Page 104 of Free to Judge
Her lips curve upward. “He’s on his way.”
My jaw flops open. “He’s going to be late to the Fair Harvard Reunion?”
Her brow raises gracefully. “There are some things more important than a party.”
“Yes. You,” I retort firmly, indignant on my mother’s behalf.
She doesn’t appear to be half as disturbed as I am. Instead, she pats my cheek. “He promised to meet us there.”
I’m still sputtering when she blithely continues, “I hope you don’t mind sharing your ‘date’ long enough to get inside the Plaza.”
The idea of sharing Peter causes my lips to curve as I think about the paparazzi shooting pictures of him with multiple women—almost always family—hanging off both arms in the past.What’s one more night?I think with a touch of amusement. “ Of course not, Mama,”
“Good. With the dress Em designed, I need to wear these killer heels or I’m going to trip in this dress.” Our eyes connect and we burst into laughter.
Amid the moment of levity, Declan’s ringtone interrupts us. Mama curses. “If I didn’t know your father as well as I do, I’d swear the man has someone watching us. That foolish asshole is interrupting us at all our fun parts today.”
Instead of comforting me, her words send a shiver of fear down my spine. “You don’t think Dad has the place rigged, do you?”
Mama picks up my phone, reads the messages, before shaking her head confidently. “No. I think your young man?—”
Bitterly, I interrupt, “He’s not exclusively mine, remember?”
Her hand runs up my back, smoothing away the harsh edges. “ApparentlyDeclanis determined you know he’s ready to crawl to get back in your good graces.” She hands me my phone.
Warily, I take it from her.
Declan:
I mean it, Kalie.
I need you to know I’m not hiding how I feel about you.
I’ll crawl across that damn ballroom floor on my knees if that’s what it takes to get five minutes with you.
“I don’t think he’s dramatizing his intentions, sweetheart. Prepare yourself.” She wraps an arm around me until I’m steady enough to get ready.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Aunt Emily explodesinto the room with two garment bags over her shoulders. Handing one to my mother, she sends her off to try it on before forcing Peter to act as a hook so she can unzip the bag long enough to display the masterpiece she’d created for me.
The second it pops into view, tears prick my eyes. I reach out for her hand and whisper, “Aunt Em, it’s perfect.”
She slides an arm around my waist and squeezes. “That’s you, Kalie. I couldn’t be more proud of the woman you’ve become than if you were one of my own.”
I bury my head into her mass of curls and breathe deeply as the compliment washes over me. Pride is one of the cornerstones of our family benchmarks, much more so than wealth and fame.
Months ago, Aunt Em first asked me what I wanted my dress to convey as I descended the steps, knowing every eye would be on me. I rolled my eyes at her and said, “You’re the designer. You tell me.”
She took my hands in hers, explaining how the process worked. “You’re my muse, Kalie. I’ll design a dress that I feel represents you, but I need to know what message you want to send to the people in that room.”
Just like that, the words popped into my head. One by one, I listed them for her. Instead of writing them down, as I expected, she leaned back in her chaise lounge and began sketching. Now, I was seeing the words alive because I gave them to her. I recall them as I shared them: beauty, blessed, determined, fearless, proud.
Then, a month ago, I added one more.
As I circle around my cousin, I find the dress far exceeds any expectations I ever could have. “I may be a bit biased, but this may be your most beautiful creation yet, Aunt Em.”
She critically eyes the plunging neckline to the cinched waist to the multilayered tulle skirt, giving the impression of Harvardcrimson even if the actual layers were of blood red and black. The high-low cut will show off my legs as I descend the stairs while giving me ease of movement around the dance floor.
