Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, running a self-conscious hand through my hair.
I’m wearing an edgy—for me—combo of a burnt orange dress shirt, navy suit pants, and a matching vest, but I’m sure I’ll still look out of place. The people emerging from the cars at the head of the line look terrifyingly trendy.
Just another reason to stay in Vermont. If there’s a place that cares less about fashion and appearances, I have yet to find it. I love that about my adopted state. I’m of the opinion that clothes should be comfortable, durable, and classic enough to stay in fashion for at least a decade. The less time I have to spend shopping or thinking about what to wear, the better.
“You’ll be fine,” Smith says. “Just find the snacks. That’s where the rest of the old people who don’t care about shaking their ass on the dance floor will be.”
I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror with a frown. “I’m not that old. Not yet.”
Smith laughs. “Mr. Gideon, you’re a fossil compared to these kids. I just saw that teen singer my granddaughter loves walk in a minute ago. Just make an appearance, let Adrian know you’re proud, and I can be back to pick you up in an hour if you want.”
“I’ll order a car,” I say, cutting him off when he tries to protest. “I insist, Smith. Go home, bring Marian some donuts, too, and have a nice weekend. I won’t need you tomorrow. Mitch is coming over to my place for a meeting, and we’re going to stick close to Union Square after.”
He grunts. “All right. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” I smile as I pull in a breath and grab my small cross-body bag from the floor. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to sneak into the restroom and freshen up before I join the party. I should have run a comb and some product through my hair at the airport, but I didn’t want to keep Smith waiting. “See you on Monday,” I say. “Have a great weekend.”
“You, too,” he says as I swing out of the car.
Instantly, the heads of the reporters covering the red carpet swivel toward me, only to swivel away again just as quickly. It’s obvious at first glance that I’m not part of the in crowd, which is fine by me.
Great, even. No one’s going to care if I bypass the red carpet and head straight to the main entrance to the hotel farther down the block.
I’m heading that way—planning to find a washroom, drop my bag with the coat check, and go looking for Adrian—when I hear my son’s laugh. I know it’s him right away. Adrian tries so hard to play it cool, but when he laughs—really laughs—it’s high-pitched and goofy and wonderful. It reminds me of when he was a toddler and I’d tickle him until he couldn’t breathe. His laugh is still exactly the same, just deeper.
I spin toward the sound, a smile on my face.
As soon as my gaze lands on Adrian, the smile falls away—fast.
Because Adrian isn’t alone. He’s with a beautiful woman in a tiny black dress, his hand resting at the small of her back as he beams at the reporter holding a microphone to his face.
The beautiful woman is gut-punching-ly familiar.
It’s Sydney.
Adrian is here with Sydney.
My throat squeezes so tight I can barely breathe, my heart slams faster, and my thoughts race in circles, determined to find another explanation as to why Adrian has his arm looped around Sydney’s waist. But then my son leans in, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to Sydney’s cheek, making her laugh and banishing the last shadow of a doubt.
Adrian is dating Sydney, my Sydney.
And I’m going to fucking throw up.
twelve
SYDNEY
As soon as Adrian waves goodbye to the reporter and we start down the final stretch of red carpet toward the ballroom entrance, the smile drops from my face.
“That’s it, buddy,” I hiss beneath my breath. “No more touchy-feely and no more sloppy kisses. We’re here as friends, remember?”
“I always sloppy kiss my friends.” He’s still grinning, clearly pleased with how the red-carpet interviews went. “I save the quality kissing for women I’m trying to get into bed.”
I roll my eyes and mime gagging.
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I was a good kisser. Admit it, you liked kissing me. Not enough to fuck me, but you liked it. I could tell.”
“Behave,” I say, pinching his arm below the sleeve of his shirt. “Or I’m out of here. I’m here as a favor to a friend not to rehash our brief romantic entanglement.”
“You’re so old-fashioned sometimes. ‘Romantic entanglement.’ That’s cute.”
“Yeah, well I’m cute.” I sniff. “That’s been established. I’m also nice. Don’t make me regret it.”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You are nice, and I appreciate you. Try to have fun tonight, okay? And come see me at the booth if you need anything. I’ll be busy once I start spinning, but I can always take a break. You know, if you need a dance lesson or someone to show you how to do a Jell-O shot.”