He breathes heavily, his muscles constricting underneath my weight. Something deep pulses in me, something bad. His hands stay on the small of my back, on the dip above my ass. And as he licks his lips, watching me peruse his body with eager, wanting eyes, I tap into the sensible part of my brain. I mutter, “Your dad is going to be at the luncheon.”
His face blanches, and he lifts me up onto my feet like I weigh nothing. “We need to go,” he says, leaving the last few buttons undone. He eyes the clock. “Now.” His worry clears most of his hangover, and I hope that it will be gone by the time we reach Villanova.
{4}
We’re ten minutes late, but we’re not the only ones.
My father missed his flight from New York back to Philly because his personal pilot had the flu. He had to arrange a new one to fly his private jet. The whole ordeal shouldn’t take long, but my father requires a background check on all his drivers. The new pilot will probably have to prove his competence with at least an hour of test flights. My mother always meets him when he lands, so she’s also MIA from this supposedly important luncheon.
But I’m not complaining. The extra time will help Lo become a bit more responsive. We sit on the patio with a view of a large infinity pool and yellow rose bushes. The mid-morning sun glints against champagne glasses, filled with mimosas. Berries, cheeses, crackers and petite sandwiches systematically line a white-linen tablecloth. Everything stays in its proper place, on tiered platters or doilies.
My stomach gurgles, and thankfully no one waits for our parents to chow down. Jonathan Hale hasn’t arrived either, and he claims he’s caught in traffic, but I have a suspicion he’s waiting in his car, not wanting to be at the luncheon without my father present.
Lo keeps his arm on the back of my chair, settling into the charade. His closeness makes my body tense, and I end up sitting on the edge of my seat, as far away from that hand as I can be. Hopefully my distance is not too obvious. I ache to be touched more sinfully, but I know I shouldn’t at this inappropriate time. And realize I should be near my supposed boyfriend. It’s all so complicated.
“Pass the book over here,” Poppy says, holding out her hand. Like the rest of the Calloway girls, my eldest sister stands out among crowds. A small mole on her upper lip screams Marilyn Monroe sexiness, and her skin looks far more tanned than the rest of ours, like a sun-kissed brunette. When I meet Poppy at malls or outlet stores, she turns heads. Sometimes I do too, but I think it has more to do with my chicken legs—so skinny they could crack like a wishbone. Not attractive, I know, my mother usually reminds me.
Daisy slides her modeling book to Sam, who passes it to his wife. Poppy grins as she flips the pages. “These are gorgeous, Dais.”
The compliment doesn’t faze my youngest sister. She’s too busy munching on tiny sandwiches like she hasn’t eaten in the past month.
“How was fashion week? Meet any cute boys?” I bat my lashes, trying to be funny but probably looking goofy and awkward.
Daisy snorts. “I think Mom ruined any kind of game I could have.” She ties her brown hair into a pony, making her unblemished skin and narrow face look all the more striking.
“Wait? Mom went with you?” I shouldn’t be too surprised. Our mother tagged along to every single ballet rehearsal Rose had, even skipping family meals to watch her practice. She could have easily joined the cast of Dance Moms.
“Uh, yeah,” Daisy says. “I’m fifteen, remember? Hell would freeze over before she let me do fashion week by myself. How did you not know that?”
“I’m kind of out of the loop.”
“That is the understatement of the century,” Rose says.
Poppy smiles. “Don’t be mean, Rose. You’re going to scare Lily off for another two months.” We all know who the nice sister is. Still, I can’t help but love Rose more. Maybe because we’re the closest in age or because she actively tries to be a part of my life. I see her more than I do anyone else.
Rose sips her mimosa with tight lips.
Daisy points an accusing finger at me. “You haven’t been to Sunday luncheon for two months?” She scrutinizes me, as if searching for any visible wounds. “How are you not dead?”
“I ask the same question all the time,” Rose cuts in, “seeing as how I get crucified if I miss one.”
“The perks of dating a Hale,” Poppy says, this time sounding bitter too.
Lo’s fingers tighten on the notch of my chair at the sound of his name.