Page 45 of Fake Dark Vows
“Nonsense, Rose,” my mother says. “Don’t look so concerned, honey. It isn’t mandatory that you travel together. If I know my son, he won’t clear a slot in his diary for at least the next six months, so you can take a friend instead.”
Rose’s gaze flits erratically between my mother and me, trying to gauge how best to react without hurting anyone’s feelings. “I-I don’t know.” Deep breath. “It’s such a lot of money. I couldn’t possibly?—”
“I’m happy to take my brother’s place.” I didn’t even notice Damon working his way around the porch to reach the drinks trolley. “Show her the ropes. Test her luck on the roulette.”
I should’ve sought him out when I got back–told him the deal was off. My fists clench as he sways even closer to Rose.
“Perhaps you should ask Rose who she would like to travel with,” Jennifer says loudly enough to cut through the low buzz of conversation that erupted when the prize was announced.
Rose lowers her gaze, looking more out of place than ever, and for the first time in my privileged life, I get a glimpse of how we must appear to outsiders, standing here on our private island wearing outfits that probably cost more than she would earn in a month working in a kindergarten. The image vanishes as quickly as it appeared, but I already have the urge to wrap my arms around her and get her the hell out of here while she’s still relatively unscathed.
“I’ll go to Vegas with Rose,” I say before I can change my mind. “If she’ll have me.”
In my peripheral vision, I notice the set of Damon’s jaw like I just cut in line and bought the last ticket for a Knicks game; Jennifer’s smug smile before she raises her cocktail glass to her lips; Kelly slipping back inside the house unnoticed; the upward turn of my mom’s lips at the corners. I notice all this while drinking in Rose’s smile.
I find Rose in the pantry fetching more rum for the cocktails, which are flowing on the buzz of the treasure hunt.
“Brandon? You made me jump.”
I step inside, and she straightens to face me squarely, a bottle of white rum in her hand. The door swings silently shut behind me, making the room go dark, and neither of us pays it any heed.
“Is there something else you wanted?” She raises the bottle between us.
“No, I just wanted to say…” What did I want to say? “The trip to Vegas isn’t mandatory.”
Her expression falters, her gaze finally flickering towards the closed door. Muffled voices reach us from the chef’s kitchen—sounds as if someone is singing.
“You could always take the money instead. I could speak to my mom if that’s what you’d prefer.” I realize, too late, how patronizing I sound. “Alternatively, you can arrange to go with a friend or…”
Fuck! I’m acting like a sixteen-year-old, trying clumsily to find out if she has a boyfriend without getting to the point.
“Is that what you want?”
“What I want?”
I can’t remember the last time someone had me on the back foot this way. Internally, I’m trying to blame the ‘coward’ conversation for my awkwardness, but deep down, somewhere behind that barrier Jennifer claims I’m hiding behind, is a spark of recognition that this is all about Rose.
Scratch that. This is all about being close enough to reach out and touch her, to feel her body pressed against mine, and taste her lips.
“Do you want me to go with someone else?” she whispers.
“No.”
My head is screaming at me to turn around and walk back outside, pour myself a strong cocktail, and try to erase this stilted conversation from my mind. It’ll be forgotten by tomorrow morning, and I can start over, ditch the ‘take the money and run’ comment in the trash where it belongs. If today has taught me anything, it’s that Rose is more my equal than anyone I ever met in a boardroom, without even raising her voice or flashing a bank balance my way.
“What about your mom?” She pauses, the tip of her tongue running across her lips, in a gesture that seems so natural, I forget to question if she’s deliberately trying to be sexy as fuck. “How will she feel about us going to Vegas together?”
“I gave up asking my mom’s permission a long while ago.”
She smiles then. “Is it true there are no clocks in Vegas?”
“Yes. Clocks are a distraction the casinos don’t welcome.”
“How will it work, Brandon? I mean, where will we stay?”
She doesn’t mention sleeping arrangements, and the blood pumping around my veins has already decided that the question was deliberately ambiguous.
“I’ll take care of everything.”