Actually I did. “Oh I didn’t know if that was definitely happening.”
“Yes it is. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Absolutely not.” I try to sound convincing.
“What do you like? Chicken, steak or fish?”
“I’m flexible. Anything is fine.”
“I’m going to have all three entrees available then.” Juliette whips out a cell phone the size of my head and swiftly types some sort of note to herself. Probably about the menu.
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you your first day here,” she continues. “But I’ve been planning this dinner for months.”
“It’s fine Auntie. Really. So what time is this party?” I ask with faux enthusiasm.
“It starts at seven tonight at one of my favorite restaurants,” she smiles. “Just a few family and friends.”
I pray that Roman won’t be there. While I know it’s been a hundred years, and we were just kids, my aunt is right. I’ve been known to hold a grudge. Plus I heard that the kid has only grown worse with age. I think he even did jail time. At least that’s what I overheard my father saying.
“What should I wear?”
I’d always assumed that one of the issues between my aunt and my dad had something to do with money. My parents did well, but Juliette and my uncle are loaded, and I think my dad may have a problem with it. My father comes from a long line of Philadelphia lawyers, but he is the rebel in the family. Something about not selling out his soul to the establishment, blah, blah, blah.
My father’s grandfather, father, and two brothers are all lawyers. Even Aunt Juliette graduated Villanova with a law degree, although to my knowledge she has never used it. But my father ditched law school to become our township’s sole courthouse bailiff, where he works everyday, never calls out sick, and gets an occasional thrill stopping local families from getting into fist fights. He loves it, but it isn’t exactly what my grandparents consider a profession. To them it is just a mediocre job at best, and I’m sure their disapproval has never set well with my father. No child wants to disappoint their parents.
I’m not exactly sure what Uncle Joseph does, I just know that he owns his own company and makes a shit load of money. So I’m thinking that maybe my dad and aunt were once close, and when she married my uncle, she for lack of a better term, “sold out.” I don’t know. Maybe dad just doesn’t like him and there is no real reason. I never cared enough in the past to find out the whole story. It wasn’t an issue. We never saw them, and I only spoke to Aunt Juliette at Christmas and on birthdays. Maybe I’ll find out the real story now that I live here.
“I don’t own anything remotely fancy,” I say hoping to get out of this family party. I’m exhausted and probably a little depressed.
“Anything is fine Elizabeth. It’s a private room. Just family.”
Crap to hell, I don’t want to go to this. Preparing for this move to my aunt’s house has thrown my work schedule completely off which is horrible when you’re a starving entrepreneur. I’ve decided that my plan B is going to be an attempt at landing a pitch interview with an investment group that would change everything for me. Sloan briefly dated one of the money managers of the group and promised that she could get me fifteen minutes in front of them. In order to be ready though, I need to tweak the code to the app and build my database out further. It’s important that I dot all my i’s and cross my t’s. I can’t blow this pitch. I may never get an opportunity like it again. But what am I going to tell the woman who’s opened her doors to me with no questions asked. That I don’t want to go to my uncle’s birthday dinner, because I’m an ungrateful brat?
“I look forward to it Aunt Juliette.”
“Just call me Juliette sweetie. I’m not big on formalities.”
We both silently stare at each other for an awkward moment. I’m trying to figure us out, and I think that she may be doing the same. We just don’t know each other well yet.
“All righty then.” My aunt breaks the momentary silence between us. “I’ll let you get back to it. Can I fix you anything? A sandwich? Maybe a cocktail?”
Do I seem like I need a drink? Probably. It’s weird though, having your aunt fix you a drink. Even though I’m totally legal, I would never drink with my parents. I don’t care if I’m fifty-years-old and they’re eighty-five. Not going to happen.
“I’ve got vino.” She sing songs.
Aww what the hell.
“I guess I wouldn’t mind a glass of red if you have it.”
CHAPTER NINE
ELIZABETH
THE GLASS OF SHIRAZ I practically inhaled at the house did absolutely nothing to quash my nerves. The muscles in my neck and shoulders start to tense up the moment I step into the restaurant. The delectable scents of meat, garlic, and a hot grill are wafting through the air, making my stomach rumble, and I can hear raucous laughter coming from the back. I’m entering the private room of the upscale Albright Bar & Steakhouse. The place where twenty-five family members I’ve never met are celebrating my uncle’s birthday.
“Nervous?” My aunt asks while gently rubbing my back.
“A little,” I admit. Kind of wishing she would stop touching me. It’s only making me more rattled.
That and the fact that I’m completely underdressed like I feared I would be. It is crystal clear upon first glance that the people in this room have spent what my app made over the last two months on their outfits. I should have realized what I was dealing with when I took a first look at Juliette’s outfit. She is wearing a cream-colored pair of Armani slacks and a cream boat-necked, silk shell both of which seem to skim the length of her body. Not too tight, not too baggy, and both make her look like a million bucks. Her hair is pulled back in an elegantly smooth ponytail, and she has expertly applied colors from a nude make up palette, which make her glow and her entire outfit look even more polished. Nude leather stilettos finish the ensemble.
