by A. D. Ryan
Her smile widens and she hops forward and kisses me hard, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing the entire length of her body against mine. This doesn’t help my resolve to get us out of my apartment in the next few minutes, but I revel in the moment for a minute as she continues to pepper my neck and face with kisses.
“I love them!” she assures me between pecks. “Thank you so much.” Sliding down the length of my body until her feet are flat on the ground again, she looks coyly over at the other three boxes, biting the outer edge of her lower lip. When she looks at me through the corner of her eye again, I see her question lingering behind that familiar glimmer, and I nod.
“They’re yours.”
Before Amelia gets the chance to throw herself at me for the second time, my phone rings again. And while I realize how ridiculous it might seem, my phone sounds oddly more impatient than the first time.
“You know, I never really pegged you for a shoe addict,” I tease, grabbing our masks from the table before we step out into the hall and lock my door behind us.
Amelia giggles, slipping her hand into mine. “And I never pegged you for a man with a foot fetish,” she throws right back.
We step into the elevator and I pull her close, our linked arms hooked behind her back as I tilt my face down to kiss her. “There are a lot of things I never pegged myself as before now, Amelia,” I whisper against her lips.
She places her free hand on the side of my face, brushing her nose against mine lightly as she struggles to keep from kissing me…okay, so it’s me who’s struggling; she seems to be completely in control. “Are you suggesting I’ve corrupted you?”
“Corrupted?” I repeat, squeezing her hand behind her back and pulling her a little closer. “Mmm, no. I wouldn’t say that.” The elevator doors open with a loud ding, and I kiss her before leading her out. “But if that’s what’s happening, I’m rather enjoying every second of it.” I laugh lightly as I lead her outside into the chilly December air, the smell of a winter rain hanging in the atmosphere.
Our driver sees us approach and is quick to open the back door to the white limo I’d booked for the evening. I allow Amelia to step in first before following her, and it isn’t long before the driver starts the car and pulls away from the curb.
When we’ve driven a couple blocks, Amelia turns to me, looking excited, but nervous. “You okay?”
Amelia smiles and nods. “Yeah. I think this is going to be a lot of fun.”
I’ve known her long enough to hear the slight hesitation in her voice, so I prod her on. “But?”
“But,” she continues, “do we tell people who I am? Do we tell them the truth and go public before we tell Dad? Or do we play the masquerade to its fullest advantage and keep my identity hidden? What if we choose the first option and Gretchen shows up?”
The questions come out quicker and quicker, and, while I know they started off as an innocent inquiry, I have no trouble sensing her rising anxiety. It’s not unusual to see her behaving this way considering how we’ve been careless and been found out on more than one occasion.
“We tell people whatever you feel comfortable telling people,” I tell her honestly. It was never my intention to have her lie tonight; tonight was supposed to be about the two of us getting out and having a good time in a public setting without the fear of being found out, and I am going to make sure that damn-well happens. “If you want to introduce yourself as Amelia, then that’s what you’re going to do. I just want us to have fun tonight.”
Amelia exhales, relaxing back against the seat and resting her head on the back, letting it fall in my direction as she smiles appreciatively. “Okay,” she agrees. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Not wanting to ignore her other fear, I give her hand a squeeze. “And if Gretchen does show up, we’ll handle it. What’s going on between us is none of her business, and I don’t plan to include her in it now.”
In addition to the conversation, we also decide to avoid any blatant acts of public affection. Dancing and hand-holding are deemed appropriate, perhaps even a kiss to the hand or cheek, but nothing that could easily get out of hand. Amelia’s worried about how this might be perceived with my divorce not being quite final, so I agree to her request.
We arrive at the banquet hall that the company had rented for the ball, and I hand Amelia her mask before slipping mine over my face. She smiles, raising her hand and tracing her fingers over it. “It’s beautiful,” she says of the hand-painted black and gold mask. “I love the music notes. It’s very you.” Between us, she raises her hand, holding her mask. “Would you mind helping me?”
