by Remy Rose
And that someone is eyeing me up and down like I’m a hobo off the street. Gloria raises her chin and flares her nostrils like she smells something putrid. “Oh. I didn’t know Damon was bringing a guest.”
Damon’s arm wraps around my waist in a non-verbal I got this. “You remember Delaney, mother—my girlfriend? Whom you most definitely knew was coming, seeing as I specifically told you.”
Gloria fixes her icy gaze on him. “It must have slipped my mind. At any rate—let’s go into the dining room. Portia and the other guests are already here.”
Figures she’d emphasize Portia. This woman is a piece of work. I smile at her as if she’s not a total bitch. She matches the décor of her home, in a spotless white pantsuit that looks crisp and tailored, and you can bet she’d never allow a crumb or splotch or wrinkle or lint to deface it. The home is also immaculate, with an entryway about the size of my whole apartment, cathedral ceilings and enormous windows looking out onto the ocean. There is no warmth to be found, and very little color. I’m trying to picture Damon growing up here—if it looked like this when he was younger, there’s no way in hell any paw prints or pet hair would ever have been allowed. It’s a far cry from the three-bedroom Cape I grew up in, where mud and grass stains were part of the décor, where Wilder and I, our friends and two cats and dog had the run of the place.
I’m now feeling sorry about Damon’s childhood, because I don’t think he even got to have one.
We follow the hostess through the living room. I note that the coffee table is as big as my bed, but it’s the piano that catches my eye—gorgeous, black and gleaming in the corner of the room, with a vase full of white hydrangeas on top of it. Damon catches me looking at it and leans down to whisper that yes, that was the one he played.
That scene from Pretty Woman flashes across my brain, and hot damn.
Damon told me there will be six of us here tonight: Gloria, Damon, Portia, Bill (the Cavanaugh vice president whom I met at the winery), Helen (Gloria’s administrative assistant), and me. He said Bill and Helen are “good people” and that Portia was more down-to-earth than he’d anticipated. So Gloria will be the biggest challenge. Shocker.
She leads us into the dining room, and I take a quick mental snapshot. At last, there is color. The walls are a dramatic, regal purple, and the windows are softened by white swag drapes. There’s a portrait in a heavy, ornate frame commanding attention—an austere-looking, elderly man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, staring so disdainfully that it freaks me out. I hastily turn my attention to the live people in the room: the dinner guests standing around the glass-topped dining room table, holding glasses of wine and looking at Damon and me with interest.
I notice Portia first. She’s the one I’m most interested in, seeing as she’s my “competition.” She’s tall, slender and stunning, with her hair in a sleek black bun (definitely Gloria-approved), porcelain skin, luminous eyes and elegant red lips. And she’s rocking her classic black dress and tall boots. Damon didn’t do her justice with the way he described her, and I want him to know this. I look up at him with raised eyebrows and give my brightest smile, hoping he can somehow see the what the actual fuck, honey? in my eyes.
His lips twitch in amusement. He gets it, and jumps in to do the introductions. “Delaney, I’d like you to meet Portia Bellamy. She’s visiting to learn about marketing in this country.”
“And she’ll be working closely with my son,” Gloria adds, jabbing her eyes at me. “Very closely.”
“Portia, this is Delaney Brewster. My girlfriend,” Damon finishes.
I have to stifle a giggle at Gloria’s pained expression.
Portia reaches out her hand, her red lips framing dazzling white teeth. “It’s raylee lohvely to meet you, Delaney. It appears we have the same taste.”
For a second, I think she’s talking about Damon, but then I realize she means the black dress. “Oh! Yes. It’s so nice to meet you.”
And shockingly, it is. There’s an instant warmth about her, a vibe I didn’t anticipate at all. Her accent, her looks—everything about her is quite mesmerizing, and I’m rattled to realize I’m the tiniest bit concerned that Damon might be mesmerized, too.
