Page 11 of Dreams on the Ice

I’m not so surprised or even curious as to why they’re standing in front of me right now. But I don’t let them know that I’m onto their shit. It’s pointless. Instead, I give them a tight smile as we go through greetings and introductions.

“Well, aren’t you just beautiful with all that long blonde hair,” my mother coos.

I’m sure she’s got a backhanded compliment in that blonde hair comment, but I ignore it. As long as my mother isn’t being outright rude, I am not going to start an argument. I need to get my shit handled here, then bounce.

“Thank you, Mrs. Westwood,” Brooklynn says. “I’m a hairstylist by trade.”

I can see my mother visibly shudder at the words. I don’t think my mother’s mouth has ever formed the wordtradebeforewhen it pertains to a career. It’s funny to watch her try to hold her judging attitude back in an effort to appear perfect. Because, to my family, appearances are everything.

Every. Single. Thing.

“A hairstylist,” my mother says.

The word comes out of her mouth like it tastes bad. It almost makes me laugh, but I’m on high alert for her to say some fly shit.

Brooklynn hums, though she keeps her smile plastered on her face. I’m sure her cheeks are going to ache later. It’s hard to be fake for long periods of time. I know because it’s the way I am acting right now as well.

“Yes,” Brooklynn continues. “A few of my friends and I own a salon.”

That causes my mother’s eyes to widen. I don’t know why it would surprise her that I would bring someone home, that I would date someone with drive and ambition. It’s not like I’m sitting around on my ass playing video games all day long. I work my ass off every fucking day.

“That’s just wonderful. An entrepreneur,” my father announces with a clap of his hands. “We’ll let you kids get settled. Don’t forget the garden party begins at six.”

Then, as if they have done their duty, accomplished whatever the fuck they came here to accomplish, they walk away and toward the main house. I watch them, unsure of how to feel about the encounter.

“Was that weird?” Brooklynn whispers.

I snort, tearing my gaze away from my parents’ retreating backs, then look over at her. “You have no damn idea.”

BROOKLYNN

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I met Forrest’s parents, but it was fine. They’re a bit snootier than my family, but that’s to be expected when you have this kind of money. And as I look around just the guest pool cottage, I know they havemoney.

The guest cottage has three bedrooms, which also each have an en suite. Forrest and I each take our own rooms and begin to unpack our things and get ready for the party. I have to take a shower and wash my face, then get working on my evening casual hair and makeup.

It doesn’t take me long to do my hair. I make braids and twists, then put it in a half-up, half-down style, giving myself long beachy waves. My dress is a spaghetti-strap floral with a blue background and big white roses all over. Sliding my fingers down the front of my dress, I close my eyes at the feel of the silk fabric.

I love silk. It makes me feel sexy and beautiful. I would wear it every day if I could get away with it. My mother always had silk sheets on her and my father’s bed, and I remember rubbing the fabric between my fingers any chance I got as a kid.

My golden wedgeAquazzurasandals are the perfect addition to the dress and make my already long legs appear sky high. After buckling the ankle straps, I take a step back and smile at my reflection, but I can’t take my eyes off these shoes.

They're almost four-inch height will make walking around outside a little tough, but I know that these people will judge and notice my shoes. Even if my clothes aren’t the highest-end fashion designer, it doesn’t matter as much as my shoes and my bag are.

Which is why I spent an ungodly amount on both and also why I’ll be reselling them. Because these people may care about the highest fashion, but I’m okay with being a midline fashionista.

A knock on the door interrupts my staring at my reflection. I shouldn’t be focusing on myself for so long anyway. The extra time is making it to where I’m getting lost inside of my own head and wondering just why I’m putting this much effort into this charade.

It shouldn’t matter what brands I’m wearing, just as long as I am in line with the themes, but here I am trying to impress these people, these strangers who my fake boyfriend knows, is related to and also doesn’t give a shit about.

Are you there, God? It’s me,Stupid.

“Come on in,” I call out instead of crawling into a hole the way I want to.

Because I have clearly put a lot more thought and effort into this than I realized, and it’s just hit me that I did it for a million reasons, but the main one is Forrest. And he’s the last person I should do something like this for because nothing can or will happen between us.

The door opens, and Forrest stands on the other side of it, his eyes finding and holding mine. His lips lift into a smirk until his eyes slide down my entire body, then back up, and I feel like he just fucked me—hard.

When he speaks, his voice is thick and gravelly, and I want to hear him with his voice just like this when he’s inside of me.

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