To Have and to Heist(42)
“We’ll do you one better than a pumpkin,” Chloe said. “There’s a limo outside and a man in a uniform waiting by the door.”
“Showtime.” Rose draped my new black cashmere wrap around my shoulders. Chicago weather being unpredictable, Clare had been concerned I would get cold in my one-shoulder hot pink evening gown. Made from gazar fabric from some obscure designer, the dress featured ruching along the bodice and a cape skirt overlay. It was smooth and sleek, hugging all my curves to perfection. The bill for my outfit—dress, shoes, bag, wrap, and jewelry—had been more than three months’ rent. There was no way I could pay Jack back unless we were able to retrieve the necklace and claim the reward.
“Oh. My. God.” Chloe slapped a hand over her heart. “You look incredible.”
“You look amazing,” Olivia said. “And I say this despite the fact you have dressed for the patriarchy you have internalized since birth. I personally choose to reject the restrictive fashions that are designed for the male gaze and are rooted in socially constructed gender norms. When I’m not vibing with the Goth look, I wear gender-free lingerie, pro-women sweatshirts, elastic-waist pants with functional pockets, giant glasses, padded running shoes, and blanket scarves to keep me warm. I dress for comfort, protection, convenience, and ease of movement, and not as a sexualized, idealized object of heteronormative desire.”
“Um . . . thank you. I think.” I shot a questioning glance at Chloe and she grinned.
“I couldn’t be more proud.”
“I’ve never been to anything like this,” I said to Rose for the fourth or fifth time that evening. “I don’t know how to act.”
“Act rich.”
“How do rich people act?”
“Like they don’t give a damn about what people think about them, although secretly they do. And say ‘darling’ a lot but pronounce it ‘dahling.’？”
“She should have a cigarette,” Olivia called out from the couch. “It looks cool.”
Chloe’s head whipped around. “Only if she wants lung cancer. Is that what you want? Lung cancer? You’d better not be smoking.”
“Mom. Seriously. Chill. Gen Z’s don’t smoke cigarettes. It’s so old-school.”
“That’s good to hear,” Chloe said. “I thought—”
“We vape.”
“What?” Chloe’s voice rose a few decibels.
“You’re so easy to wind up, Mom. It’s not even fun anymore.” Olivia gave an exaggerated sigh and went back to staring at her phone. “Have a good time, Simi!”
“Thanks, dahling!”
Jack’s driver didn’t talk except to call me ma’am, which made me feel like I was past my prime. After a few fruitless attempts at conversation, I helped myself to the mini bottles of champagne in the ice bucket beside me then moved on to the free snacks in case platters of hors d’oeuvres weren’t enough to sustain me. By the time we reached the InterContinental Chicago, my tension had ebbed, and I was buzzing and ready to party.
Jack was waiting at the curb. He opened the door and helped me out of the car. Then he stared at me like I’d grown a second head.
“Should I get back in the car? Were you expecting someone else? Clare perhaps?”
“You look . . . lovely,” he said. “You take my breath away.”
I immediately forgave him his lapse. I’m generous that way.
“Thank you for taking care of the bill. I met Clare. She wants you to give her a call.”
“Umm-hmm.” He pressed his hand against my lower back and gently urged me forward through the throng of people and cameras. I was getting strange vibes about his relationship with Clare—more ex than current. Or was that just hope?
“You clean up nice.” I didn’t want to tell him he looked gorgeous in his tailored tux and black bow tie. He’d done something to his hair that made it look almost conventional, and the scent of his cologne was playing havoc with my hormones.
Jack gave me the briefest of nods. He took us on a circuitous path to the front entrance, dodging and weaving when we could have just walked straight ahead. “Did Chloe get your wedding planning website and social media set up?”
“Yes, we’re online. Her daughter, Olivia, designed the graphics and made a logo. I had some business cards printed up before I came.” I carefully pulled a card from my new gold beaded clutch. I planned to sell the bag if I couldn’t pay my rent. “We’ve called it Simply Elegant Events. Olivia came up with that name. We tried C & S, Chlosim, Simchlo, Simpliteevent . . .”
Jack’s fingers dug into my hip, and I trailed off mid-recitation of all the failed names we’d come up with. “What’s wrong?”
“Kiss me.” He turned to face me, his arm going fully around my waist.
I’d never looked so good that a man was overcome with passion and demanded a kiss in the middle of a crowd, but it was a fabulous dress, and I did look amazing. I licked my lips and leaned in to oblige.
Usually, I’m a pretty good kisser. Chloe and I practiced on our plushies in high school and, a few times, on each other. We watched YouTube videos to learn proper positioning, how to breathe, what to do with your tongue, and how to tilt your head. I put my research into practice when I started dating and I’d never had a complaint. But then I’d never been taken by surprise. Jack went straight in for the kill without even a hint of foreplay.