I’ve never been to a dinner party where there’s wait staff, but a twenty-something man in a white shirt and black pants hands me a glass of white wine and smiles almost sympathetically. He apparently gets it, too.
Telling Portia we’ll talk more in a bit, Damon steers me away. Does he know I’m wondering if she’s having an effect on him? He introduces me to Helen, a sweet-looking, older woman with beautiful white hair and a kind smile, and I say hi to Bill Richardson, who bends down to give me a surprising (but not at all creepy) peck on the cheek.
I have a second glass of wine because I am at Gloria Cavanaugh’s house and more alcohol just makes sense. The nice waiter brings out trays of smoked salmon cucumber rolls, spinach and goat cheese tartlets and caviar canapes, and I have one of each except for the last, because ewww. Helen tells me she’s known Damon since he was a little boy and looks at him adoringly—like you’d hope a mom would. She asks me what I do for work, and I’m just about to answer when Gloria swoops in, like a giant white hawk in heels.
“She works in a machine shop,” she says, triumph emanating from her like perfume.
“I’m in sales and customer service,” I tell Helen sweetly, without a glance at Gloria.
Damon chimes in, putting his arm around my shoulders. “She’ll continue that role, but at her new café. Delaney is opening up her own business.”
Ugh. I don’t know if divulging this is such a good idea. Gloria pounces on that news like it’s a mouse in her talons. “Really? That sounds like an expensive proposition for someone working in a machine shop.”
“I’ve been saving,” I tell her. “For a long time.”
Portia looks genuinely happy for me. “Your very own café? That’s appsolutely brilliant, Delaney.”
Gloria clearly doesn’t like that this convo has turned in my favor. She tells everyone that dinner is almost ready, and we take our seats in the white leather chairs. She has Damon sit in between Portia and me, which the wine and I find highly amusing. I notice the portrait of the haughty-looking older man again and whisper to Damon.
“That painting is looking at me.”
“It’s my great-great grandfather, and he looks at everyone that way. Don’t think you’re special.” He pauses to murmur in my ear. “Just kidding. You are.”
Suddenly, I feel his warm hand on my bare knee under the table, and I have to smother a gasp as my body reacts to his touch. This is so not the time to be getting horny, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Damon can make me feel all kinds of things in all kinds of situations.
We eat—crab-stuffed chicken breasts, asparagus cordon bleu, roasted red potatoes and pesto bread—and Portia quite honestly steals the show. She is funny and charming, and Damon talks and jokes easily with her. Everyone seems to adore her British accent, Bill gets a kick out of her calling him mate, and we’re all laughing when she describes the disastrous party she once threw as a “damp squib.” It truthfully would be a very enjoyable night if Damon’s mother didn’t look like she wanted to impale me with her salad fork.
After a dessert of what I learn is called Merlot-poached pears, I’m completely stuffed and relieved that I made it through dinner intact. Helen and Bill say their goodbyes and leave; Portia jokes about getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road and tells Gloria she’s chuffed to bits about the Mercedes. Damon gets her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. I know Gloria is watching me watching this, so I make sure to keep smiling.
Damon gets our coats, helps me on with mine and gives his mother a quick kiss on each cheek. I am struck by how sad this makes me, because there is no emotion from either side—this is clearly a duty rather than a show of affection. He thanks her, stiffly, and I thank her as much as you can thank someone who did her best to make you feel lik
e shit.
And then we’re in the car, alone, driving back to my apartment.
Damon expels a long sigh. “Well. We made it.”
“Yes, barely.”
“I’m sorry she’s such a bitch.”
“It’s not your fault. And besides, you’re paying me well.” I look at the side of his face. He looks serene. And sculpted and gorgeous. “I liked Portia,” I continue. “She’s not at all like I thought she would be.”
“Same here.”
“You know...maybe you should think about giving her a try. It would save you a lot of stress. And money, actually, because you could take back the building and sell it.”
“It’s your building. And more importantly, I’m not interested in Portia that way.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure that a part of you was interested.”
