by Ava Claire
“LEILA, YOU’RE GONNA be a hit!”
If the makeup artist wasn’t still working her magic, carefully dusting powder beneath my bottom lashes, I would have rolled my eyes. I’d made the mistake of telling Simone I was nervous about attending the black tie event without Jacob, and she’d been dialing up the compliments ever since. My jerky, awkward movements had already forced the woman to retrace her steps. I tried to not move anything other than my lips. “Yeah, right.”
The makeup artist was subbing for my usual woman, who knew me well enough to not go all Mona Lisa on my face, allowing time for the inevitable ‘oops’. Instead, the makeup artist looked ready to strangle us both.
I knew a handful of things about the tight lipped artist. Her name was Olga. I’d raised my eyebrows expectantly, after I gave her the full monty, first and last. I even threw in a handshake, despite the fact that she took a look at my bare face and slumped her shoulders like she was already defeated. She added ‘Just Olga’ and started laying out every makeup item in her kit, like she’d need all the help she could get.
‘Just Olga’ was a big fan of my bun, and had her own jet black hair pulled into a painfully sleek knot that rested at the nape of her swan-like neck. I knew that she wasn’t a dancer, despite her slender, ballerina-esque frame because when I tried to strike up a conversation and asked if she was a dancer, she’d scowled a ‘no’. When I tried to explain that I was asking because her bun fit in the world of leotards and leg warmers, a beautifully strict world that Olga would fit perfectly into, she informed me that buns were slimming. Pointedly. Like she was handing down some sage advice, for my benefit. I stopped trying to be friendly and let her do her work. We’d existed in near silence until Simone arrived.
Simone, who was oblivious to the awkwardness and just dialed up the charm, trying to make me feel less like a fish out of water. And now, from the way Olga was stabbing at my cheeks with the brush, I’d offended her. Again.
“Everything okay?” I asked, hoping that her dainty wrist wouldn’t slip and send the fibers into my eye.
“You tell me.” She narrowed her metallic gaze over my face. Analyzing it. “I do my work and-” She shrugged her black clad shoulders and repeated what I’d said. “Yeah, right.”
I relaxed slightly because there was some distance between my eyeball and her weapon. I almost brought my hand to my mouth, laughter bubbling in my throat when I realized that it was a misunderstanding. I caught myself and kept my hands in my lap. “You think—I wasn’t saying that I don’t like it, I was just messing with my assistant.”
Olga didn’t look fully convinced. “Oh. A joke.” She didn’t even crack a grin as she wheeled back to the counter and retrieved a mirror. “I worked very hard, Mrs. Whitmore. I hope you like.” The ‘or else’ was left unsaid, but even Simone picked up on it, arching her pale brow.
I tried to not let annoyance creep into my voice. “Not too hard I ho-Holy crap!” The room went quiet, the two sets of eyes that weren’t mine locked on me. My hands locked on the mirror handle so I wouldn’t drop it out of shock.
I looked HOT.
I always tended to go as natural as possible, gently steering makeup artists away from anything experimental. Since Olga took no cues from me nor asked if I had anything in mind before she went to work, I was literally in her hands, a fact that made me nervous...but paid off and then some.
If regular Leila was a force to be reckoned with, this was the face that would crash Instagram, every comment asking who did my makeup and where I got it, despite all that information being tagged and included in the photo. Because of my bun, carefully constructed shortly before Olga arrived, my forehead could have been the star of the show, but contours and vision focused attention on the smoky, midnight allure of my eyes. The dark lines and shimmer brought out the gold flecks in the brown, like pixies dancing beneath the moon. Expert contouring gave my round nose angles that reframed my entire face. But it was my mouth, crimson and lined so that your eye was drawn to it, that dialed it up to ‘hot!’. The curves were undeniably kissable. Heck, it almost made me want to kiss Olga. Luckily for her, she was at a safe distance. On pins and needles, like she was waiting for me to order her to start over.
“Olga, you did an incredible job!”
A crack splintered the woman’s facade and a grin streaked across her face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “Glad you like it.”
