by Audrey Storm
According to Jessica, the staff writer who was supposed to cover the party, she’d need to include the subject of designer clothes and the party planner’s budget – the ‘money’ of the mayor’s party. But Bridget also wanted to be able to slip in the amount of money raised for the charities represented, so she snapped a picture of the projected earnings on the big screen.
Putting away her phone, Bridget frowned at the time on the lock-screen. It was already nine, and if she wanted to leave at ten when Andrew came back then she was going to need to gather her intel for the article sooner rather than later.
She stood up cautiously, as if afraid that someone was going to stop her, and crossed her arms over her stomach self-consciously. No one was looking at her, thank god, but that was only because everyone was paired off in their own little social circles, laughing and chatting, obviously too busy to notice the fat girl in the room. It left Bridget standing on the outside, like always, except this time she actually needed to communicate with them.
“You’d better get two – no, make that three – interviews,” Jessica had told her, coughing into the other end of the phone as she’d taken a breath. “It really adds genuine fluff to the article. Gives you more material to work with.”
As it was, Bridget had noticed one or two designer labels, but even she knew that taking an awkward photo of someone’s shoe would never be as good as inserting a direct quote of a fashionista gushing about what she was wearing.
With a deep breath, Bridget approached the gaggle of women closest to her. “Uh, pardon me?” she said awkwardly, her notebook and pen held out before her like a shield. “I’m from Cupid’s Call, and—”
“Oh my god, CC?” a woman squealed. The others stopped talking and turned to look at her.
“Er, yes,” Bridget nodded stiffly. “I’m doing an article on the fashion worn here tonight, and—”
“I’m wearing a Hermes bracelet,” the blonde across from her proclaimed, thrusting out her wrist. “Christian Louboutin for my heels, though. Can’t beat that red stripe,” she winked.
“Please,” another scoffed. “Givenchy, boots,” she said, sticking out her foot for Bridget to see.
“I wore my Dior dress,” a brunette chimed in, putting her manicured hands on her slim hips to better outline her figure. Bridget tried to ignore the way that her own dress clung to her fat folds, and she forced a smile at the women.
“Mind if I snap a picture?” she asked hopefully, holding up her phone.
They didn’t, of course, and it was with a small wave at the group that Bridget moved on to the other side of the room. It was louder near the DJ, and Bridget found herself wandering very close to the buffet. She hadn’t eaten since noon, not that she hadn’t tried but the thought of the gala had simply made her too nervous to actually hold anything down.
One plate wouldn’t hurt.
Grabbing a dish, Bridget followed the other two stragglers who were filling up on food and quietly grabbed up a few pieces of fruit. She glanced at the meats, but decided against it and went further down, looking for some other finger food that wouldn’t leave a mess on her hands and hurt her dress if spilled.
“Who do you think you’re kidding?”
Bridget paused at the voice, and glanced behind her. A boy, maybe eighteen or so, was standing there with his arms crossed. A thin teenager was hanging off his arm, and they were both smirking at her with a smugness that just seemed to ooze out of them.
“Pardon?” Bridget asked. What could two kids possibly want with her?
“You know you want more,” the girl sniffed.
“Yeah,” the boy chuckled. “You didn’t get to be that size by eating a handful of grapes and two apples. Take more, pig.”
Pig.
Bridget tried to hide how the insult bothered her, to hold back her blush and keep the little shits from knowing just how hurtful the word was, and dissuade them from ever using it again. But Bridget had never been good at hiding her emotions, and the blush stained her cheeks all the same.
“Oh, is she embarrassed?” the boy raised an eyebrow.
“Ashamed, more like,” the girl snorted. “Showing up alone, like that. What did she expect?”
She wished that she could say that she’d been expecting the human race to just do her a general favor for the night and fuck off, but that, obviously, was not going to be the case. And hey, if she was being honest, then Bridget would admit that she had been expecting this, because, just like every other time that she’d gone out, something went wrong.
