being angry at him. I'm not out of the woods, though. Tonight is the engagement party. Then the pre-wedding festivities, and then I have to spend a week with him on an island. Plenty of opportunity for him to get under my skin.
Preston is talking, obviously telling a joke or a funny story. Troy is laughing, his cheeks full with his smile. The hero worship between the Reid Brothers has always been apparent. Over the years, I don't remember Troy ever saying anything bad about his brother. Not even when I asked him why Preston didn't get him a big fancy job at Perry. He shrugged and said, "He offered. Perry's not the firm for me."
Preston must have hit his punch line because I can hear both of them laughing over the din of people talking, music playing, dishes clacking together. Troy's gaze moves across the room as he lifts his glass. I fall right in the middle of his eye line and he freezes, lips pursed to sip. Noticing his intense stare, Preston follows Troy's gaze and I am now being ogled by both Reid brothers.
The smile disappears from Preston's face. Replacing his jovial expression is a hard stare, a crease across his forehead, a stiffening of his lips. He mutters something to Troy and turns to walk away. Troy watches him go, shaking his head.
I cross the room and clink my champagne glass with his glass. "Swell party," he says, taking a few more sips.
"It turned out really nice." I have to agree, looking around. It looks very classy. "Preston did most of the work setting this up."
Troy chuckles. "You don't have to sell him to me, Angie."
I dip my head in gratitude. "I’m just saying, you're complimenting me on this party and it wasn't my doing."
"Okay." He takes a few more sips of his drink and sighs. "You haven't talked to him lately, have you?"
I shake my head. "Busy week." And he hasn't been talking to me, which is all I've ever asked for, and don't really like.
Troy nods and says, "Mmmhmm."
"Why?" I ask, because I am curious and because Troy is being cagey. Is he trying to make me talk to Preston, or is something up?
"He's been a bear all week."
I wonder how much Troy knows. Does he know about The Kiss? Does he know about Preston admitting to me that he missed ‘us'? Does he know the real Stacey story?
"Anyway," he says with a sigh, pouring the last drop of alcohol into his mouth. "I'm going to refill. Need anything?"
I lift my still full glass of champagne as an answer. He ambles off in the direction of the bar across the room.
Throughout the night, while drinking, eating, talking, looking at pictures, laughing with my friends, I am conscious of Preston. He's always in the room, or in a spot where he can see me. He's always watching me, pretending to not be watching me. On occasion, someone will slide next to him and engage him in conversation, at which time I take the opportunity to move around, get out of his sight. But he always shows back up.
I don't know what it means. I don't know what to do about it, so I ignore him.
In each room is a round table laden with food, which Matt has kept hot, fresh and full. I grab a plate and pile on a few shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, and cheese and crackers. Jackie is next to me, filling up a plate as well.
"Do you have something to share with me?”
I glance at her, my brows knit in confusion. Has she heard about The Kiss? “No. Why?”
“Preston is lurking in the shadows of every room you're in. What's up with him?"
I shrug and bite into a piece of shrimp covered in cocktail sauce and walk away. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Preston happens to be in the room. I laugh. I don't know what game this is, but he's playing it by himself.
The volume of the music rises in the next room. I recognize the jazzy sounds of Sade,
By Your Side
and smile. I stand in the doorway so I can watch people sway to the music, the lights low, the mood romantic and sultry.
I smell him before he says anything to me... that woodsy, musky scent he always wears is a dead giveaway. "I need to talk to you."
I shake my head, vigorously, to the negative. "You've had all week... all night to talk to me. Instead you've been following me around this house like a puppy."
"And you've been leading me." He grabs the plate from my hands, sets it on a nearby table, hooks a hand in the crook of my arm and pulls me into the next room. "Dance with me. You like this song."
"Preston…"
He turns and gives me a look. "This is a happy occasion. Please don't ruin it with a scene."
I relent and let myself be guided to the dance floor. Preston pulls me into his arms, wrapping me up in high end fabric and good smelling cologne. He places a warm hand on my back. The heat radiates through me and I feel my body flush.
By instinct, and not because I want to wrap my arms around him, I lay one arm across his shoulder and a hand against his chest. His heart beats a steady thump under my palm. We begin to move in time to the music. I remember the last time I danced a slow dance with Preston, and then try to forget it, because the feelings I had for him then roll back to my memory, too. He moves fluidly, rocking with the gentle lull of a wave tossing a boat from side to side, slowly turning us in a tight circle. It's easy to close your eyes and get lost in the feeling of dancing with him. It’s hypnotic. And so…
so erotic
.
"In the spirit of us getting along," he says in my ear, "I apologize for last week, at the running trail. I was out of line."
I lift my head so I can see his eyes. His gaze gives a note of sincerity. His whole face, his countenance seems... sullen. I'm not used to seeing that in Preston.
"Thank you. I appreciate your apology. I’m sorry, too.”
“And I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the kiss.”
This time, I’m shocked. Two apologies in one night from Preston Reid? Unheard of.
“You're sorry you kissed me?"
"Didn't say that."
A petulant, frustrated huff escapes. "Then what–"
"I'm not sorry I kissed you. But it was the wrong thing to do at the time. I shouldn’t have forced myself on you."