Fashion Jungle

by Kathy Ireland

  Several cameras flashed.

  This was the part that she was used to, people yelling her name, inquiring about what she was wearing, asking where her date was, telling her how beautiful she looked.

  Smokescreens.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, she gave a shy smile that the photographers went wild over if their cheers were anything to go by.

  The doctor slowly walked toward her then, dressed in a custom suit that looked designer, not that she was going to ask or make things weird by checking the tag of his jacket like someone’s mom.

  Whatever it was, he wore it well.

  Were his shoulders always that broad? The stitching looked hand-done. The charcoal color somehow brought out his white smile even more. And then he was standing before her.

  And she couldn’t speak.

  The world was shouting at her.

  And all she wanted was the courage to say something.

  Maybe even a warning.

  An apology?

  “You look beautiful,” he rasped in a deep voice as he leaned over and lightly kissed the air by her ear. His breath tickled her skin as he whispered, “My name’s Oliver Desmond, just in case you forgot. And, tonight, I’m officially the luckiest guy in the world.”

  He held out his elbow.

  She gaped. “You’re not nervous?”

  He gave her a funny look and then smiled. “Why would I be nervous?”

  “Because.” That was all she had. And then she laughed at herself. “Good reason, right?”

  “The best.” He let her direct them back toward the red carpet and the few stairs that led up to the Whitney Museum of American Art.

  “Who’s your date?” someone shouted.

  Brittany didn’t answer. What would she say anyway? Oh, my agent’s surgeon. I saw him in his scrubs and was forced into a date in order to get Roger out of the hospital. Isn’t he sexy? You really should see his scrubs, though…

  Oliver smiled right along with her; that same grin that had her wondering what his story was; the one that looked real in a universe full of fakes.

  By the time they made it up the short steps and into the building, she felt as if she’d just finished a five-mile jog and was getting prepared for two hours of Pilates.

  “Champagne?” A passing waiter held out a tray.

  Oliver grabbed two flutes and handed her one.

  “Thank you.” She was about to take a sip when he clinked his glass softly against hers. “You look beautiful.”

  She lifted the flute to her lips and swallowed a sip. “You already said that.”

  “And I’ll keep saying it because it’s true.” His eyes crinkled with another smile that lit up his entire face. “So, what exactly is this gala for?”

  Oh, right, she had to talk to him.

  Because he was her date.

  And talking typically took place when getting to know another human.

  She could do this.

  Focus.

  Don’t think about the past. Don’t let it define your future.

  “I actually work for Trend magazine. I’m one of the fashion editors. Part of my job is writing about fashion trends.” She smiled. “I mean, obviously.”

  “Hence, the name.” He chuckled.

  “Exactly.” She didn’t even realize they were walking, that’s how easy he was to talk to. Incredible. “And for every issue, I’m in a six-page spread, modeling the fashion trends and showing readers different ways to mix accessories and piece outfits together. It’s the best of both worlds. Though I wish—”

  “What?” He stopped walking and faced her. The sound of conversation buzzed around them, yet she felt like they were alone.

  “I don’t know what I was going to say,” she lied. She didn’t know Oliver, and she had been about to tell him something that even her closest friends didn’t know. Roger did, but her agent knew everything. Probably because she couldn’t keep anything from him, even if she tried.

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “I know you just met me, but I’m a pretty good listener. I mean, it’s probably one of my best talents outside of ping-pong.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand and laughed. “Ping-pong? Really?”

  “Doctor.” He held up one massive hand. “We’re good with our hands.”

  I bet he is…

  She felt herself blush. “Fine, but if this ends up on some gossip magazine—”

  “Right next to the ping-pong confession, you mean?”

  “Yes.” She grinned widely. “All right, so I’ve been wanting to do a monthly column on politics.”

  She waited for the laughter.

  The judgment.

  The, “Oh, honey, but you’re too pretty to think that hard.”

  She waited.

  But instead of the typical male or human response of, “Why stop doing what you do best?”

  “Look pretty.”

  He looked… impressed. “I bet you’d be incredible,” he said softly, a smile of admiration crossing his perfect features.

  She almost kissed him.

  She was already leaning in.

  She hadn’t realized that she needed someone—anyone—to tell her that she wasn’t crazy. That she was smart even though she knew it. To have someone who didn’t even know her… agree.

  Then again, he could just be trying for something physical, right?

  Wasn’t that what all guys wanted? No matter how much she tried not to judge the opposite sex based off of one horrible experience, she did. Because, in her eyes, she’d had what everyone viewed as the perfect guy—and look how that had turned out.

  Fresh guilt swept through her body as she eyed Oliver up and down, waiting for something to crack in his perfect facade before she finally mumbled, “Thank you.”

  “Why?” he countered quickly. “Politics, I mean.”

  Did he really not know? Before she could suppress it, she gave him a funny look and then bit down on her bottom lip. “Because… of my past.”

  That was all she was going to give him.

  He could Google the rest.

  “What I wouldn’t do for a computer right now.”

  “That’s what your phone is for,” she teased with a wink.

