Page 18 of Getting Lucky in London

“I’ve taken the liberty of choosing a few possibilities,” she said, “though Michael only explained it was for a meeting. If none of these are appropriate, we’ll find something else, but he described you perfectly, so they should fit. We’re about the same size.”

Glancing from the clothes laid out on the bed to Laura, I struggled not to fidget. “I’m so sorry to have intruded on you this way.”

“Nonsense. It’s been a long time since my son has needed me. A mother misses that, you know.”

Memories of my mother would argue that statement, but I read understanding in the woman’s eyes. She wasn’t judging. She was trying to help her son.

“Besides,” Laura said, “when he said he was bringing over a girl, I admit I was a little excited and quite a bit curious. He’s never brought a woman home to meet me.”

And he still hasn’t. But I couldn’t tell this kind woman that her son was only taking pity on me because I’d bawled like a baby. I wasn’t special to him, and I’d be gone by Monday. “Well, I thank you all the same.”

She nodded. “I’ll put the kettle on while you try these on. I’ve left the rudimentary essentials of makeup”—she pointed to the vanity by the window—“though I dare say you don’t appear to need much—if any.”

Laura exited the room and closed the door behind her.

I stood there, overwhelmed by the generosity of both son and mother. My pride needled me to graciously decline their help, but unless Michael found Dominic’s keys, I had no other choice. And saying no would be rude at this point.

Sighing, I removed my sad, wrinkled dress, which left me standing in the middle of the room in my bra and heels. Crossing to the bed, I carefully fingered the edge of a black jacket in one of the garment bags. It was lightweight wool, lined with black silk. The pants had a lean silhouette with fitted hips and a flare at the hem. This had to be designer.

I flipped the waistband of the pants and read the couturière’s label. Lady Laura Chandler.

“Oh. My. God.” How could I not have put it together? Michael’s mother wastheLady Laura, one of my favorite fashion designers and far beyond my department-store budget. I couldn’t afford the pants, much less the matching jacket. Still, I couldn’t resist trying them on.

Slipping out of my heels, I stepped into the pants and could honestly say I’d never felt such luxury. The lining was cool and soft against my bare legs, not to mention on her ass and lady bits. The white, silk shell went on next, a stark contrast against the ebony jacket with one button that nipped in at the waist. I slid back into my heels and turned to face the mirror. My legs looked longer than ever.

Wow! It was amazing what a well-tailored outfit could do for a woman’s figure…and her ego. It was perfect, definitely a power suit.

I turned this way and that. So maybe I could splurge just a little. I could probably recoup the loss in…oh, say a year…and only if I got the new job.

A giggle escaped to fill the silence of the room. Dominic had offered to let me stay with him until I found an affordable alternative, but a year might be pushing it, especially with Sarah in the picture.

Without trying on the other beautiful piece’s, I quickly took off the suit and blouse and hung them on a hook behind the door. Sitting at the vanity, I peered in the mirror and got to work pinning my hair in a loose-but-tidy, messy bun. A contradiction in terms if ever there was one.

Twenty minutes later, I gathered my torn dress and made my way to the stairs. Pausing at the top, I realized I had missed the neatly arranged grouping of pictures displayed on the staircase wall. One by one, I stopped to admire them. Michael as a boy of ten in a prep school uniform with his tawny hair and straight white smile. No doubt he’d broken many a little girls’ hearts.

On the last step, I lingered to admire a couple of photos of him in his football uniform. One was with Dominic at the stadium after a game. The other was with his mother. His hair was a gorgeous mess, sweat plastering the front to his forehead, and his smile was infectious. My lips tilted upward, and I heaved a wistful sigh.

Dominic had said Michael’s mother never missed a game, spent the entire fall season in the States just to watch him. That was when I had started saving to go see Dominic play. If Michael’s mom could fly all that way from the UK—

“Here you are.”

Startled, and feeling a little guilty for ogling her son, I took the last step down and smiled. “Just going down memory lane.”

“Do you miss your family?” Laura asked, her head cocked to one side.

I blinked.Fuck, did she catch my slip.

Michael didn’t know who I was, so why would his mother? “Oh, yes. I’m hoping to be closer to my family soon.”

“Michael called. He’s on his way,” she said, without a trace of suspicion. “We’ll have a nice chat and a cup of tea while we wait.”

Following her to the kitchen, my conscience prickled. This woman was so kind, so…everything my mother had never been, and all I wanted to do was confess who I was, why I’d lied, and ask for advice.

Instead, I deviated from all talk of family. “The suit is lovely. You’re very talented and one of my favorite designers.”

“You’re sweet.” She stopped at the counter to pour us both a cup of tea and smiled, conspiratorially. “I was hoping you’d pick that one. From the moment I saw you, I knew it was perfect for you.”

“I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you back for your help, but I will send payment for the suit.”

---