Always happy to oblige, I nod. Amelia turns around and places the mask over her eyes. I reach out and take the black satin ties on either side and pull them back to fasten the mask securely. When she turns back around, and I see the mask on her for the first time, I’m completely blown away. Sure, I was skeptical that the unique mask may not conceal her identity given its thin metal construction, but it did, and the eye makeup she chose to wear really makes the blue in her eyes stand out.
I can guarantee that she’s going to be the most beautiful woman at this party, and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine.
My hunch is only proven right when we enter the grand hall and all eyes are on us. Women drop their classic masquerade masks to their sides and gawk while their husbands look on, trying to be discreet—and failing, I might add. In truth, I’m sure a part of all the ogling is due in large part to the fact that most of these people are my colleagues and recognize me while wondering who the beautiful stranger on my arm is.
As one of the hired servers walks by with a tray of champagne flutes, I grab two and offer one to Amelia.
“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip and looking around, her eyes wide and glimmering with excitement as she takes in our surroundings from the formal decor to the elaborate dresses that all of the women wore. Her smile grows wider as she admires the beauty of original architecture and elegant lighting fixtures that bathe the room in light, setting the scene for tonight’s party. There are quite a few people dancing on the floor while the others mingle all around the room or near the bar.
Now, maybe I am being a bit biased, but there isn’t a woman in this room that can hold a candle to Amelia. It would seem that most, if not all, had chosen to wear a more traditional ball gown while Amelia’s is sleek and modern, fitting her body like a glove and showing off more skin than should be legal. Perhaps this just confirms the generation gap between them and Amelia.
“Is it weird that I can totally picture everyone breaking out into Masquerade?” She looks up at me, her eyes locking with mine. She must see my confusion, because she quickly tacks on, “You know. From Phantom of the Opera?”
“Oh,” I reply, choosing not to tell her that, while I’d seen it when the latest movie first came out, I didn’t really remember it, nor stay awake through it all. I do seem to recall the scene at the masquerade ball, and, after looking around, I can see how she’d think that to be a possibility.
“Owen!” a voice booms behind us, and we wheel around to find Elliot McGrath, my business partner and friend, and his beautiful wife, Alexis, approaching. They’re both wearing basic gold masks to cover their faces, but there’s no mistaking either one of them. Elliot, for one, is extremely tall and broad-shouldered, while his wife is supermodel-esque with long blonde hair that flows down her back in waves.
Both of them glance to my left to see Amelia before looking to one another and sharing a quick look. My separation from Gretchen isn’t news to them, and Elliot knew I would be bringing someone tonight based on how many tickets I had acquired, but I could see the two of them trying to figure out who she might be.
“Hi,” Amelia says, breaking the brief silence and holding out her hand.
Elliot is the first to grab it, and he smiles. “Hello. I’m Elliot, and this is my wife, Alexis. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?” He trails off, leaving his greeting open for he
r introduction.
Instead of giving into his silent inquiry, Amelia arches an eyebrow and smiles. “Isn’t the point of a party like this for everyone to remain anonymous?” she teases.
Elliot’s laugh booms, gaining the attention of a few surrounding party-goers, and he continues to ask her question after question in hopes of learning her true identity. Elliot and Alexis have both met Alan on several occasions when he's been in the city visiting and has joined us for a few drinks. They know of Amelia, but have yet to meet her.
Naturally, Amelia does an extraordinary job of dodging Elliot's questions, giving him answers that aren't untrue, but just omit a few key details that might lead them to conclude who she is to me. This seems to be a talent of hers, as I’ve come to realize during the course of our relationship so far.
“A,” she supplies, glancing up at me with a nervous twinkle in her eye. I place my hand on her back in hopes of assuring her that I’ve got her back on this, and she continues. “My friends all call me A.”
“Friends,” Alexis pipes up, looking between the two of us and deducing our relationship. “Is that how you know each other?”