I wanted to tell her ‘like’ wasn’t even close—I was well into ‘love’ territory, but she started collecting her things and Simone dove in to give her 0.03.
“Oh my gosh, boss lady!” She wielded her phone like a professional photographer. “I’ve gotta snap one for Mr. Whitmore.”
That was enough to wipe the smile off my face. It was already sucky that he wasn’t my date tonight. A last minute emergency had stolen him away this morning. I’d laughingly soothed his annoyance that I was headlining a dinner charity auction, where he wouldn’t be able to stare down my dinner date. Basically, I, and several other staff members, were auctioning off sharing a meal for a good cause. Jacob was now off the hook, but I was still up on the auction block. I certainly didn’t want to rub in the fact that I looked amazing, and was having dinner with some unknown person. “Let’s hold off on the pics for now.”
She slipped the phone back in her clutch without hesitation, a knowing smile on her rouge lips. “Say no more. You really do look freaking amazing, Leila.”
I thanked her, and thanked Olga again before the artist rushed off to craft her next masterpiece. When we were alone, and I finally trusted myself to stand and keep my hands from my face, I turned my attention to how amazing Simone looked. “Speaking of incredible-”
She perched both hands beneath her chin and flashed me a megawatt smile. “This old thing?” She did a twirl, so I could get a good look at her ensemble. Her sleeveless, body hugging dress was covered in sequins and Swarovski crystals. The diamond studded, blinged out effect would have been gaudy and distracting on anyone else, but she looked elegant. Her makeup was soft, her hair falling in pale curls around her doll-like face. A face that was scrunched and contemplative as she stared at her phone. “Do you need help getting in your dress? The car should be here in 20.”
I’d wisely chosen a strapless dress, just in case. “I’m good, just give me ten.”
From the smirk she didn’t think I saw, she was likely finding the driver’s number so she could tell him we were running late.
The gauntlet had been thrown. My mission: to actually take ten minutes putting my dress on, without disturbing my hair and makeup.
I bounded up the stairs, pausing at Hope’s room. Any other night, she’d be getting her second wind right about now. Tonight, I’d called in reinforcements. Hope was snuggled up against my mother’s shoulder, fast asleep. I knew the clock was ticking, but I tiptoed in, wishing I had my phone so I could capture the serenity on Hope’s sleeping face...and the pure bliss on my mother’s.
Pure bliss that transformed into pure joy when she lifted her eyes from the crown of Hope’s head to meet mine.
“Oh my God!” she mouthed, her eyes rounding with awe.
I flashed her a thumbs up before I took a page from my daughter’s book and signed ‘thank you’. I clicked the door shut gently and made my way to the bedroom. My gown was hanging in the dressing room and I managed to get it on in record time, tulle skirt and all. Even without a clock handy, I knew I had time to linger. To pause in front of the mirror and picture Jacob in the doorway, tie slack around his neck as he took me in like he was seeing me for the first time.
I grinned at my reflection before I made my way back downstairs, my smile broadening as Simone did a double take.
She was so in awe that she doubled down on the professionalism.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” she gushed, eyes going up and down. Over the onyx bodice, glittering with beads. Sweeping over the whimsical skirt, then back to my face. “You are gonna make some money tonight!”
&nb
sp; I GLANCED NERVOUSLY at the compact, not a hair or sparkle out of place. My stomach? It was busy doing jumping jacks. I’d specifically chosen this venue because it was intimate, without the high rollers feeling like they were jammed into a sardine can.
Since I was behind the stage and I could practically feel the audience’s eyes, even from behind the curtain, I wished I’d done one better and booked something epic. That way, when I stood center stage while the filthy rich bid on having dinner with me tonight, I wouldn’t be able to make out the expressions on the audiences face.
The incredulity if I was ‘sold’ for too high of a price.
Sympathy if I barely garnered enough to cover the dinner we’d be having.