He glances over at me, his eyes widening in delight. “You’re jealous.”
“I am absolutely not jealous.”
“You are. You’re practically the color of Astroturf. And are you saying that you were staring at my crotch?”
“I may or may not have glanced at it.”
“If there was a reaction, I get that way in the presence of beautiful women.”
“She is very beautiful.”
“I’m not talking about Portia.” He puts his blinker on, and all of a sudden we are pulling off to the side of the road and slowing to a stop.
“Why are you—” Before I can say any more, he’s whipped off his seat belt, turned his body toward mine and is cupping my face in his hands. My mouth is conveniently open when he puts his lips on it, and then he is kissing and kissing me until I am practically gasping for air. And for more of him.
Much too soon, he pulls back, his eyes looking deep into mine. His voice is soft when he speaks, and I cannot breathe. “That’s just so you’ll remember you’re the one I’m faking crazy about.”
chapter 15 / Damon
I look up from the conference table to find Eva the intern staring at me. She’s sitting in on my impromptu Marketing 101 course with Portia and snakes out her tongue, running it suggestively around her lips. Jesus. I give her a smile that I hope conveys friendship, not flirting. I honestly feel like an idiot for getting involved with her in the first place—workplace hookups are usually a lousy idea. Her last day is tomorrow, and Helen’s putting together a little goodbye breakfast like we do with all our interns.
Portia, who’s sitting to my right, flicks her eyes from Eva to me, her face registering knowing amusement. She’s sharp, this one—reads people well and also has been asking some great questions about the business. I guess she could be considered an intern, but unlike Eva, if she’s attracted to me, she’s keeping a lid on it. All our interactions continue to be friendly and professional. Which kind of makes me respect her more.
“So to recap...we’ve found that participating in boat shows across the country gives us our best return on investment.”
Portia looks down at the sheets of graphs Eva printed for us, nodding. “We have a different dynamic in our smaller country and have to work within the European Union to find prospective buyers in the Mediterranean, coast of France, and Spain.”
“Do any of those countries in the EU have boat shows or conferences Bellamy could participate in? We find them to be very effective.”
“I could find out. And perhaps get them stahted, if not.”
There’s a knock on the door, and Jocelyn from accounting steps in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need approval for an entertainment expense for Zach...he took Warren from Morrow Yacht to a Red Sox game, and it exceeds our usual policy limit.”
I take the paper she hands me and sign it. “Thanks, Joss.”
“Anytime, Damon.” She throws me a smile over her shoulder as she leaves.
“My, my, you appear to be quite pope-ulah, Mr. Cavanaugh.” Portia raises a dark eyebrow and folds her arms across her chest.
“Everybody’s nice to the boss,” I grin.
“Mmm, it’s more than that, love. Everybohdy fancies the boss.”
Is she including herself in that group? The door opens again, and Gloria sails in, all smiles seeing Portia and me sitting together.
“Well. What a striking-looking couple the two of you make.”
Oh Christ, Mother. Really? I’m cringing inside as I give Portia an apologetic glance.
She doesn’t seem fazed. “So sweet of you, Gloria, but I think it’s Damon and Delaney who are striking with their similar coloring.”
My mother smiles frostily. “Two blonds don’t make a right, dear.”
“That’s enough, Gloria.” My words are sharp, biting, surprising both my mother and me. But it’s a hell of a lot better than the fuck off which was ready to roll off my tongue.
Portia quickly stands up, smoothing her red skirt. “If you two will excuse me, I need to use the loo. Be back in just a few moments.”
After she’s out of the room, my mother fixes an icy glare on me and hisses. She looks like a cobra ready to strike, except more venomous. “I’ll thank you to respect me, Damon, especially in front of a foreign guest whom you are supposed to be building a relationship with.”
“And I’ll thank you to respect me as well, including my personal life. The only relationship I’m building with Portia is a business one. As you’re fully aware, I’m already involved with someone else.”
