Perfect (Holt Brothers Book 1)

by Leila Lucas

  C: YAAAYYY!!!

  D: Thank you, couldn’t have done it without you

  C: Anytime

  D: Really? Because I have another paper due next month :P

  C: Really, really.

  D: I owe you!

  C: You can proofread my book in return ;)

  D: Don’t think I’d be any help with that but I can buy you breakfast

  C: Sounds good :)

  Not that I wouldn’t want to help her with her book, but somehow I think she has no issues with perfecting her own work. I get in the car and go toward the mall. First stop, book store. Not going to lie, I don’t think I’ve ever been in the book store, just the library when I really had to for school work but even then, that was B.G. - Before Google.

  I walk in and don’t know which area to head to first. Books everywhere. Don’t know what I expected, this being an actual book store, but really… just so many books. I must look like a lost idiot standing at the entrance for way too long because a younger girl approaches me.

  “Can I help you with anything?” She smiles up at me. She’s tiny and looks to be around fifteen years old.

  “I hope so. If I tell you the author’s name is that enough information? I don’t know the titles.”

  “Yes, just come to the counter and I’ll search the system.” She walks off and I follow her to the computer.

  “Okay, so who are we looking for?” She moves her glasses back up her nose.

  “Chloe Jennings.”

  “Chloe Jennings?” She lets out a little laugh.

  “Uh… yeah.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  “You’re not going to check the computer?” I walk a little faster to keep up with her and she starts turning toward some shelves.

  “I know where it is. Big fan.” She stops and runs her finger across a row of books.

  “Here you go. Mistaken and Lost are the only two we have in stock at the moment. Plus, there’s a new one coming out in a couple of months.” She hands me the books. One is a pink book with a blond girl’s profile on the cover. The other is plain gray with the title in the middle. Both have Chloe Jennings written in gold down the bottom.

  “I’ll take them.”

  She looks at me skeptically but walks back toward the counter.

  “Are these a gift?” She points to the left where there’s a roll of wrapping paper and ribbon.

  “Uhh… no, it’s for me.”

  “Oh.” She puts the books in a bag and takes the money I hand her.

  “Don’t look like the young adult romance type of guy.”

  I just realized how stupid I look buying this for myself. Why the fuck didn’t you just say it’s a gift? It’s not that difficult to unwrap a book!

  “She’s a friend of mine.” I tilt my head toward the book. “It’s my duty as her friend to read her books, right?”

  “You know her?” She widens her eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  “I love her! You’re so lucky to know her,” she squeals.

  I sure am, kid.

  Chapter Seven

  CHLOE

  “Hey, baby.” I get wrapped up in a huge hug. Between the scent of my mom’s hairspray and strong perfume I’m struggling to breathe.

  “What brings you here?” I pull away. Not that I don’t love seeing my mom, but surprise visits aren’t usually fun because I know there’s a reason behind them. And her visiting me means that it’s something she won’t be able to convince me to do over the phone.

  “Derek is on a business trip in the city, so I came with him to see you for the day, and I got you these.” She lifts up two shopping bags. She definitely needs something. Sadly it’s not surprising that my mom is only here because her husband is in town.

  “Let’s do lunch! Get dressed. I got the cab waiting outside.” She twirls her index finger at my outfit. I guess where we are going jeans and a button-up top aren’t good enough. “Wear these.” She shoves one of the bags in my hands.

  I may not agree with my mom’s obsession with money and shopping, but I’m hardly going to complain about getting these Dolce & Gabbana heels. I pair the black and white polka dot shoes with straight black pants and tuck in the white button-up I was already wearing. Quickly grabbing my clutch off my dresser, I pack my keys, lip balm, and phone in there and head out the door with her.

  * * *

  “Is there a boy in the picture?” She winks.

  “No, Mom.” I don’t know how we went from talking about her throwing her first charity function to me not having a boyfriend.

  “You know, a lot of the donors who can’t attend send their oldest child on their behalf.”

  Here we go.

  “That’s fascinating, Mom,” I say flatly.

  “Most of them are men, your age.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Very wealthy.”

  “Well, their daddies are,” I correct her.

  “And who do you think takes over those giant companies?”

  I shrug.

  “They do, Chloe. Most of them are barely thirty before they take over huge multimillion-dollar companies. Still good-looking and rich. And all those men need a beautiful wife.” She takes a sip out of her wine glass.

  Yeah, beautiful wives who turn a blind eye to all the extra marital affairs.

  Okay, so I’m stereotyping wives of the rich, but I have no interest in being someone’s trophy wife. I’m all for women, like my mom, who find happiness in being married to someone for the events and lavish lifestyle, but it’s not something I could do. I’m a romance writer. I need the wooing, the silly romantic gestures and having Netflix marathons while cuddling on the couch together. Is it possible to have all that with an older guy who runs a huge company? Sure. Is it likely? Not so much.

  “Mom,” I warn her nicely to stop pushing.

  “Just come to the event next week, Chloe. It’s my first time hosting and there’s a lot of pressure. Please. After everything I’ve supported you with!”