I on the other hand am wearing a pair of tight, white skinny jeans, my “dressy” white scoop neck t-shirt, and the only pair of nice wedge sandals I own. All from Target (pronounced Tarjay with an accent thank you very much). The whole outfit probably set me back about fifty bucks, and it’s very basic, but it’s also probably the most flattering outfit I own. You don’t dress up much when you’re on the computer all day and night and you’re broke. My wardrobe consists mostly of T-shirts and yoga pants.
I’ve never really known what to do with my massive head of curly hair. I have repeatedly failed at mastering the art of blowing it out or flat ironing it properly. My mother told me the key to a perfect coif was to use the right products, but she offered very little information on what those right products might be for me. Typical of my mom. Direction without substance. So I pull it back in a semi-messy ponytail, like I do most days, and hope no one will think that I didn’t at least try.
When I enter the room with Juliette, I immediately hesitate because all eyes focus in my direction and they grow eerily quiet. I’m sure some of the silence is because Juliette has the distinct ability to command attention when she walks into a room, in addition to the fact that I’m the new girl in the family.
“Everyone this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth this is everyone.”
I can hear the joy in my aunt’s voice when she introduces me. She’s genuinely happy that I’m here, and there’s definitely something about her exuberance which saddens me, because I totally feel like I’m using her. I can see my mother’s, “I told you so” face in my head right now. I should have reached out to my aunt way before I needed something from her. I’ve lived in this same city for over five years. Whatever her issues are with my father have nothing to do with me.
A somewhat familiar looking, handsome older man, dressed in a crisp white shirt and metal gray suit steps forward. He has a head full of deep wavy dark hair, with a little salt and pepper at the temples that I can tell he must tame using a lot of product. His face is serious but his eyes are wildly expressive with lines that crinkle in the corners. He exu
des pure confidence and dominance in the room without appearing arrogant. I deduce that this man must be Juliette’s husband. The infamous Uncle Joseph.
“Hi Elizabeth. I’m Joseph.”
The room is deadly silent now. I’m unsure of why. I feel like I’m in the middle of a Godfather movie.
I smile awkwardly. “Happy Birthday Uncle Joseph.”
I extend my hand to shake his, but he moves forward bypassing my extended hand, and slowly embraces me. I can feel some tension in his body, but I’m not really clear why it’s there. Maybe because this is sort of awkward for the both of us.
“Just call me Joseph.”
I nod in agreement.
“I look forward to getting to know you.”
“Me too,” I say.
I hear some light chatter in the room begin again and when my uncle releases me, he turns to slowly and lovingly embrace my aunt.
“Thank you for this,” he says to her. Gliding a few of his knuckles down the side of her face. Staring into her eyes like she’s the only woman in the room.
“Happy Birthday, Honey.” She softly says, almost with a blush to her cheeks.
I’m not going to lie. I’m surprised by their intense affection for each other. They look like they are very much in love. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. My parents don’t look at each other this way and neither do my friends’ parents. It’s kind of nice.
As the evening continues, I meet several more of my relatives in the room and am amazed that each person seems nicer than the next. I’m tired though. Physically and mentally. It’s exhausting faking a smile and conducting idle chitchat with people you don’t know. One after the other.
I decide to excuse myself from the main room and find a restroom to give myself a break. After I pee, wash my hands, and finish talking myself into returning to the party, I decide to take the long way back to the party room and pass through a seating area where people are waiting for tables in the main dining room. I notice an unoccupied seat, so I decide to sit down for a second and text Sloan. Anything to buy me a few more minutes away from my well-intentioned but smothering new family.
Before I know it, some snot-nosed tween with freckles and a mischievous look on his face decides to race me for the seat. He swiftly brushes behind me and plops his butt in my spot. I can imagine the look on his mother’s face if I end up ass first in this kid’s lap, but it’s hard for me to stop my backward momentum. My ankle turns (thank you very much wedge sandals), and now I’m falling. I turn my body just enough, so that I’ll hopefully end up on the floor and not on top of freckle face. Although I’m betting he wouldn’t mind.
“Down goes Frazier!” The kid says gleefully as I fall right on my butt.
While I’m totally embarrassed, and paranoid because I’m wearing white and have zero idea what nastiness could be on this floor, I’m impressed that this little deviant even knows who Joe Frazier was. I’m twice this kid’s age, and the only reason I know the heavyweight fighter’s name is because he’s a Philadelphia legend and fought Muhammad Ali.
Before I can help myself up, all my spidey senses raise to a high alert.
I feel him before I can even see him.
“You all right?” A heavy voice asks me with a look of concern, but also laced with a sprinkling of what I think is laughter in his voice. I nod my head up and down like a speechless idiot while the voice pulls me up to my feet and balances me around my waist.
It’s him … in all his badass, muscular, one-dimpled splendor.
What I’m feeling right now is hard to explain. My stomach is swirling inside due to a weird brew of excitement and fear. What are the chances of me running into the same guy, in this restaurant, when I’m flat on my ass … again. Actually, scratch that. It explains everything. I have the worst luck.
“Yes thanks.” I finally say.
