Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (7 page)

Wow, she didn’t even pause to take a breath.

“Lila—”

“I SAID
DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?
”

“You’re acting like a crazy person.”

“You’re the crazy one if you think I’ll let you get cold feet!”

“My feet are actually quite warm, I’m wearing those sheepskin L.L. Bean slippers Parker bought me for Christmas last year—”

“That’s it! I’m coming over there and kicking your ass.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “I’m going to the opening! It was a joke! Please relax. No need to kick my ass.”

Stony silence blasts across the line.

“Lila?” I suppress a laugh. “Still alive?”

“That was
not
funny.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was pretty amusing.”

“I can still come over there and kick your ass.”

I stop laughing instantly. Lila does Krav Maga. For
fun
. She could totally kick my ass.

“Sorry,” I mutter, like a five-year-old forced to apologize for kicking her sister under the table at dinner.

“Apology accepted,” she says breezily, threats of bodily harm already forgotten. “I have a dry-bar appointment at
Blo
tonight, so I can’t help you get ready. Can I trust you to wear something scandalously hot without me there to run interference?”

“Firstly, my closet is bigger than yours. Secondly, I’ve spent twenty-four years dressing myself. I think I can manage one night without you.”

“Mhmm.” She murmurs, as though she doesn’t quite agree. “See you there. Seven. Don’t be late!”

She clicks off.

“Bye,” I say to dead air, for the second time in as many hours.

My life is so fucked.

True friends don’t judge one another.

They judge other people.

Together.

Phoebe West, ruminating on friendship.

By the time seven rolls around, nervous butterflies have taken up residence in my gut. I watch Boston drift by through tinted glass in the back seat of the town car I hired for the night and try to ignore the damned winged demons flinging themselves at my stomach lining on five-second intervals. The sun has nearly set — its dying rays turn the Charles River into a copper mirror as we drive over the bridge to Cambridge. Shifting in my seat in a vain attempt to get comfortable, my eyes absently track the movement of Harvard crew teams, their oars moving in perfect tandem, their sleek boats gliding across the gleaming surface like water bugs on a lake.

The hands on my lap are so tightly clenched, my freshly manicured nails cut crescent-moons into my palms. I can feel the fine boning of my dress pressed tight against my ribs. For a split second, I think that thin fabric might be all that’s holding my quick-beating heart inside my chest.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I know exactly why I’m nervous.

Nate.

Just the thought of seeing him sends a thrill shooting through my nerve endings, makes every fine hair on my body stand up straight, evaporates every ounce of saliva from my mouth. I’m not even near him yet, but if I close my eyes I can almost feel his presence. That dark gaze. That gritty tone. The sinuous way he moves, like a panther gliding through shadow. All coiled power and restrained strength — held in total check, but unleashed at a moment’s notice.

He’s always moved like that, I suppose, but for the last few years I’ve…. Well, not
forgotten
. You can’t forget a thing like that, not entirely. But, through Herculean effort, I’ve managed to push thoughts of sleek muscle and lithe strides to the back of my mind.

Seeing him again last month, though…

It was a stark reminder of his allure, of the pull I feel whenever I’m around him. Just one glance, one touch, one fractured instant with his chest pressed against mine and our eyes locked, and all those forbidden feelings shot straight back to the surface.

Maybe that’s why he’s been stalking my dreams, every night since. My eyes press closed as I replay some of the (seriously NSFW) images my subconscious mind has conjured into existence during the past few weeks — the ones that make me wake suddenly, sheets twisted around my legs, heart racing inside my chest, hair mussed against my pillow, sweaty hands gripping hot blankets. Wishing I could hold onto something that would hold me back.

I shiver against the leather seat and tell myself it’s from the chilly AC vent blowing air on me.

Just dreams, Phoebe. I’m sure, in real life, sex with Nate isn’t remotely as…

Athletic?

Orgasmic?

Bendy? 