“You expect me to believe that Rosie the Riveter is your girlfriend? Dear God, Damon, how daft do you think I am?”
“Believe what you will. It doesn’t matter.”
“If you and Delaney are so involved—” (she makes air quotes) “—then why aren’t you living together? That’s what young couples seem to be doing today.”
I grab the first thing I can think of. “Her mother is religious. Almost a fanatic, actually, so we’re waiting on that.”
“How charming that you’re respecting her mother’s wishes but not the wishes of your own.” She studies me intently. “But you do spend the night together? Like a real couple would?”
Why the fuck is she asking this? Is she having me followed? “Jesus, Mother. Not that it’s any of your concern, but of course we do.”
She lowers her voice to a menacing whisper. “You are an absolute fool if you don’t put the business first. The business always comes before anything else. Always.”
My mother is holding herself rigid, but I can see her earrings tremble as she stands in front of me. There are tears of rage in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
I’ve never seen her like this. Ever. My jaw drops, and she doesn’t like that she’s shocked me. I’m about to speak when she turns abruptly and leaves, taking my unanswered questions with her.
chapter 16 / Delaney
Mom and I finished up our morning of flea markets and antiquing in Searsport and came back to Ellsworth to eat lunch. My favorite finds: a marble-topped end table and an old copper coffee pot. Mom bought a couple agateware pieces to add to her collection and picked up some tiny Wades miniatures for her curio cabinet.
It’s been a good mother-daughter day, but I’m also celebrating that my closing on the building went off without a hitch yesterday. Not that I’m surprised; having my BFF involved kept me relaxed and confident about the whole thing. At lunch, I’m planning to tell Mom about that new venture. And about Damon.
We’re heading down the sidewalk toward Finn’s Irish Pub when my mother spies a bearded man in a red flannel shirt and dirty jeans, sitting on the curb in front of the restaurant and smoking a cigarette. He looks equal parts bored and pissed.
Thankfully, there aren’t many homeless people in Ellsworth, but leave it to Annie Brewster to find them. She is compassionate to a fault, and I watch in loving exasperation as she fishes in her pocket for what I know is coming.
She whispers loudly to me out of the side of her mouth. “This is why I always carry a five-dollar bill with me.”
I answer, whispering out of the side of my mouth, too
. “So you can give it to someone who’s probably going to spend it on cigarettes?”
“Laney,” she scolds me. “He could be Jesus.”
“He could be, but probably not.” Although...if Garry Marshall was playing a homeless guy in Pretty Woman, I guess anything could be possible.
She shushes me and walks over to the man, handing him the five and telling him she hoped he’d have a brighter day. He looks at her warily for a few seconds, takes the money and then says “Bless you.”
Mom turns back to me and gives me a triumphant smile.
We settle into a booth at Finn’s and order haddock sandwiches, salads and iced teas. Mom takes her phone from her purse, and I watch as a glow spreads over her face. It’s the kind of glow that a girl gets when a guy she likes has texted her.
I happen to know that glow, because I feel it whenever I get a text from Damon.
She catches me looking at her and quickly puts her phone away. “Just a text from a friend, asking about going to a movie tonight.”
I nod, but I don’t want to know any more. It’s still hard, having my parents apart.
“Did I tell you I’m going on a meditation retreat? Cecile and I are doing it. It’s in Boulder. Ten days of silent meditation.”
“Wow—that actually sounds really challenging.”
“Frankly, I’m not sure I can keep my mouth shut for ten days. But I want to try. Do some more soul-searching. My yoga instructor said it was one of the best experiences she’s ever had. And as you know, I’m all about trying new things.”
And there’s my segue. “Speaking of trying new things...I have something to share.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I break into a huge smile, like I do now whenever I talk about it. “I’m opening a café. I just closed on the building yesterday—I’ll take you to see it after lunch. It’s got an apartment above it, too. I’m actually moving out of my place tomorrow.”
