Page 94 of Ella Gets the D
“Please do. Have a good night.” Morgan’s stomach gurgles after his exit. “Twenty more minutes, and we’ll see if a drive-thru is open.”
“Deal.”
I break out of our huddle in couture and head to the bar while Morgan gets swept up in another conversation. Minus her,everyone is a stranger here. Except for the server who always has the good food on her tray. Amber, I think.
We’ve been at this black-tie event for two hours, and I’m ready to swap out this A-line dress for flannel pj’s and turn in. It’s off-the-shoulder, and I can’t lift my hands without fabric drooping against my pits.
Morgan is gunning for first place as Ms. New Year’s Eve. Her asymmetrical maxi dress hugs her hourglass curves. Green is always good color on her, but this particular shade in velvet attracts every eye in the room.
A spot opens near the bar. It’s a small trek across a sea of plush burgundy carpeting. Small high-top tables draped in ivory linens create a maze of DC elite and servers carrying trays that should have more than finger foods for two thousand a ticket—not that I paid.
I’m still clueless about the who and why of the evening. Morgan is making the rounds with her Brooke smile plastered on like a billboard as I grab a glass of champagne and make eye contact with a person carrying a sushi platter.
Now you’re talking my language.
The band plays a slow medley, drawing guests into the dim pink lighting that cascades across the parquet floor and vaulted ceilings. Movement near the entrance has photographers crowding around a step-and-repeat behind a strip of red carpet. I reach for another piece of sushi and watch cameras flash as a small entourage poses for photos. A path clears, and Julian steps front and center with his hand pressed to a woman’s back.
My mouth tumbles open on its own. I’m unable to control my shock, because what in the entire eff? I blink slowly to make sense of the camera shutters that are snapping Julian’s every move like he’s the damn prince of Zamunda.
His steps are slow with practiced precision. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, like he’s a bachelor on the prowl in atailor-made tuxedo. Photographers point to the woman next to him in winter white feathers. Ms. Peacock effortlessly mirrors his poses. It’s like she graduated top of her etiquette class the way she sucks in her cheekbones and smiles with her eyes. Julian stands closer to her and lowers his head to whisper in her ear.
Is that what this is, the DC version ofComing to America—only Julian returns home to sow his royal oats before his parents force him to marry a woman of their choosing? Ms. Peacock has golden brown hair in loose waves and flawless skin. Does she hop on one foot on command like the woman did in the movie?
I turn back to the granite counter to drain the rest of my champagne. I’ve seen enough.
When Julian said he’d be busy this weekend, I didn’t take that to mean a red-carpet appearance with a caramel beauty. Or maybe that’s exactly what he meant, and I’ve been Boo-Boo the Fool? I don’t pay attention to blogs or follow DC gossip. How am I supposed to know the six degrees of love connections and hookups?
The glance over my shoulder is my last one—or so I tell myself. They’re off the red carpet, holding separate discussions with the small groups gathered around them. I snort at the pretentiousness of it all. Who waits around to see how far they can stick their nose up someone’s ass for a sniff?
Morgan’s eyes lock on mine from the other side of the room. She steals a look at her brother and the woman who’s found her way back to his side. She now has a hand to his chest.
Morgan’s gaze turns to me.Who the hell is that?
I scoff.These are your people.
She dips a brow.Want me to say something?
That gets a headshake.Nope.
If Julian wanted to tell me he was going out, he would’ve. My date with a New Year’s Eve special and a homemade dessert barwas no secret.Hisdate was, and I refuse to play out every what-if scenario.
“Want another one?”
I stare speechless at blue eyes on a face I never expected to see again. McDimples? “What are you doing here?”
He lifts a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and smiles. “Running into you again.” His throat works over a long pull of his drink, and his eyes never leave mine. “You look amazing.”
My tour of his all-black suit and wavy brown hair leads to a trimmed goatee over a square jaw. Looks like he replaced his five-o’ clock shadow. “You clean up nice yourself.”
“I don’t think I introduced myself last time.” He reaches for my hand. “Asher Campbell.”
“Ella Greene.”
His eyes flash with an expression I can’t place, but he recovers with a smile. “So, Ella. Is that ex of yours here?”
“Don’t you have a good memory? No, he’s not.”
I had the kids Christmas Eve, and I dropped them off at Katharine’s after breakfast the next day. Seven hours is the amount of time they had with their dad. Then I picked them up and kept them for the week. You’d think the holiday spirit and weeks of unused vacation time would inspire him to be less of a Grinch and spend more time with his children. Father of the year he is not.