I fiddled with my wedding ring, reminding myself it was for a good cause. Worst case scenario, I’d have to awkwardly get through a three course dinner with someone unpleasant. And at the end of it, they’d write a check that would sponsor local, underprivileged students through the school year. School supplies, enriching field trips, conferences, even a summer trip to Europe. All expenses paid.
There was plenty of money to go around in the room. CEOs. Tech moguls. Wives who ruled the boardroom and the home front. The only thing that kept me from retching into the nearest trashcan was remembering why I was here. There was no putting a price on the experience their support would offer the kids.
That’s what I clung to, focused on instead of the insecure whispers.
Who would pay any sizable amount of money, to eat three tiny plates of food with you?
“-and here is our first dinner companion for the evening, Mrs. Leila Whitmore!”
The applause rivaled the ‘holy crap’ squeal in my mind as the curtains parted. My eyes shot out to the glam, fur stole-d, tux and bow tie filled crowd. Our event planning company had outdone themselves. The Munroe Villa had been transformed into a space that would have made Gatsby tip his hat. The golden chairs with crimson cushions actually looked comfortable, unlike most of the chairs at these kind of events. The chandeliers that sparkled above added to the ambience that transported me back to my bedroom in the house that I grew up in, flipping through the pages of a magazine, imagining what it would be like to attend an event just like this.
And that’s what steeled my legs as I strutted over to the podium, bulbs flashing. This was a first: me dressed to the nines, and the paparazzi weren’t asking me to step aside so they could get a picture of Jacob. There was a little girl or boy who would see clips of this event; children who would see this world of luxury and prestige and dream. And the one hundred students sponsored by the Whitmore Foundation? They’d do more than dream. They’d see and experience things that would show them that the sky was the limit.
I rested my palms on the podium and looked out into the sea of glam. The applause calmed down without me having to do anything awkward like clear my throat, speak over the clapping, or tap the mic. “Thank you, Mr. Cruz.” I flashed a smile at our emcee. He returned it with a flourish. “And thank you to everyone here tonight. Your contributions to the Whitmore Foundation will help unlock a whole new world of possibilities for some hardworking young people that can’t wait to spend your money!”
I’d been a little nervous about the joke, but I got a ripple of appreciative laughter. Enough to lead in to the main event: the auction.
“So without further ado...” I trailed off awkwardly, but Carlton was at my elbow, a seasoned talent who’d rocked the mic at a handful of awards shows and dinners. His personality was as warm as the red tie at his neck.
“Let’s give our first dinner guest for the evening another round of applause!” The crowd didn’t disappoint and after he made me blush all kinds of red, he called the room to attention by dropping his timbre to a level that required everyone to be quiet to make out his words.
He transformed into an auctioneer before my very eyes, calling out amounts of money that aligned with the paddles the star studded audience raised.
I must have been buzzing off the adrenaline because the numbers he was throwing around, that people were bidding just to have dinner with me, were humbling.
1,000.
1,500.
2,500.
“Five thousand dollars!”
Someone cried out the bid from the back. It was a woman’s voice, and I exchanged a slack jawed look with Mr. Cruz as he waited for any other bids. When no one challenged the 5k bid, he giddily struck the gavel.
He leaned in after he closed my dinner auction, his volume low. “Congratulations, Mrs. Whitmore. I don’t want to jinx anything, but I have a feeling you’re gonna raise a lot of money for the foundation.”
Stunned, and eager to shake the hand of whoever was willing to make such a donation and sit through dinner with a stranger, I headed back stage.
I paused at the vanity, taking a swig of my bottle of water, trying to remember what I did with my phone so I could text Jacob and tell him the good news. It was propped behind my clutch, so I snatched it up and thumbed through to Jacob’s number. I hit the FaceTime button, just in case he was free.
The minute I saw the ‘connecting’, tears of happiness filled my eyes. I didn’t even wait until I saw his face before I started talking.
“Baby, you’re never gonna believe-”
I stopped when I glanced at the mirror and saw the last face I was expecting to see.
“Corbin?”
He saddled me with a lazy smile that confirmed my worst fears. He probably had a friend call out his bid. I would have recognized his voice. I would have told him to go to hell, forgetting myself, forgetting everything for a split second.
