Page 36 of Acquiring Ainsley
The sales associate nodded, though an expression of slight disgust seemed to cross her face for the briefest of moment. “Of course. That’s the prefect choice. It will make a beautiful addition to any home.”
We added those and formal china place settings for twelve to the list, then tossed in a few random pieces of art that I doubted any of our guests would purchase for us. About fifteen minutes later, when we stepped outside the store and back onto Worth Avenue, Ainsley’s body language had changed.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
She shook her head, but her attention wasn’t on me anymore, it was on something else, something in the distance, something that I couldn’t touch. “What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Nothing.” I glanced at my watch. “Sunday funday, right? I’m free until six thirty, when I have to be at the airport to board the jet.”
My private plane left on my schedule, but I needed to get back to New York. The work week would come quickly, and that meant back-to-back meetings as Ashton and I moved forward on the deal. Even staying until six thirty in Palm Beach felt like pushing it.
Ainsley focused on me once again. “Good. We still have a few hours.”
My heart beat a little faster at the prospect of spending even more time with her. This weekend had gone better than I’d expected—much better. “We do.”
“Let’s go, then. I want to show you something.” A smile crept across her face. “Something that means a lot to me.”
I knew the kind of reputation that I had. What people thought of me. The perception they had when I made a first impression. Hell, I had even cultivated it over the years. Reveled in it. Most people thought of me as a pampered, spoiled, lazy socialite with little inside her head besides shoe trends and anecdotes about the latest society parties.
It wasn’t the best thing in life to be, and for the last few weeks I’d been realizing it. For most of my life, I’d never had to worry about where I’d get my next meal, if I’d get into college, or what to do if my home went into foreclosure—which would never have happened in the first place. I didn’t have those kinds of concerns.
But that had also meant that I spent most of my life searching for something.
“Just stay on this road,” I told Trevor when he drove his car across the Southern Bridge from Palm Beach into West Palm. “It’s about a forty-minute drive.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I sank into the soft leather seat and watched the city streets fade into large swaths of farmland that made up the central section of the county. It was one of the more beautiful parts of the area, and I liked the reassuring flatness that made up the western half of the place I called home.
“Ever been out this way?” I asked as we crossed into the open country.
“Nope.” Trevor glanced at me. “First time for everything.”
We fell silent for a few moments, and after a while, he turned on the radio in the center console of the car. A distinctive wail and a backbeat amplified by saxophones and synthesizers floated through the speakers.
“Oh, my god.” I laughed. “Are you listening to yacht rock? Is this Michael McDonald?” I widened my eyes. “It is!”
A smile pulled at the corner of Trevor’s mouth, but he kept his focus on driving. “So what? Who cares if it is?”
“Yacht rock?” I straightened in the seat and turned to face him full on. “Come on. This is beyond parody.”
“I happen to like it.” He tapped the volume button on the steering wheel and the wails of Michael McDonald pushed through the speakers, then faded into the smooth stylings of Christopher Cross. “It’s relaxing.”
I threw my head back and let out a laugh. “I’ve never heard anyone describe this kind of music that way. Cheesy? Yes. But relaxing? No.”
He braced his left hand on the wheel and leaned cross the seat, his gaze fixed on me. “Give it a chance,” he said softly. “You might like it.”
“I certainly know all the words. God, they always play this kind of music at Colony Hotel pool.”
“Because they know what’s good for them. This is like the anthem of Palm Beach, isn’t it? Easy-listening, adult contemporary for the champagne and caviar social set.”
Smiling, I shook my head. “Nice description."
As Christopher Cross wished for a better life on the water, Trevor lip-synched the words, too, making exaggerated movements and snapping his fingers. It was the 1980s all over again, minus the bad hair; after a moment, I gave in and sang what I remembered of the lyrics, too. Christopher Cross faded into Phil Collins, then Fleetwood Mac, and finally Lionel Richie. By then, we were both belting the songs as we pushed farther away from the island that sometimes stifled me.
“That was nice,” I said when he turned down the music after the fifth song we’d sung together. “I can’t remember the last time that I let myself unwind like that.”