“Oh, sort of, I guess,” Amelia replies with a smirk as my thumb strokes the skin of her back above her dress. “We, uh…we go way back. Old friends, definitely.”
Seeming satiated by her introduction, they drop their interrogation, instead letting the conversation shift to Amelia complimenting Alexis’s dress and vice versa. While I'm certain we could introduce her properly to them without Alan finding out in just a few short days, I think Amelia's still a little nervous that somehow it'll get back to him. I understand her need to tell him first—I want that too—so I go along with her wishes, even if it means tonight we'd be playing an interesting game of avoidance with my colleagues.
"If you'll excuse us," I say, interrupting their conversation before Elliot can ask another question Amelia will have to dodge. Yes, she's really good at it, but I can sense it still makes her slightly uncomfortable.
Placing my hand on the small of her back, I lead Amelia toward the bar to get another drink. She orders a Grey Goose and cranberry juice while I request a glass of scotch. "I think you handled that very well," I tell her.
She giggles before taking a small drink. "He's quite curious, isn't he?"
I laugh in response. "He can be," I inform her, tipping the bartender. "Can you blame him, though? He hasn't stopped asking me questions about what's happened to make me so happy in the past few weeks. Naturally, he suspected I'd met someone, and when I failed to confirm or deny anything, he took my silence as all the confirmation he needed. And now that he's seen me with a beautiful woman on my arm," I continue, placing my hand on her hip and pulling her toward me, "well, I think it's piqued his curiosity to its limit."
"I suppose I can't fault him for that." She looks around the room again and smiles. "This really is amazing. It's like something right out of a fairytale."
Feeling particularly corny, I finish my drink and set my glass and Amelia’s on the bar top before taking her hand and pulling her toward the dance floor. "Then I think it’s my duty, as the handsome prince in this particular fairytale, to sweep you off your feet on the dance floor."
Amelia giggles as I spin her out onto the floor before we begin to sway a little more rhythmically to the live classical music filling the room. She moves gracefully, and I hold her body close to mine, my right hand resting happily on the small of her back, directly above the swell of her perfect ass. Every breath she takes has her breasts brushing against my chest, and I find myself shamelessly glancing down at them, loving how her dress fits so snug that it pushes them up and in. I want to touch them so fucking badly.
“Eyes up, Mr. Cavanaugh," she chastises playfully, the fingers of her left hand teasing the fine hairs at the nape of my neck.
My own fingers curl against the fabric of her dress as my desire for her swells by the second. "My apologies, Miss Michaels," I whisper under my breath, dropping my face next to her ear. "I just can’t help myself when you look the way you do." My lips graze the shell of her ear, and her fingers tighten in my hair while her entire body shudders in my arms.
"You sure do know how to sweet-talk the girls, don't you?"
I shake my head, spinning us once more on the dance floor. "Just you, Amelia," I respond, straightening up and staring deep into her electric blue-gray eyes.
Her lips twist up into a coy smile as her cheeks fill with color. "You're going to get so lucky tonight."
We share a few consecutive dances, and when the music shifts to something a little more upbeat, Amelia excuses herself to use the washroom. I take this opportunity to grab us a couple more drinks, and as I wait at the bar, Elliot shows up, clapping his hand down on my shoulder. He's alone, having left his wife somewhere—most likely with several of the other executives' wives.
"So," he begins, "your date seems great."
I nod in response. "She is. I really like her."
"She's younger," he states confidently. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, I think it's great. Every guy should hook up with a hot young co-ed at least once." He must interpret my look of annoyance for what it is, because his eyes widen behind his mask. "Shit. No. I didn't mean to imply that she was a passing phase…though, if she is, that's fine too." He's rambling now, and deep down, I know he didn't mean any harm with his statement, so I cut him some slack.
"Relax, Elliot. It's fine."
He breathes a sigh of relief and then arches an inquisitive eyebrow at me. "So, uh, how old is she?"
"Old enough," I reply.
