Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Mother?” Delaney whispers under her breath beside me.
Shit.
CHAPTER 18
Delaney
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
Hands clasped on my clutch in front of me and not on her son. And just when things were getting good, too . . . his mother arrives to complicate our lives. As if they weren’t already. I almost giggle, but I hold it in.
He kisses her cheek and returns to stand next to me. “How are you, Mother?”
“Why do you have a black eye, Warner?” No hello. No how are you back. Not even the cliché answer of fine.
“Bar fight.”
“What?”
“I’m kidding, Mother. Long story. I’ll tell you about it later. It’s been a while.”
As if nothing prior matters, she says, “Kaley Wrennick has made a disaster of the Upper East Side Social this year, but who am I to complain? The committee put us out to pasture after last year’s event when they handed the reins to the ‘next generation,’ as they called it. All of us were shocked and insulted, to say the least. Darly Scoffield and I started that event. A little respect would have been nice.”
I stare at his mother in shock as she takes only one breath during that entire diatribe. Similar blue eyes, a bit darker than his, and her platinum blond hair, though not natural, look nice against her golden skin tone. She’s very pretty, but that doesn’t surprise me since anyone with eyes and ovaries would be attracted to the man next to me. He’s gorgeous and had to get those genes from somewhere. I suspect his father played a role, but I’ve not seen him to know.
I bet she has a standing reservation at the club to meet the girls for a round of tennis and then drink the next round while picking at overpriced Cobb salads after flirting with the tennis instructor. Whoa! That was a lot. I’m sounding like her now. I shake myself out of that because I’m not sure Mother Landers is the woman I want to emulate.
Warner sips his drink and then grins. It’s not the smile I get, but it’s not condescending. Cordial? A smile he probably wears to exchange pleasantries. So unlike the man I’ve gotten to know. He says, “Well, I’m sure when it fails, the committee will be begging you to run it again. Otherwise, you’re doing well?”
Why does he ask questions like they’re casual acquaintances?
“I’m good.” The moment I’ve been dreading arrives. Her gaze lands on me like a ten-ton truck as she looks me over.
Two issues.
One, I’m not her daughter-in-law.
Two, we’ve never met.
So this is how the plan falls apart. This is where we come to the end of our fake relationship before it has a chance to get to the prize at the finish line. When Warner shows no intentions of introducing us, I go for it. Wrapping my arms around her like we’re best friends from the Upper East Side Social club or committee, charity, whatever it is called that she’s upset about.
Dammit. I’ve read her name in Page Six, but it escapes me when I need it most. Her body is stiff and manages to become solid as a rock as fear rounds her eyes when I lean back with my hands still holding her by the arms. “It’s so good to see you again, Mother.”
I don’t need the chuckle from the peanut gallery behind me, so I shoot Warner a look that I hope he receives loud and clear as zip it, mister.
His mom asks, “Do we know—”
Warner steps into the fray, detaching my hands from his mom, and says, “Mother, you don’t have a drink.”
“I—” That’s all she manages as her eyes stay glued to mine. “Who is that wo—”
“I need to refill my drink, too,” he adds, swooping in by wrapping his arm around hers and pulling her toward the bar. “Let’s get drinks.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Feel free to look at the art. That’s why we’re here tonight.”
His mother knocks on his cast. “Did you break your arm?”
“A car hit me. I’ll tell you all about it at the bar.” That’s the last I can hear before they blend into the crowd that’s formed near the bar. I don’t blame the people. I’d need booze too if I was always stuck going to these stuffy events. I was excited to get dressed up, but when I look around, no one seems to be having any fun. I take my glass of champagne and meander through the statues. I don’t stop. Marble and bronze statues aren’t typically the art I’m drawn to.
I wander through different exhibits, finding one of their grandest in the Egyptian wing. Continuing, I spend time looking at ancient weapons and jewelry, and paintings from France from the 1800s. I finish another glass of champagne before entering a wing and find another server happy to replace my empty glass with a brand-new one.