I’m startled out of my reverie when we pull up to the funky, brick waterfront building Gemma’s chosen as the space for her gallery. Warm light spills out of the large bay windows overlooking the Charles. As usual, I’ve chosen to be fashionably late — which will make Lila about as happy as a middle-school girl with braces on picture day — and can see there are already plenty of people milling around on the second floor sampling appetizers, making small talk, and pretending to study the art on the walls. A gleaming silver sign caps the doublewide doorway, stamped with a single word in clean, lowercase font.

karma

The place looks somehow elegant and edgy at the same time, tastefully decorated in an industrial-chic style. I can’t wait to get inside and congratulate Gemma on how well it turned out.

She initially wanted a small, intimate opening — a few close friends, some crackers, maybe a bottle of champagne or four. But any successful gallery needs the rubber-stamp approval of Boston’s blue bloods… especially one like Karma, which is basically a non-profit in disguise.

Tricking people into giving back through the brokering of ostentatiously expensive art!

That’s what Gemma says, anyway.

Every penny made on sales will be funneled into public school art programs across the city. Thus, true to the gallery name, every purchase is an instant karma point — stocking classrooms with paintbrushes, supplying the salary for much-needed art teachers, changing the lives of kids who’ve never held so much as a colored pencil.

Apparently, Gemma came up with the idea while she was “lying around like a log in the hospital” — again, her words, not mine. That wasn’t even two months ago. I’m not quite sure how she’s managed to throw together the most exclusive event on Boston’s social calendar in such a short time. (Chase probably had something to do with it — that man has a way of making things happen.)

With practiced trepidation, I eye the dozen or so reporters staked out on either side of the black carpet that’s been rolled from the doors to the curb. Velvet ropes are all that hold their questions and camera flashes at bay. I watch as a middle-aged couple steps from a town car a few ahead of ours in the queue, posing for a picture with fake smiles plastered on their lips. They wait a few seconds until the shutters click down, then move into the building, instantly replaced by another carpet arrival.

Snooze.

I’ve been to enough of these events over the years that the cameras and the questions don’t faze me much anymore. It used to be overwhelming — now, it’s mostly just annoying. I’ll glide by them, face set in a politely detached expression, and pause with my hip dropped and my legs positioned
just
so, ensuring the picture of me that appears on Page 6 tomorrow is flattering. And it
will
appear, no matter how much I wish it wouldn’t. In this town, being Milo West’s only daughter holds a certain amount of cachet.

Smile. Pose. Say “Oscar de la Renta” when they ask the inevitable, inexcusably sexist question about my attire. 

Easy.

It wasn’t always. I still remember the first time they shouted, “Miss West, who are you wearing tonight?” as I moved along a red carpet, squinting against the strobes and trying not to sweat into my Chanel couture. It was the year my father took Parker and me to the TIME 100 gala as his plus one — the year Milo West made the list as the 10
th
most influential man in the world, when he perfected streaming technology that made all prior fiber optic carriers look like dachshunds at a greyhound race. The year we went from run-of-the-mill rich to
oh-my-fucking-god-that’s-a-lot-of-zeros
rich.

I was eight; Parker was twelve. He held my arm and moved way slower than he would’ve liked, just so I wouldn’t trip over the low heels I hadn’t quite figured out how to walk in yet. Without him to steady me, I’d have fallen flat on my face and disgraced the family.

As soon as we got back to the hotel that night he teased me about my bobbling gate, but he never said a word as he held me up on that damn carpet. Even though his own hands were shaking, he never let me waver. Silent, steady, strong. Always the good man in a storm, the one constant I could count on.

Trademark Parker.

God, I miss him. It’s been months, since I’ve seen him. He’s always loved to travel, but it seems his trips are getting longer and longer as we get older. Three weeks then three months then six months then a year. Galapagos, Croatia, Canary Islands, French Riviera. I worry one of these times he’ll hop on the WestTech jet with a backpack, fly off into the sunset, and never come back.

The thought makes my throat constrict and my chest ache, so I push it away. Just in time, too — we’ve reached the front of the queue. I slip on my game face, steady my shoulders, and force myself not to blink when the chauffeur pulls open my door and offers me a hand into the explosion of camera flashes.

Miss West!

Phoebe!

Look this way!

Who are you wearing?

Is that Versace?

No date tonight, Miss West?

God, they’re so predictable. I resist the urge to roll my eyes — lest I want to land in TMZ’s next “CELEBRITY NIGHTMARES!” segment, like that unfortunate time a paparazzo caught me stuffing an obscenely large sausage-and-pepper sandwich into my face at that food truck on Boylston.