"Okay," he says, drawing the word out slightly. "But how long has she been 'old enough'?" He uses his fingers to make air quotes, and I roll my eyes.
"Does it matter?"
Laughing, he shrugs. "Nah. Not really. But, like every other guy that's laid eyes on her tonight, I'm trying to live vicariously through you."
Amelia returns at just the right moment, putting an end to this awkward conversation, and I pull her close. She takes her drink from me with a smile and looks between Elliot and me. “What are you boys talking about?”
Elliot grins guiltily, and Amelia reads his expression like a book. “Ah,” she breathes, “still curious, huh?” Elliot shrugs, gaining another smile from her. “Well, I’m sure you won’t be kept wondering for too much longer.” With that, she loops her arm through mine and nods back toward the dance floor.
We leave our glasses on a nearby table—it’s possible we won’t see them again, but that’s all right; it’s an open bar—and I pull her back into my arms. The band plays another slow song, and we move smoothly, our bodies pressed close once more.
“I know we’ve only been here a couple hours,” Amelia says wistfully, “but I’m having a really good time.”
I spin her and then pull her back into my arms while she laughs. “I’m glad, because I’m also having a great time.” I release her hand for a minute while we dance to stroke her face, grazing the thin metal of her mask with the back of my finger in the process, and she licks her bottom lip. This act draws me in like a moth to a flame, but because we’d agreed to refrain from any major shows of affection that could start churning the rumor mill, I hold steady, and we make do with smoldering glances, soft caresses, and whispered signs of devotion that cause my already-heightened desire for her to mount further.
I feel like I’m on cloud nine with Amelia in my arms, and the exuberant smile on her face tells me she’s right there alongside me. Of course, harsh whispers cut through the happy haze that shrouds us, drawing our attention across the room…to where Gretchen is currently making her way through the crowd of people with me in her sights.
Or, more accurately: Amelia.
Gretchen must’ve come prepared to go unnoticed for a bit, because she’s wearing a gold gown she likely bought months ago, right before I cut off her access to my credit cards. Her face is half-hidden behind a solid black mask, and her hair is piled on top
of her head intricately. She’d be lost amongst a sea of others just like her if it weren’t for the fire in her eyes as she storms toward us.
Naturally, Amelia’s not oblivious to the impending drama, and she offers me a nervous smile, laying her right hand on my chest. “I’m going to make myself scarce. I’ll come find you in a bit.” As she walks away, she lets her hand drag across my chest, almost as though she’s staying connected to me for as long as possible before she’s forced to let go. I want to follow her, to tell her not to run away, but I decide to just deal with Gretchen before she can make an even bigger scene.
It catches me off guard a little when Gretchen doesn’t stop to confront me, but instead makes a move to follow after Amelia as she weaves between party-goers, trying to lose herself in the crowd while watching over her shoulder. I recover quickly, grabbing for Gretchen’s arm and stopping her.
Her eyes find mine, and I can see just how angry she is. It doesn’t surprise me in the least. What does surprise me is that she even has the audacity to think she’s allowed to be angry about my moving on.
“Let me go, Owen,” she seethes, trying to pull her arm free from my grasp. “You can’t stop me from finding out who she is.”
“Gretchen,” I start to say, trying to keep my voice low and calm. It wavers slightly as my irritation rears its head, but I manage to keep it at bay for the moment. “You need to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I find out who your little friend is.”
Exasperated, I lead Gretchen through the room and out onto the terrace. A few drops of rain are beginning to fall, and the night air bites at the skin on my face as I release her arm and stand between her and the door. “Gretchen, you need to let this go. How did you even get in here?”
Gretchen smirks, but only briefly before her anger resurfaces. “All I had to do was mention your name at the door. Didn’t expect to hear you’d be here with someone. The moron you have letting people in thought I was your ‘plus one.’ I came here to talk to you in a civilized manner, but when I heard you’d be here with a date…well, I got pissed off.”