He begins to methodically brush my ass and the backs of my thighs off using slow broad strokes with the palm of his hand, and I’m embarrassed to admit to myself just how good it feels to have his hands on me. Especially there.
“Just getting off the dirt.” He assures me with a wink. He then turns to freckle face with a stern look on his face.
“You should always give up your seat to a lady. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that kid?”
The boy’s face drops.
“Yeah.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes sir,” he answers petulantly.
The stranger nods his head and turns back to face me. He’s still holding me loosely around the waist mind you, and I have yet to make any attempt to move from under his protection.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks.
“Ummâ”
“You having dinner with someone?” His face looks tight.
“A private party.”
“So you don’t have to get back right away then?”
“Wellâ”
“What do you drink?”
Just like outside Club Lotus, every woman in the waiting area and adjoining bar seems to be gazing at the stranger. Drooling over him. It’s actually quite interesting to watch. I had no idea that women really acted like this. It’s ridiculous. I mean I’ve gawked at a few men over the course of my travels too, but nothing as overt as how they are ogling his entire body. Flipping their hair. Licking their lips. He must be used to it though, because he barely seems to notice or care at the moment. I’m sure he can get a woman into his bed at any given time. No need to concern himself with it now.
“Red wine is fine.” I say.
I wonder if he’s surprised. Women my age don’t usually opt for wine. Most of my friends would have ordered shots or something fruity and frozen, but I grew up sneaking sips of my mom’s nightly glass of cabernet, so it is familiar to me. Something I know I can order and enjoy. Plus I’ve always thought that wine was a very classy drink to order.
I watch carefully as the stranger grabs us a high top table with two stools. I don’t like how awkwardly I’m carrying myself. Like the new kid at the lunch table looking for the right words to say. I bravely look up into his eyes thinking maybe the words will come, but now I wish I hadn’t.
“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.
“Whatâ”
“You’re in pain.” He observes.
I clamp my mouth shut. My wrist was hurting a little from trying to break my fall. Plus I’m not sure that I’m totally healed from the attack. Sometimes I wake up with aches in weird places. I must have fallen harder than I thought to the ground when I was punched in the jaw.
He pauses for a moment then grasps my arm. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”
I flinch slightly when he handles my arm. Not so much from the pain, but because I’m still skittish. When he notices my reaction, he abruptly stands and strides over to the bar to grab the bartender’s attention.
“One second Elizabeth.”
The bartender is a tall bleached blonde wearing a tight black t-shirt and leggings. Her face isn’t overtly pretty, but I can see how men would consider her attractive. She immediately flirts with my stranger, as he appears to be placing a drink order. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. They’re doing a lot of damn talking for just a simple drink order. I think what irritates me the most, is that it almost seems effortless between them. The conversation. The smiles. Her hair flipping. Her chest lifted high and forward with confidence. I have limited experience with guys; I wouldn’t know how to flirt with a guy if my life depended on it. Not like she’s doing. It’s actually pretty sad.
The flirty bartender leans over the counter and whispers something in the stranger’s ear, and he immediately looks back at me. I wonder what she’s saying? Embarrassed that I’m gawking at the two of them, I swiftly bow my head and start fiddling with my phone. Not smooth at all. I know that I’ve been caught like a kid digging up her nose. That’s why I’m startled but a little relieved when my phone actually buzzes to life. It’s a legitimate distra
ction. It’s a text from Sloan.
Sloan: Hey hooker
Me: Hey
Sloan: What’s up?
Me: You’re not going to believe this
Sloan: What!!
Me: I’m out with the family at a restaurant and HE’S here
Sloan: Who?
Me: The stranger from the club
Sloan: Oh. My. God. Is he fucking stalking you :)
Me: Did you type a smiley face bc I have a stalker?
A strange, prickly sensation flutters across the back of my neck.
Damn, he’s back already.
Me: I gotta go
Sloan: Wait we didn’tâ
I quickly put my phone to sleep, because he’s definitely back and standing very closely behind me with two glasses in his hands, along with a man in an ill-fitting oxford shirt and khakis standing next to him.
“I was just finishing a text to a friend.” I start explaining like the bumbling idiot I am. As if he cares.
“I see that.” He sits in the chair on the left side of me and hands me a glass of wine. “This is Mr. Edmonds. He’s the manager of this fine establishment.” He exaggerates the word fine as if it’s anything but.
“I heard you had a slight accident in the waiting area Missâ”
“Elizabeth.” I take a sip then set my glass down.
“Elizabeth. On behalf of management I’d like to extend my deepest apologies. It’s our fault that the area was so crowded. We have to do a better job of managing walkins and getting folks seated faster.”
I dip my head in agreement, but I honestly don’t really believe this is the restaurant’s fault. I fell down completely on my own, but I can tell by the manager’s bleak face, that he wants me to accept whatever he has prepared to say, so that he can get on with the rest of his night. He seems nervous. Perhaps because the stranger is giving him a steely look that would scare the hell out of just about anyone. So I just let poor Mr. Edmonds continue on with his totally unnecessary spiel.
“As a courtesy I’d like to cover your drinks for tonight and add a credit to your party’s bill.”
Gunslinger: A Sports Romance Page 22