  “Not when I’m with a beautiful woman. Not when she’s telling me secrets and leaning into me like she’s wondering if she could get away with telling me one more.”

  “Maybe I was just going to fix your tie.” She arched an eyebrow.

  “Doubtful,” he rasped. “But if you want to fix my perfect tie as an excuse to get closer, you won’t find me complaining.” As if he wanted her to touch him, he quickly tugged it to the side.

  “Wow, so blatant.” She laughed, reaching her free hand up to his silk tie and pressing her fingertips against it, almost feeling the warmth of his chest seep into her palm. She wondered what it would feel like to touch his skin, to hear the sound of his heart, to see if it was racing like hers.

  He grabbed her hand, the one touching him, and he held it there, in front of everyone.

  And for once, Brittany didn’t care.

  She’d sworn she wouldn’t have another relationship in public, not again.

  And yet, she found that she was incapable of pulling away.

  “Brittany?” A cultured, feminine voice from her past pounded in her ears. “Brittany, I had no idea you’d be here!”

  Brittany dropped her hand and turned. “Mrs. Kampbell, hello.”

  Next to her, Oliver stiffened a bit as Nancy Kampbell, former First Lady of the United States gave him a once-over, nodded, and deemed him unworthy of her notice.

  “I was wondering if you would be attending. It’s such a lovely event,” Nancy said through clenched teeth as she slowly eyed Brittany’s outfit as if she’d picked it up at a yard sale for half price. It was long, painful, and familiar. It had happened at every single dinner.

  At least, he wasn’t here.

  Brittany clung to Oliver like a lifeline.

  “And you are?�
� Nancy finally turned her attention back to Oliver.

  “Dr. Oliver Desmond,” Brittany answered for him, not wanting to subject him to the questioning she knew would inevitably follow after Nancy deemed yet another human unworthy of her company. “He’s a surgeon.”

  If she were impressed, Nancy didn’t show it.

  “Mrs. Kampbell!” someone called in an excited voice as they approached.

  Brittany exhaled in relief and almost jerked Oliver into a statue as they made their hasty exit.

  But the universe was against her.

  Because she turned directly into the smell that still haunted her night and day.

  The same one she had clung to when she was alone in that hospital room with nothing but the buzz of the TV to keep her company, and a note that said everything and nothing all at once. Her dreams crushed between her sweaty hands, and a nurse telling her that God had a plan; when for the first time in Brittany’s life, she questioned it all.

  Slowly, she raised her gaze.

  “Brittany Nicole.” His voice was just like she remembered, commanding yet warm.

  It was Oliver who spoke next. “Aren’t you Ronan Kampbell?”

  “Senator,” came the correction from their left.

  Brittany didn’t look at the woman. Joy—Ronan’s wife.

  But she did stare at the five-karat diamond blinding everyone in the room. Brittany’s stomach lurched as she tried to keep her posture relaxed, and her face calm.

  “I thought you might be here.” Ronan reached, and Brittany reacted, taking a small step back, giving herself some space between his body, the memory of his smell, the thought of those hands on her. They shook hands awkwardly, and as always, he pressed his palm flat against hers for longer than a few seconds before pulling away.

  Thankfully, Oliver had his arm wrapped around her waist, making it possible for her to keep standing. Had he not been there, she probably would have face-planted against the nearest statue or, God forbid, fainted in Nancy’s arms. And the psychotic witch would have probably moved out of the way while Brittany chipped a tooth on the hard marble floor.

  That was the type of woman the former FLOTUS was.

  The type of woman Nancy Kampbell would always be.

  American royalty through and through, with blood blue enough to get away with anything and wield the control of the world with her freshly manicured hands.

  “Yes, well…” Brittany finally found her voice. “I do still work for Trend.”

  Not the best response, but also not the worst.

  Her stomach sank when Joy held out her hand. “It’s good to see you.”

  “And you.” Brittany tried for a warm smile, but the frosty woman only gave her a curious stare in return, as though she had a set number of facial expressions given by her surgeon per day and didn’t want to waste one on one of Ronan’s ex-flames.

  Imagine how she would react if she knew.

  If any of them knew.

  Ronan locked eyes with Brittany again. “How are you doing?”

  “Great.” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “And you?”

  “He’s up for re-election.” Joy patted his chest with her left hand, the one that probably needed a crane to help lift the sheer massiveness of the rock that rested on it.

  “That’s great,” Oliver said with a wide smile, saving Brittany yet again. “I’m sure it’s a very busy time for you.”

  “Very.” Joy grinned up at Ronan. “But he always makes time for his family. Don’t you?”

  “I always say my son is the best of them.” Nancy joined them again beaming, then turned her evil smile on Brittany. “Have you settled down yet, dear?”

  And there it was.

  Dear. Sweetheart. Honey. All words spoken as a way to make someone feel warm, important, unique. Nancy wielded them like weapons as a way to cut someone down. Every time she used them against Brittany, it was as if Nancy stole pieces of confidence put there by her parents. Like bricks stacked up around Brittany’s heart, Nancy took it upon herself to deconstruct them one by one. She found joy in others’ pain.