“Looks like we’re gonna finish that coffee after all, Leila Bear.”
Chapter Three
“You remember that little Italian restaurant we found near the beach?”
I ignored Corbin, my attention locked on my phone. Even though he was hundreds of miles away, I felt Jacob. Felt his hands on my shoulders, massaging the tightly coiled muscles. Whispering that when I got on the other side of this, the three of us would find somewhere warm, with sand like golden glitter and blue water that stretched as far as the eye could see.
All I had was characters on a screen, but it was enough to keep me from tossing my glass of Merlot in Corbin’s face.
Jacob: I’m so proud of you for sitting across from him, going through this.
I balled my fists in my lap, trying to see the bright side as Corbin droned on about nights long past. I wished I could remember the soft focus, cotton candy memories the way he did. The dinner he was referencing? He was waxing romantic about Maurice's, this itty bitty restaurant tucked away from the boardwalk, where the bread was as fragrant as the ocean. He seemed to have forgotten that was where the romance ended. The minute we walked in and the busty brunette host locked eyes on him, I had to grin and bear it as she shamelessly flirted with him—and he never once introduced me or made it clear that we were on a date, not casual strangers that somehow ended up sitting at the same table.
Me: I just keep reminding myself it’s for the kids.
“What was that place called?”
It’s for the kids.
It’s for the kids.
It’s for the kids.
“Maurice's,” I muttered, picking at my nail. Scrolling through my Instagram feed. Wondering why I had the bright idea to do a three course dinner in the first place. Doing everything I could to avoid looking at Corbin. His reflection in the mirror before was enough to bring my heart to a full stop. His blonde shaggy hair was pulled back, but he left out a few pieces that fell into his storm cloud eyes. I’d glimpsed him in the finest duds I’d ever seen him in, his tux tailored to his muscular body. There was nothing playful to be found at his neck. Corbin Wolfe didn’t do bow ties. He looked like a bonafide super spy with his onyx strip of silk, the darkness making the clouds ripple with coming thunder.
Thunder that rippled through me when I saw his calloused fingers reach for my wine glass.
Wait-
I had no choice but to look him dead on, fuming as he held the glass to the light. My stomach flip flopped like a fish out of the water as I watched him rotate the glass, zeroing in on the rim. Looking for the lipstick smudge. Eyeing me defiantly as he brought it to his mouth. He moaned like it was the best swig of wine he’d ever tasted.
I rolled my eyes, but I knew the heat in my cheeks gave me away and I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he was having an effect on me.
I pivoted to the bar near the door where the server was waiting. And by waiting, I mean that she was watching Corbin’s every movement—and ignoring me. If he sniffed, she would have dashed over with a napkin. I had to wave my arm to get her to pry her eyes from him.
She darted over, her face nearly as red as mine. “How may I be of...service?” She directed the last bit at Corbin.
I paused, leaving him plenty of airspace to get his flirt on. Laugh. Comment on how helpful she was being. Ask her to remind him of her name, with promises not to forget it. Standard Corbin stuff.
He said nothing, so she shifted her gaze back to me. I glanced over at him, swallowing the knot in my throat when I realized that he hadn’t taken his eyes off me since we sat down.
I swept a flyaway behind my ear and nodded at my wine glass. “Can I get another?”
She looked confused. Probably because it was still halfway full. “Um, more wine?”
“Yes,” I said flatly, turning back to my salad. I started stabbing at croutons and lettuce, hoping she would get the picture. She lingered for a few more seconds, then headed off to oblige.
If my slight affected Corbin, I saw no indication of it. In fact, he took his still-half-full glass of wine and poured it into my glass and had another sip.
“I can’t believe you remember the name of the restaurant,” he mused.
I forced an oversized bite in my mouth. I didn’t bother with manners, talking around the Caesar salad. “You know what else I remember? The host’s breasts almost spilling out of her shirt and you cheesing at her like you couldn’t wait to find out how those double D’s would feel in your hands.”