  I almost choke on my food. I think we both have a totally different recollection of my childhood. I was always that kid whose mom wasn’t in the audience during school plays, while all the other proud parents were grinning from ear to ear with a camera in front of their faces. As I got older I stopped really caring if she was around, but I still feel sad for little Chloe standing on the stage looking for her mom in the crowd.

  “Fine.” I sigh. It’s easier to give in sometimes.

  “Perfect, let me add you to the guest list.” She pulls out her iPad and types in something.

  “No setups, Mom.”

  “Oh come on, Chloe, you never know who you’ll meet.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, fine, have it your way. But I’m choosing your dress.”

  I nod. Of course you are.

  God forbid Chloe Jennings, the daughter of the beautiful and stylish Miranda Jennings isn’t wearing the most astonishing attention seeking dress in the world. I always had the most amazing clothes as a teenager to keep up with her reputation. It was never anything inappropriate. She always drew the line at showing too much skin a-la the Britney Spears midriff style. I did manage to sneak in a bellybutton piercing, getting it done with a fake I.D., which I took out a few months later when she found out.

  We stop by a few department stores after lunch and I spend about an hour in each one in the change room having beautiful designer gowns thrown at me to try on. I lost count after dress number twenty-two.

  “I like this one.” I come out in a light blue flowing chiffon dress.

  “Sweetheart, you’re not going to the prom. This is a black tie event.” She shoos me back into the changing room.

  “It’s too cute for a grown woman.” It’s still perfectly acceptable for me to wear a Barbie pink dress.

  “It covers too much.” That’s why I like it.

  “Makes you look too flat.” I am flat.

  “Makes you look too old.” Makes me look like a woman who isn’t
being pimped out by her mom to lonely rich men.

  That’s all I’ve been hearing whenever I exit the changing room. Granted she was right sometimes, but this dress thing is getting boring really fast and I’m starting to regret agreeing to go.

  I go back in and try the last dress hanging on the rack. It’s a red strapless Herve Ledger mermaid gown. It’s so tight it takes me five minutes to wriggle into it without ripping it or tripping over my own feet.

  “Zip me up.” I come back out, holding the top part of the dress up.

  I face the mirror while Mom zips the dress up. “Can we have some towering heels over here, in a thirty-five, please?” she yells out to the sales assistant.

  I left this dress last because she loves it and I want to hate it, but I can’t. It’s tight enough to suck in all the jiggly bits but allows me to breathe and move around. The sales assistant runs in with enormous platform heels and I hold my dress up while Mom adjust the straps around my ankle.

  “What do you think?” She stands behind me, crossing her arms with a smirk on her face. She knows I like it and that she won this round.

  “It’s okay.” I shrug.

  She just stares at me in the mirror with a tell me I’m right look.

  “Okay, fine. It’s stunning.”

  “Told youuu,” she sings and unzips me.

  By the time I come out in my normal clothes, she’s already holding two shopping bags in her hand.

  “I’ll book hair, makeup, and nails on the day for us both. And I’ll book your flight to L.A. for Thursday.”

  “I thought the event was on Saturday?”

  “It is, but you need to be well rested.”

  Who needs an entire day of rest before a party? You’d think it’s my wedding day.

  “I’ll book my own flight for Thursday. Thank you for the outfit.” Spending a few days with my mom isn’t the worst thing in the world. We are complete opposites, but she’s still my mom and it’s nice to be around her every now and then.

  * * *

  “So what do you do?” the suited up snob my mom seated me next to asks.

  With piercing blue eyes and dark hair you wouldn’t really classify him as bad-looking. But he has the personality of a potato, so there’s zero attraction on my side. Everyone else at the table is paired up as a couple, aside from us two. He’s clearly informed of the setup because the first thing he did when I shook his hand and introduced myself was shamelessly stare at my chest. I gave him a chance thinking that maybe he’s just as much of a victim in this little matchmaking scheme as I am, but turns out he’s all for it.

  “I’m a writer,” I reply.

  “For who?”

  “Myself.”

  “Freelance?”

  “I write books.”

  “Oh.” He takes a sip and starts talking about himself again.

  My job isn’t particularly fascinating, but this guy can’t hold a conversation. I’ve just spent the first hour listening to him go on and on about how amazing he is at his job. I wonder if he even remembers my name.

  I hear my phone buzz in my clutch and take it out even though Greg is still talking. Normally I’m against being on the phone during a conversation, but I zoned out a long time ago.

  Vikki: How’s the night going so far? Found a husband yet? ;)

  C: No! Mr. Harvard next to me is putting me to sleep

  V: Would I like him?

  C: He’s like 5’4

  V: I’ll pass thanks

  I put my phone away and look up at Greg, who is still talking. Typical narcissist wasn’t even fazed that I wasn’t listening to him.

  My phone buzzes again.

  V: Send me a selfie

  C: Why?

  V: I wanna see your dress

  C: I showed you yesterday

  V: Not of you wearing it!