BREAKING NEWS: Phoebe West likes sausage in and around her mouth.

My smile doesn’t waver, my steps don’t falter. I glide past them like a mother-fucking starling in my blue-black silk, coasting on wind currents of false confidence and past experience. Head up, chest out, soft hands, demure laugh.

Easy, easy, easy.

I might not need him to hold me up in high heels, anymore, but I can’t help wishing Parker was by my side as I make my way toward the building, fighting my watering, light-exposed eyes every step of the way and praying to god my smile isn’t as cold in the pictures as it feels in this moment, frozen on my lips.

***

“You’re late.”

“Yep.”

“You promised you’d be on time.”

“Yep.”

“You know I’d kick your ass if you weren’t wearing couture.”

“Yep.”

Lila sighs. “You’re impossible.”

I hide my smile behind the rim of my glass and take a sip of Dom Pérignon. A
small
sip. Champagne has a tendency to go straight to my head — I blame the bubbles.

“It wasn’t entirely my fault,” I murmur, swallowing delicately. “The vultures outside wanted pictures.”

“Must be tough, being a celebrity.” Lila shakes her head in faux sympathy. “How magnanimous of you to grace us, the little people, with your presence for the evening.”

“Shove it up your ass, Lila.”

“Oh, shush. You know I’m joking.” She tilts her head. “Only about the fame shit. Not about you being inexcusably late.”

“Thirty minutes is not inexcusable — it’s fashionable.”

“Not when there are people waiting on you!” She huffs. “And don’t even start that
better late than never
crap. It’s not a real excuse. Perpetually tardy people just bandy that about as a defense for never having their shit together.”

“I’m not bandying anything about. I’ve never
bandied
in my life.”

She cocks her head at me again, a dubious expression on her face.

I sigh. “Please, just relax. I’m here now.” I stop a passing waiter, grab a flute off his tray with a wink of thanks, and shove it into Lila’s grasp. “Have some champagne. Better yet, go bother your date.”

“How do you know I brought a date?”

I shoot her a look. “When have you ever
not
brought a date to one of these things?”

She has the grace to blush. “Plenty of times.”

Now I’m the one looking dubious.

“Fine. Not
plenty
of times.” Her voice is defensive. “But I’m sure there’s been a time. At least
one
.”

“Not
this
time, though.”

She says nothing.

“So, what’s his name?”

A slow smile twists her lips. “Padraic.”

“
Padraic?
” I snort. “Where’d you dig him up? The Emerald Isle? The Burren?
Tara
?”

She narrows her eyes at me.  “He just joined my Krav Maga class. He asked me out. As it happens, I needed a date to this shindig, so I invited him to come. Don’t get me wrong, track pants and a bare chest in a sweaty gym hold a certain appeal… but a suit and tie, on the other hand…” She whistles under her breath. “
Damn
.”

I arch one eyebrow. “So, you’ve been spending a lot of time rolling around with him both on and off the mats, I assume?”

Her mouth twitches in amusement. “You jealous?”

“Yep,” I admit shamelessly, taking another sip.

Lila’s grin widens. “Well, don’t be. I have a surprise for you.”

Anxiety grips my stomach like a fist, sending the butterflies still swarming there into a frenzy. Lila’s surprises never go well.

Like the time she baked a “special” ingredient into a batch of brownies without telling me… which I consumed twenty minutes before field hockey tryouts, our junior year at prep school. And the time she bought me a DIY Brazilian bikini waxing kit as a birthday gift… which is still sitting, unused, at the back of my closet somewhere because,
hello
, if anyone’s putting hot wax near my hoo-hah, it’s going to be a trained professional.

Needless to say, news of her impending surprise is accompanied by a fair amount of dread.

“Please tell me you didn’t buy tickets to Burning Man, Lila.” I shudder. She’s been threatening to drag us to Nevada’s famed music festival in for
years
. “You know I can’t handle that much bare old-man penis in one week. Especially in the middle of the desert, with no viable escape options.”

“That’s not your surprise.” Her eyes dance with humor. “Plus, Burning Man isn’t until September. You’ve got months to prepare.”