It had to have been almost been ten o’clock by then. She had half a mind to put her plate down and march out of the room, maybe lean against one of the pillars outside until Andrew showed, when a man spoke up beside her.
“Hey.”
It made her jump, and Bridget whirled around, sending one of the grapes rolling off of her plate and onto the floor. It bumped against the man’s shoe, and she felt like dying right there.
“What do you want, Robert?” the girl seethed.
“I want to know,” he said, coming up to stand beside Bridget. “Why you’re bothering this nice lady here.”
Nice lady? Bridget stole a glance up at the man’s face, and immediately took half a step back from him. He was gorgeous. Like, most handsome guy in the room, gorgeous. The man didn’t seem to notice her move away, and he simply crossed his arms as he addressed the teenagers.
“Remind me again whose party this is?” he said cockily.
“Uncle Peter’s,” the girl ground out. “But—”
“And just who is Uncle Peter, again?” he asked innocently.
“The mayor, but—”
“And just who,” he continued, pointing a thumb at Bridget. “Do you think covers his events and writes about his life as the mayor?”
“R…reporters…” the girl said slowly, and her eyes widened as she looked at Bridget again. “She’s a—”
“Whatever,” the boy muttered, grabbing the girl’s hand. “Come on, Sophie.” He led her away, and the man just shook his head as he watched them go.
“Sorry about that,” he said, stooping down to pick up the grape that’d fallen and fleck it into the trash. “My sister, Sophia. She’s usually not quite so nasty, but that boy has had a less than desirable effect on her. Kids, you know? Oh, and I’m Robert. Robert Arkell,” he said, extending a hand.
“B-Bridget Mason,” she said clumsily, shaking his hand. She wanted to thank him, to explain that she’d never had anyone stand up for her like that before, but the words seemed to be stuck in her throat.
“The writer from Cupid’s Call, right?” he said, releasing her. At Bridget’s dumbfounded look, he snickered and pointed to the girls that she’d interviewed just minutes earlier. “Word gets around. We’re actually used to seeing Jessica at these things for CC, so they were a bit surprised when you introduced yourself.”
“Jessica’s out sick,” Bridget blurted. “I was the only one available to pick up the story.”
“Ah, well,” he shrugged to himself. “Things happen. I just hope that you plan to give us the same sort of generous article that she would’ve written.”
Bridget paused, his words like poisoned darts to her chest, pinning the swirling butterflies that’d felt so free just seconds before. “I usually write articles on etiquette,” she said quietly.
“Oh, perhaps that’s why I don’t recognize your name,” he smirked. “You know, I wouldn’t mind getting to know the rest of you, too.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then Bridget was blushing even hotter than before, her face ablaze with a full-body flush. “I-I’m good,” Bridget sputtered quickly, making Robert pause in his reach for her hand.
“…Okay, then,” he said, pulling his arm back. Then, laughing awkwardly, he said, “Sorry, it’s just that women don’t usually turn me down.”
“Oh, how unfortunate for you,” Bridget said mildly, her brain muddled as her temper overtook her.
“Funny,” the man winked. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Chapter 2
It was eleven o’clock, and Andrew still wasn’t there. Bridget sighed to herself and crossed her arms in the chilly night air, her dress about as effective as a thin beach towel against the cool breeze. Checking her phone one last time, she moved to walk back inside.
The party itself was still in full swing. With over five thousand dollars raised and counting, people were drinking themselves silly while the DJ had long ditched the softer hums of violins to turn up the beats of the year’s top twenty hits. Bridget entered the gala just as quietly as she’d left it, and helped herself to a drink in an attempt to warm herself up.
“Thought you’d left.”
She glanced at the man that she’d met earlier, Robert, and shrugged. She was too tired to care about his sharp chin and soft brown eyes. “So had I.”
“Well,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “Since you’re here, can I buy you a drink?”
“…It’s an open bar,” she said, frowning. Robert just grinned and shook his head again.
“You really don’t like to play the game, do you?” he asked, sipping on a shot of whiskey.
“Game?” she repeated, accepting the rose colored drink that he ordered for her.
