more things she noticed about him. Like the way he tended to draw out the O’s when he talked. Or how when he was irritated, his “yeah” got chopped to a “yeh.” She noticed how his voice sounded through the glass as she stood in the office and watched him coach Derek on the driveway. His coaching style was equal parts encouragement and exasperation, and he was in turn amused and annoyed by Derek’s utter lack of coordination.
She noticed the way he smelled. Like some lethally good combination of soap and deodorant and skin. And she noticed the way he walked. He no longer wore his splint, and he’d switched his cane to his right hand. His strides seemed easier. Less thought out. Smoother. She noticed he seemed more comfortable and that pain rarely bracketed his mouth. And she noticed that he fell asleep less during the day but that he often looked tired by the time she left at five.
All that she noticed about him, but he didn’t seem to notice much about her. Sometimes she wore clothes so bright, she thought for sure she’d get a reaction. Nothing. It was like that afternoon in his kitchen had never happened. As if he’d never touched her and kissed her and made her want more.
Yet… yet there were a few times when she thought she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes. That hot need burning just beneath the surface. That barely controlled desire, but then he’d turn away and leave her wondering if she was crazy.
Over the next month, she came to view him as something decadent. Something she craved like brownie fudge ice cream. Something bad for her, but the more she told herself she couldn’t have it, the more she seemed to crave just one bite. And just like brownie fudge ice cream, she knew that should she ever indulge, one bite would not be enough. One bite would lead to two. Two to three. Three to four, until she’d feasted on the whole thing and there was nothing left but regret and a bad stomachache.
She also knew just where she’d start feasting on Mark. Right where the collar of his T-shirts hit the base of his neck. She’d kiss the hollow of his throat just below the slight bump of his Adam’s apple.
Working for him was as hard as it was easy. She didn’t have to make sure he got invited to the right parties or arrange events as she had for her past employers. She didn’t have to call up designers and make sure he had the right clothes. He was very low-maintenance, but his very laid-back attitude was what often made him difficult.
Three days before the Stanley Cup party, he suddenly remembered that he had to buy a shirt. Chelsea drove him to Hugo Boss and sat in a chair next to the trifold mirror as he tried on several dress shirts. Since the accident, he discovered that he’d lost an inch around the neck, chest, and waist. Which meant he had to buy a new suit and have it altered by the party. He picked out a two-button wool jacket and pants of classic charcoal. To go with it, he tried two different shirts. First a charcoal and bl sharack, then a stark white.
The salesman brought him a selection of ties, and he picked out a simple blue-and-green stripe with the stark white. Chelsea watched him through the mirror as he flipped up the collar and wrapped the tie around his neck. Even though he’d regained a lot of the dexterity in his fingers, his stiff middle finger kept getting in the way.
“Shit,” he swore after the third attempt.
Chelsea stood and moved in front of him. “Let me,” she said, and pushed his hands aside. The backs of her knuckles brushed against the thick broadcloth of his shirt as she adjusted the length.
“You’ve done this before?”
She nodded and concentrated on the silk fabric in her hands instead of on his mouth just inches from her forehead. “A million times.” She crossed the wide end over the narrow and wrapped it twice. “Half Windsor or full?”
He shook his head. “Whatever.”
“I like the half. It’s less bulky.” He smelled wonderful, and she wondered what he would do if she tilted her face up just a bit. Her fingers brushed his chest and her thumb touched his throat and she thought about rising onto her toes and kissing his warm skin. If she undid all those buttons and slid her hands all over his bare chest… Of course she would never do it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said just above a whisper. “Or I swear I’ll push you against the wall and have sex with you right here.”
She raised her gaze up his throat and mouth to the stormy anger in his eyes. “What?”
He knocked her hands away. “Forget it.” He grabbed one end of the tie and pulled it from his neck.
He was clearly mad about something she’d done. Wisely, she moved away and waited for him at the counter, where he dropped more than three thousand dollars on a suit, two dress shirts, and a tie.
On the ride to Mark’s house, an awkward silence filled the car. At least it was awkward for Chelsea, and she left work early. When Bo got home that night, the sisters looked in Chelsea’s closet for dresses to wear to the Stanley Cup party. Chelsea didn’t have three thousand dollars to blow on clothes, but she did own a small but impressive selection of designers.
After thirty minutes of indecision, Bo reached for the black Donna Karan stretch taffeta. It had a bow sash and a deep V in the back, and Chelsea had worn it to an Oscar party in Holmby Hills three years ago. Of course it fit Bo perfectly, and she looked wonderful in it.
Chelsea didn’t have to think about which dress she’d wear. Last year she’d found a Herve Leger beige sheath at a consignment store. It was made of rayon and spandex, with gold jeweled straps. She’d never had the chance to wear it, until now.
The day of the cup party, the twins pampered themselves. Chelsea had the hot reddish-pink low-lights taken out and her hair dyed a nice summer blond. She had her hair straightened while Bo got hers curled. Together they got their fingers and toes done at a local day spa. Chelsea had learned a long time ago that one of the best and most inexpensive places to get her makeup professionally applied was at a makeup counter. The twins ser.drove to the mall in Bellevue, and Chelsea got her face done at MAC while Bo chose Bobbi Brown.
The last time Chelsea had had so much fun with Bo had been the night of their senior prom. The dance had ended in disaster with their dates deciding that they wanted to switch twins, but she and Bo had had a great time until that point.
“Your boobs look huge in that dress,” Bo said as she slid her feet into a pair of red pumps and sat on the bed.
“My boobs are huge. So are yours.” Chelsea turned sideways and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress wasn’t her usual style. It hugged her like a second skin, and the color was very sedate.
“Can you sit down in that thing?”
“Of course.” She slipped her feet into a pair of jeweled sandals with five-inch heels and sat next to Bo to buckle the straps around her ankles. That morning she’d called a plastic surgeon and made an appointment to talk to him. She’d been waiting for the right moment to tell Bo. They’d been having such a good time, she figured now was as good a time as any. “I’m going to use the money I get from the Chinook organization to have breast reduction surgery,” she blurted.
“Shut up.”
She looked up, then returned her attention to her shoes. “I’m serious.”
“Why would you do something so horrible to your body?”
“It’s not like I’m cutting them off. Haven’t you ever wanted smaller breasts?”
Bo shook her head. “Not enough to mutilate myself.”
“It’s not mutilation.”
Bo stood. “Why do you always have to be different?”
“I’m not doing it to be different. I want to do it so that I’m not fifty and slumped over like Mom.” She finished with her shoes and rose to her feet. “I’m having a consultation with a local plastic surgeon week after next. I want you to go with me.”
“I won’t support you this time.” Bo shook her head. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”
Chelsea grabbed her beaded clutch off the dresser. The one person in the world who should understand and support her decision, didn’t. The only other person in the world who’d seemed to understand, currently wasn’t talking to her at all.
* * *
The Sycamore Room inside the Four Seasons glowed with golden candlelight. Gold tablecloths and fine white china adorned round tables with centerpieces made of exotic flowers. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkled, and scattered lights shone like diamonds on Elliot Bay.
