This is why we work.
“You look ravishing,” I say, admiring her emerald-green velvet dress. Its spectacular, plunging neckline shows a delicious amount of cleavage. My cock twitches also admiring it. The rest of her dress is more conservative, having no slit and covering everything above her ankles. It does, however, show off the curves of her hips.
“Thanks,” she gives me a brief smile which dissolves back into concentration as she puts the finishing touches on the tie. “There. You look very debonair. Very sexy.”
“Good. It’s Cyrus’s tux,” I admit.
“I figured it was something like that,” she says, and I notice her blinking away the hint of watery tears.
“How are you doing? You seem incredibly stressed.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently.
“Oh, it’s my father. It’s the first Christmas since…” she trails off as her throat closes up. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Stupid, Sterling.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No!” She forces the word out. “It’s nothing to do with you. My father, he wants everything to continue like she’s still here, but he doesn’t want to take any time doing the stuff Mom used to do for this party. A couple hours ago he shoved a bunch of stuff in front of Ginny and me, and we’ve been going a million miles an hour ever since.”
“Gotcha.” It sounds like a cop out, but I don’t know what else to say.
“Let’s go in,” she says, her teeth beginning to chatter.
We hop out, and I toss my tux jacket around her shoulders. She leads me into a side entrance, which opens on the busy Windfall kitchens. We continue on through three more rooms before emerging into a long, narrow hallway with minimal decoration.
“It’s just through those doors,” she says, pointing to the end of the hallway. She slides out of my jacket and hands it back to me, then gently presses me against the wall so a servant—so quiet I hadn’t realized he was there—bearing a large silver platter of canapés can get by. “I have a couple more things I need to manage. I’ll be out as soon as humanly possible.”
Then she tucks her hands under the lapels of my tux and pulls me down for a kiss, tossing me a wink before heading back towards the kitchen.
I follow her directions. I hadn’t gone this way on the day of her mother’s funeral. Considering Windfall is the size of a castle, that’s not surprising. I don’t know just what I expect to find when I push through the door at the end of the hall, but it’s not to walk into a scene from The Great Gatsby. The atrium at Windfall is the most impressive room I’ve ever been in. Two-story, carved stone pillars support a domed roof of wooden arches, which stretch a further story into the cloudless, starry sky. The apex of the room is a wooden cupola set with gold-stained glass, and containing a well-concealed bank of lights that bounce off the mirror finish of the glass, filling the space with artificial, twinkling starlight. I’m pretty sure there is more walnut burl here than in every Jag, Rolls and Bentley ever made. Large planters the size of dinner tables hold exotic trees that twist carefully around the room like bonsai trees. Red and green festoons hang throughout, and on the floor there is a large family crest cut from shades of exotic marble, just in case anyone forgot whose house it is.
I don’t see Cyrus or Poppy—or anyone I recognize. I make my way around the room slowly, trying to avoid conversation, and check the darker corners for someone to talk to. Eventually I reach a tiered platform set in front of the outer glass wall of the atrium. Wondering what it could be, I stop to take a closer look, which turns out to be a mistake.
“Choir risers,” a man’s voice calls from just over my shoulder.
He’s about five years older than me, with a pinched, disapproving face that contradicts the fatuous smile he has tried to plaster there.
“Ah.” I say, trying to sound the right mixture of polite and disinterested.
“Malcolm MacLaine.” He offers his hand.
I take it firmly, but not crushingly. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to alienate my girlfriend’s family. “Sterling Ford.”
I watch his eyes flit back and forth, like he’s reading from some file of notable persons, and, failing to find me there, shrugs. He studies the cut of my tuxedo, then sniffs loudly and frowns slightly. That would be the mothballs. “What business are you in, Ford?”
“I’m a student,” I say evenly, glancing at him while he speaks, but otherwise continuing to scan the room.
“Business?” he asks before quickly taking another stab. “No, law. You look like a lawyer.”
“No.” I think he just insulted me, but I can’t be sure. “Undeclared major. I just started at Valmont.”
“Of course,” he says, taking one more look at my clothes and giving another small sniff. “Enjoy the party.” He catches the attention of someone else in our radius and makes a show of going to greet his old friend.
It takes maybe ten more minutes to complete my circuit of the crowded atrium, and I’m forced to repeat the same conversation I just had with a few gaffers who greet me warmly, like the son of a friend, before realizing I’m no one important and moving on. I’m just about to take out my phone and ask Cyrus where he snuck off to when I hear a rage-filled voice carrying down the corridor I used to enter the room. Another servant bearing canapés opens the door, and I hear Adair’s voice respond, too soft to make out.
“If I wanted your fucking opinion, I’d have asked for it. I don’t care what your mother did, I’m not filling these people’s gullets with Cristal. Waste of money!”
It can only be Adair’s father. What an asshole. I fight the urge to knock his head off by imagining how it would end up landing me in