“You know,” he said. “Parties, small talk. Flirting.”
She choked on the strawberry taste. “Is that, uh…” she trailed off helplessly. When he just continued to look at her, a grin on his face, she gulped and asked, “Is that what we’re doing? Flirting?”
“See?” he smiled. “You’re breaking all the rules.” She stood there, transfixed, as he leisurely reached over and plucked the tiny umbrella from her glass. “You don’t ask – you just assume, and play,” he said, sucking the end of it.
Bridget would’ve laughed at him if he wasn’t being so serious. Her? A rule breaker? She took another swallow of the drink and tried to calm the pounding in her ears. “I’m not very good at games,” she admitted, staring at her drink. “At this point, I just kind of avoid them altogether.”
“Mhm,” he hummed, almost as if in agreement. “So how on earth did you end up at Cupid’s Call, then? I imagine that takes quite an awful lot of playing.”
“Oh,” Bridget laughed, closing her eyes for a moment at the memory. “I was blindly applying to places after college – I didn’t even know what Cupid was, back then. But I got the interview, and then they called me up a week later to offer me a position on their staff.”
“Huh,” Robert said, tapping his fingers against the bar. “So you got the job all on your own. No connections, no nothing?”
“Nope,” Bridget grinned. “I—”
Brrng! Brrng!
Robert raised an eyebrow. “Old-fashioned ringtone,” he commented.
“Excuse me,” Bridget said, stepping away as Pamela’s name flashed across the screen. “Hello?” she answered.
“Bridget! How’s the party?” Pamela’s words were slurred, and Bridget wondered if she’d been drinking.
“Good,” she said, moving to a quiet corner. “Uh, Andrew hasn’t called, has—”
“Oh, Andrew’s with me,” Pam laughed.
“What?” Bridget hissed. Then, louder, she said, “Pamela, he was supposed to pick me up at ten!”
“Oh, come now,” Pamela said. “Haven’t you made any friends yet? They can be sooo useful.”
“Pam,” Bridget cleared her throat, doing her best to be assertive. “You told me not to drive my truck, because you said you had a ride for me. And now you’re saying that I—”
“Bridget,” Robert put a hand on her shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Oooh, you did make a friend!” Pamela squealed. “Don’t stay out all night!”
“Wait, Pam!” But it was too late – the line was dead. “Damn it,” Bridget sighed.
“Sorry,” Robert frowned. “But what was that all about?”
“My editor,” Bridget rolled her eyes. “Look, it was nice meeting you, but I’ve got to catch a cab—”
“I can give you a ride,” Robert offered quickly.
Bridget gave him a look. “This isn’t a game, is it?” she asked him weakly.
Robert just laughed and put an arm around her shoulder. “Come on,” he said, steering her back towards the bar. “Have another drink with me.”
It was midnight by the time that the crowd started to thin. Robert was comfortably intoxicated, and Bridget had to wonder how someone could ever be so confident to get drunk with a stranger. Still, it certainly made things easier on her.
“C’mon Robert,” she said, helping the man up by the arm. “Let’s get you home.” Robert could only mumble, and she was just beginning to wonder if she should search his wallet for a number when none other but the mayor strolled up to them.
“Sorry about my brother,” he laughed with a wink. Bridget could only nod as she stared back, the drunken stain on the man’s cheek the only thing keeping her calm. “Ask for Jimmy when you get to the front,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “He’ll get you home.”
‘Home,’ as it turned out, meant Robert’s mansion.
“Where in the hell…” Bridget muttered, staring out at the estate through the car window. Robert was dozing lightly on her shoulder, and she shrugged him awake when the car stopped just outside of the stone steps leading up to marbled double doors.
“Hmm?” Robert groaned, and Bridget had to fake a smile as Jimmy opened up the door for them.
“Here we are,” he smiled.
“Uh, thanks,” Bridget said, pushing Robert towards the exit. Jimmy helped her steady him, but as soon as she was up and standing, Robert leaned against her.
