should say no. Her world and Chase’s were miles apart. She’d been a part of that world—albeit not at Chase’s high end—and had turned her back on it. But deep inside, a gentle insistent tug had started and just wouldn’t ease up.
“I’d have to get a sitter,” she warned, finally stepping down and walking over to the front door.
“Of course.”
She added, “Why are you asking me?”
“Why not?” He tempered that statement with a smile.
She swallowed. “What if I say no?”
He slid his hands into his coat pockets. “Do you want to say no?”
Maybe that manuscript wasn’t completely lost to her after all. And if one party invitation was all it took to definitively find out, then she’d consider it a good deal.
“Okay. Saturday night.”
“Great.” He reached past her for the door handle and suddenly her personal space became way too cramped. She took a step back just for the room and air to breathe easier.
Yet his perfectly handsome face, now flush with male satisfaction, made her heart pound against her ribs.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve just so she’d stop staring at him.
I blame you, Mrs. Knopf. Her ninth-grade art teacher had encouraged a healthy appreciation of a well-put-together face, of shadow, form and color and it had stuck, even though Vanessa had long since made peace with her basic art skills.
“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I thought I could just meet you there.”
“You’re not out of my way.”
I doubt it was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back. It would save on gas. She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she glanced past his shoulder. “Is it raining?”
Chase turned, his profile in stark relief against the porch light and the dark night. “It is.” He turned up his collar, dug his hands in his pockets and gave her a small smile. “Sleep well, Vanessa.”
She nodded, ostensibly crossing her arms to ward off the chill. But her goosebumping skin had more to do with the way Chase’s mouth had formed that little farewell—soft, almost intimate—followed by a small grin that had her wishing for more.
Four
The next few days passed with Vanessa occupied with her job and its familiar dramas—runny noses, sticky hands, finger painting and Bob the Builder. At night she fed, washed and cuddled Erin and Heather, steadfastly refusing to read more into Saturday night than what it was: a way to apologize for his bad behavior.
“A date?” Stella, Bright Stars’s office manager and Vanessa’s friend, had excitedly exclaimed when Vanessa finally owned up to it. “Who with? Not Juan?”
Their UPS guy? “No!” Vanessa had laughingly replied.
“One of the fathers, then. Alec Stein.” Stella clicked a button on the computer and the printer whirred into action.
“He’s happily married with three kids!”
“Tony Brassel?”
Vanessa shook her head. “Old enough to be my father.”
“Not for some of us,” Stella huffed, crossing her arms across her generous bosom. “John Bucholtz?”
“No. Look, it’s not anyone we know, all right? He’s from New York.”
“Is he rich?”
Oh, yeah. “I didn’t ask to see his bank balance, Stell.”
“Huh.” Stella turned back to the printer and bundled up the papers in the tray. Her tight black spiral curls bounced around her face, emphasizing her smooth caffe latte complexion. “Make sure you wear something nice.”
Something nice.
Hours later, after she’d put the girls to bed, she stood in front of her open wardrobe and sighed at the meager selection. Jeans, jeans, pants, jacket, shirt, shirt, shirt…
Reluctantly, her gaze made its way to the back, where a dozen sealed clothing bags hung on sturdy wooden hangers.
Dresses from another world. A world she’d decided never to set foot in again. A world that no longer held any attraction or relevance, not when she had babies to look after and her days were filled with a real job that involved real people. People who entrusted their babies to her.
She reached out, drew a finger across one hanger. It had been awkward, stepping back into the role of rich socialite in New York. Like putting on an ill-fitting outfit, something that wasn’t designed for her height, weight or coloring, then walking down Fifth Avenue and feeling millions of eyes staring at her. Did she really want to do it again?
But…
Her finger settled on the zipper and toyed with it. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that sometimes she missed wearing a pretty dress and high heels. There wasn’t much opportunity for dressing up these days. She hadn’t had anything resembling a date since before the girls were born.
Her mouth thinned. Even before then: Dylan was not a man who’d enjoyed going out in public.
She gently shook her head, scattering those thoughts. It wasn’t a date: Saturday night was her opportunity to convince Chase to sell that manuscript to her. An opportunity to use all the charm and social skills her parents had paid for. Her purpose as the daughter of Allen and Marissa Partridge had been to sway would-be clients to her parents’ practice, charm their colleagues, various political cronies, D.A.s and judges alike.
What was one more?
Ignoring a small tug of uneasiness, she pulled down the zipper with a determined swipe then yanked the cover off.
The Valentino gown sparkled under the light, the bodice of the striking tangerine halter-neck dress shot with silver thread immediately drawing the eye. She turned, pressed it up against her chest and stared at her reflection in the wardrobe door.
Orange generally clashed with red hair, but this particular shade didn’t. If anything, it picked up on her titian highlights and brought out the porcelain paleness of her skin. Her mother’s skin and hair.
She turned one way, then another. Right. Silver shoes, hoop earrings. A diamanté clutch.
She ran her eyes critically over the long pleated skirt, across the asymmetrical hem. When she finally met her gaze in the mirror, she was surprised to see a smile reflected back.
“It probably won’t fit,” she said aloud then paused to frown. A few seconds passed, then, “Well, let’s just see, shall we?”
*