  C: Ok give me a sec to get away from the douche-canoe

  I excuse myself and slowly walk to the fancy restrooms. It’s really difficult looking graceful in a floor-length gown with platform heels underneath. Thankfully the restrooms weren’t far and I managed not to fall over and embarrass myself in front of all these people.

  Fortunately for me some interior designers are thoughtful enough to put a full-size mirror in a bathroom. I take a quick look to make sure I’m alone, place my clutch on the edge of the basin, pull my dress up a little so my strapless bra isn’t showing, and take a picture before anyone walks in. I make sure it looks okay and send it to Vikki.

  I manage to take three steps out of the restroom before my mom and two other women approach me.

  “There you are! I went looking for you, but Gregory said he didn’t know where you disappeared off to.”

  Wow, he really didn’t listen to a word I said despite nodding when I said I was going to the restrooms to touch up my lipstick.

  “This is Cecilia.” She puts her arm around an older woman “And this is Lydia, her daughter. Their family owns the Longate Hotels.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Chloe.” I shake both of their hands.

  “We’ve heard so much about you. Such a lovely young lady. That Gregory is a fine young man, too.” Cecilia smiles as her daughter rolls her eyes. I must not be the only one who had the pleasure of meeting Gregory. I make a little more small-talk with the guests before excusing myself to go back to my unofficial date for the night.

  Greg is too busy eating and talking to the perfect looking couple sitting next to him to notice I’ve returned. I pull my phone back out so I don’t sit there awkwardly staring into space.

  D: WOW

  I look back at the last and only conversation we had and it was a month ago about his music history grade. Maybe he sent the text to the wrong person? I should just ignore it, but I would do anything to be in his company right now. I wish I had the lady-balls to ask him to be my date to this. A musician as my date to Mom’s first big event, she’d absolutely love that.

  C: Texted the wrong number? :P

  The reply comes within seconds of me sending the text.

  D: Definitely the right number. Best number I’ve seen. It’s my new favorite number.

  I snort.

  I don’t look up, so I don’t know how many people at the table heard that.

  C: Haha my entire mobile number is your favorite number?

  D: Yup.

  D: And red is my favorite color

  D: Red dresses in particular.

  D: Red lipstick is my favorite too.

  D: Curly hair hanging off to one side is my favorite hairstyle.

  D: Diamond earrings are my favorite too.

  He is describing me.

  I think.

  Did I accidentally send him my picture? I scroll up and there’s no pictures sent to his phone. I go back to my conversation with Vikki and there it is.

  Unless he’s here.

  But he can’t be. I would have seen him at some point, considering I’ve studied everyone’s face out of boredom.

  I print screen the conversation and send it to Vikki.

  C: ????

  V: Sorry! They wanted to see how hot you looked

  C: WHAT? Who’s they?

  I get a picture from Vikki. It’s a slightly dark photo, but I can make out Vikki, Jackson, Ben, Dylan, and Chester, who squeezed their heads together to be in the shot. They’re either grinning or pulling stupid faces and it makes me really wish I were with them.

  V: I’m at the Red Room. They invited me to sit with them and asked where you were and I told them. When I told them you looked hot they wanted to see.

  C: OMG you’re so embarrassing!

  V: But Dylan practically had to wipe the drool off his face ;)

  C: I’m going to kill you for this!

  V: I’ve heard that threat before and I’m still here so…

  I go back to my conversation with Dylan and reread what he wrote and get a fluttery feeling in my stomach.

  Butterflies.

  I think the last time I got butterflies in m
y stomach was when Andrew gave me a Valentine’s Day card in sixth grade. He did give one to all the girls in our class, but mine was the prettiest because it had glitter all over it. But I loved him since he moved to the school in the fourth grade, even though I hadn’t spoken a word to him.

  But here I am, ten years later, and the same fluttery feeling and big stupid grin on my face all because a boy said he liked my dress.

  D: Don’t kill Vikki. We asked for the photo

  C: I’ll try to spare her life. Can’t make any promises though

  D: Well if she ends up missing or dead when you return I’m taking these texts to the police as evidence

  C: Snitch!

  D: But I’ll visit you in prison

  C: Oh thanks, so generous of you after you put me there in the first place.

  D: I’ll help you escape once I’ve watched the Prison Break series and figure out how to do it.

  C: You got this all planned out

  D: What can I say? I’m a man of many talents

  C: I can see that

  D: You do look beautiful though. I almost don’t regret putting Vikki in danger

  C: Thank you :)

  Damn it, he’s so cute.

  I reread our messages quickly before putting my phone back in my clutch and start eating the salmon the waiter placed in front of me. Normally I pick something like a really creamy pasta, but I don’t know if this dress can handle any bloating before it rips at the seams.

  “Wish I could make you smile like that,” Greg says as I still avoid eye contact.

  How do I respond to this? I’m sorry, staring at my boobs while you talk about yourself doesn’t make me smile? But I have to be polite. The night is almost over and I get to go home tomorrow, so I just change the subject and ask him about his ambitions and that did it. Too bad I had to listen to that for the rest of the night, but the event was over, Mom was happy, and I got to go back to my hotel room.