“Have a good one!” Jimmy waved, sliding back into the driver’s seat.
“Oh, um, you too!” Bridget called, half-dragging Robert to the door. She was just about to knock when it swung open and a man wearing a crisp white buttoned shirt and black slacks greeted her.
“Mr. Arkell has been drinking, I take it?” he raised an eyebrow, looking Robert up and down.
“Very heavily, yes,” Bridget nodded. She passed him off to the man and stepped inside out of the cold. They worked together to get Robert up the stairs, her eyes wide as she took in the pure extravagance of the place. The three of them were even able to march shoulder to shoulder down the wide hallway, and she didn’t think much about it when she followed him into the master bedroom and maneuvered Robert onto the bed.
“Will you be staying, miss?” the man asked, and Bridget blushed at the implications there.
“Uh, actually, I—”
“Stay,” Robert sighed, his hand blindly reaching out for her.
While Bridget struggled to tell him no, the man gave a small bow and introduced himself. “My name is Hankwell, and I am the caretaker of Mr. Arkell’s estate. Don’t hesitate to contact me,” he added. It wasn’t until the door had clicked behind him that Bridget realized he’d just left her alone with Robert. In his room. Presumably for the night.
Bridget stood there for a moment, trying to process what’d just happened for her to wind up in a luxurious bedroom that was bigger than her entire apartment, with a stranger’s hand silently grasping for her as he groaned on the bed. A nice, incredibly comfortable looking bed.
She wondered, for a moment, if it were possible that she’d gotten a little tipsy, too.
“Bridget,” Robert slurred, his eyes closed as his nose scrunched up in frustration. “Hey. Bri-idget.”
Maybe she was just tired.
“I’m here,” she sighed, setting her clutch on the marbled bedside table pushed up against the king size bed. “Hold on.” Kicking off her worn down black heels, she climbed up next to him, and oh, if the mattress didn’t just sink underneath her like a cloud. “Damn,” she muttered, dropping against him.
“Mhm,” Robert hummed, throwing an arm over her.
“Go to sleep,” she yawned, not bothering to toss him off. His arm was w
arm, a human comfort amid the quiet room and foreign smells.
She passed out before he could groan in reply.
Chapter 3
Bridget woke up to the sound of her phone. She scrambled for it, her eyes open but blurry and unseeing in the bright room. She tried to blink away the grogginess, her hands searching in a sea of silk sheets for the cell, but it was hard enough just to make herself sit up. Kicking a blanket away with her foot, she bumped the square of plastic with her arm and snatched it up. “H-hello?” she answered, rubbing at her eyes as she tried to force herself awake.
“Bridget?”
It was Pamela.
“Hey,” she said, stifling a yawn. It was a Saturday, and in her sleep riddled mind she could barely conjure up the will to be intimidated. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” Pam said sarcastically, her tone indicating that there was definitely something. “Mind telling me why one of my staff writers was on the front page of three tabloids this morning?”
“Wait, what?” she said, the jump of adrenaline in her blood suddenly waking her right up.
“Did you meet a Robert Arkell last night?” Pamela asked, and Bridget could hear the flip of a page in the background.
Bridget glanced at the empty spot that Robert had fallen asleep in last night. “Uh, yes?”
“And did you go home with him?” Pamela asked again, her voice innocent and high-pitched.
“Uh…” Technically.
“You’re dating the mayor’s brother?” Pam pressed dryly, her tone suddenly flat.
“I mean,” Bridget muttered, unsure of what to say. “What did they write? I-in the tabloid?” she asked suddenly, though she was secretly more worried about the picture.
“Cupid’s Call dating billionaire brother,” she read aloud. “You know, exactly what you’d expect if the city’s most desirable bachelor had suddenly been spotted leaving a party with an unknown woman.”
“But we didn’t,” Bridget sputtered, “I mean—”
“Bridget,” Pamela said, the snap of a magazine closing making Bridget jump. “Listen to me very, very carefully. If you have an in with this guy, I want you to use it.”
