I bend down and kiss her cheek. “I know I told you before we left, but you really do look incredible.”
“I hope so. This is the most I’ve ever spent on a dress, and even though I got it online, and it’s secondhand, it cost a lot. Fortunately, I came into a little money recently.” She gives me a wink. Kicking up a heel, she adds, “Lila let me borrow the shoes,” as we walk to the elevator holding hands.
“I like them.” They’re sexy, but it feels weird to say that since they belong to her friend. “They look great on you.”
“You look so sexy in black head to toe, Mr. Haywood. A little rebellious, cutting-edge style, handsome as always, but a little danger thrown in the mix tonight.”
“That’s what I’m going for—dangerous and sexy.”
“Goal achieved.” We step into the elevator, and she’s taking another deep breath when I punch the button for the penthouse. She asks, “So Daxton was the father of Archibald Haywood, right?”
“No. It’s the other way around, but seriously, no one’s going to be talking about my family tree.” We spend the ascent in silence, both of us bracing ourselves for different reasons. I regret not texting my mom prior to give her a heads-up. I give Story’s hand a little squeeze just as the doors open. “Here we go.”
“Why am I hearing Darth Vader’s theme song in my head?”
I chuckle. “That would make us the bad guys.”
She waffles her head back and forth. “True. And there’s no way we’re not the good guys in this scenario.”
Bringing her hand to my chest, I say, “Us against them, babe.”
“Us against them,” she says, nodding. Upon entry to the vast apartment, her jaw isn’t hitting the floor, but by how her eyes are taking things in—her lips are just parted and her steps slowing—I’m worried she’ll never see me the same. “You grew up here?”
“Yes. This is the main residence. The Haywood House is used for the holidays, weekend getaways, and summer breaks.”
“Okay.”
That’s it. That’s all I get.
Not good.
I stop when I see Patrice. She hands a coat check ticket to Caffrey and Janet Williams of East Hampton—their son is an asshole who picked one fight with me before I taught him a lesson about fucking with me. He just did time down in Florida on a drug charge. They act like they don’t have any children now and scurry away when they see me.
When Patrice sees me, she smiles like she’s seeing her own son. “Cooper, I didn’t know if we’d get to see you tonight.” Her gaze flicks to Story, and her smile grows wider. “And you brought a date.”
“I did.” I give her a hug.
Patrice looks at Story when we part and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Patrice Fielder. This guy’s former nanny.”
Story smiles, instantly at ease as her shoulders soften. She shakes her hand, but then Patrice hugs her. I’m not sure if Story will like that based on her earlier commentary, but it doesn’t matter because she hugs her right back.
Stepping apart, Patrice adds, “This is the first time he’s brought home someone he—”
“Cooper!”
Fuck.
The high squeal burst the good moment we were having, which I’m sure was the intention. Camille throws her arms around me, blocking my view of Story, the connection lost as I try to pry Camille off me in a hurry.
I hear Patrice continue, “Cares about,” her tone souring as she glares at the back of Camille’s head. She’s not telling a lie.
“Camille,” I snap, untangling her arms from around me. Putting distance between us, I look at Story and then hold out my hand to her.
The ire of burning bronze licks in her eyes, but she raises her hand and joins with mine.
The jerk of Camille’s head has her glaring in confusion at Story’s and my hands. “What’s going on, Coop?”
I catch the roll of Story’s eyes before she starts to pull away. I hold her tighter. No way am I letting her slip away. I will make it very clear to everyone in this fucking party who I’m with and who I’m choosing.
More guests arrive, pulling Patrice away to take their coats and leaving the three of us standing there.
“This is my girlfriend, Story Salenger,” I reply, glancing at Story beside me. “Story, this is Camille Arden.”
Camille grins like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. “How sweet,” she says condescendingly as she looks from Story back to me. She pats my arm. “Is this the suit I bought you?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Shaking her head like she’s innocent to the pot she’s stirring, she adds, “I always did like the cut of Tom Ford on you. Don’t you agree, Story? That’s such a unique name. Very . . . I’m not sure.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Waving her hand to brush the small talk away, she continues to blabber, “I had no idea you were dating anyone. Why didn’t you mention her last week when we got together?”