  “Not yet,” Brittany said with as much confidence as she could muster. Why couldn’t the building just burn down and save her from this conversation? Where the heck was a fire alarm when she needed one?

  “But you never know the future, do you?” Oliver beamed down at her and kissed her temple. “When you’re as beautiful as Brittany, it takes a special sort of man not to be intimidated. Not all of us can handle it.”

  She bit down on her lower lip to keep from cheering as Ronan narrowed his eyes at both of them.

  Oliver was quickly turning into one of her favorite people, all because he knew how to fight with words and secret smiles, something that Brittany had never mastered because it would be the final nail in her coffin, wouldn’t it? Sinking to their level of passive-aggressiveness.

  “Well.” Brittany smiled one last time. “It was great seeing you, all of you, and good luck with the re-election, Ro.”

  It slipped.

  His nickname.

  Nancy narrowed her eyes, while Joy looked ready to rip out Brittany’s throat with her bare hands.

  And Ronan?

  He just looked sad.

  Like he always did when surrounded by his mother; by people he allowed to control him in order for him to one day win the presidency.

  His life had been set out for him by his mom, his family, and by rules that Brittany refused to follow—because that wasn’t living.

  Funny how she shared the greatest mistake of her life with the one man who the media said was perfect.

  Then again, they said the same about her.

  They didn’t see the other side.

  The emptiness.

  The shame.

  The love shared between two people who just wanted to be seen, for once in their lives, as more than their names and faces.

  Ronan slowly nodded and then flashed her a smile, one of his real ones, not one saved for Joy or his mother, not even one he used for the cameras. “Thank you, Britt.” And her nickname, great! Maybe next time, they could try for a Guinness world record of the most awkward conversation ever! “You look great, as always.”

  Brittany smiled in return and dug her fingernails into Oliver’s arm.

  He jumped a bit as they side-stepped the growing mass of people.

  And when they turned the corner…

  Brittany grabbed one full flute of champagne.

  Downed it.

  Reached for another.

  Then finally looked up into Oliver’s questioning eyes. “So, ping-pong, let’s talk about that.”

  “Do you need me to talk about that?” he asked softly.

  Already, her eyes were filling with tears. She gave Oliver a jerky nod. “Yes. I do.”

  “It’s all in the wrist,” was his answer as he leaned down and wrapped his arms around her in a hug.

  If Oliver were ready to cut and run, he sure didn’t act like it. In fact, he walked with her, talked with complete strangers about art and his job as if he had been born to work a crowd. Brittany had always been the sort of person to feed off others’ emotions in public then go home and feel completely spent in private. She thrived on life, the energy of conversation and laughter. But behind closed doors, it took a toll. Because she couldn’t not feel.

  It was impossible.

  So, she collected emotions like a person collected shells on the seashore. She held them close and realized that maybe not all people were born with the ability to separate themselves from the world.

  And maybe that was okay. Perhaps the world needed more people to feel, even if it was painful and ugly.

  She smiled as Oliver leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You look exhausted.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “First rule of dating, you never tell a woman she looks exhausted.”

  “Still beautiful,” he added with a wide smile. “And maybe someone who didn’t have the luxury of
standing so close to you wouldn’t notice, but you’ve lost at least a half inch on that wide, bright smile of yours. Which tells me that it’s almost time to call it a night, regardless of what you say.”

  Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor by her shoes. “Um…” Did he notice that minute detail? Really?

  “Um… I’m right?” He spread his fingers where his palm rested on her lower back and brought her closer. “It’s okay to let someone take care of you.”

  No.

  It wasn’t.

  Because that meant he wanted something more from her.

  And, at some point, she would lose herself, wouldn’t she? Because she was complete crap at keeping her heart protected when it needed it the most. And this man, this very dangerous male, was a risk that she wasn’t sure she could take.

  Not with her secrets.

  Not with her past.

  How did a person even have that sort of conversation?

  She wasn’t sure.

  Because she’d never had it.

  “Fine,” she found herself saying in a confident voice. “Let me just go have a word with my editor, and then we can go do whatever surgeons do on a Friday night.”

  A suggestion of heat danced in his eyes as he offered an apologetic shrug. “Oh, we read medical journals.”

  “Ha.” She bit down on her lower lip. “Incredible how sexy that actually sounds when you say it while looking at me like that.”

  “My mouth said, ‘medical journals,’ my brain was somewhere else entirely.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “And my eyes? Well, they were too focused on you.”

  She felt a breath escape her lungs. “I can’t decide if you’re a complete manwhore with an agenda, or if you just can’t help being charming.”

  A lazy smile spread across his face. “Let’s go with charming. My mama taught me never to say whore out loud after Grandma, the one with the hearing aid, yelled about sweating like a whore in church… while in church.”

  Brittany winced.

  “Sitting in the front pew.”

  “Nice.” She burst out laughing. “So, no whoring for you.”

  “Sadly, no.” He winked. “But Grandma’s clearly all about it.”

  “Great mental picture, thanks for that.” She beamed and then grabbed his hand again as they walked through the crowd of people, all of them wanting a piece of her, all smiling with expectation and admiration.