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I open my door for her and find Tweetie coming down the stairs from his apartment. He stops, stares, and laughs.
“Done already?” He lifts his wrist, but he doesn’t wear a watch, so it’s just for show. “Do I need to apologize for my boy?”
“Fuck off.” I glare at him.
Tweetie holds out his arm. “I can escort you to the gate.”
Like hell he will. “I’ve got her.” I take her hand and step out of my doorway.
“No shoes? No shirt? You trying to get the puck bunnies all hot and bothered?” He laughs and jogs down the steps, lifting his arm when he walks out of the gate. “See you soon, Leigh. I’m sure of it.”
I shake my head and walk Leigh to the gate. After she’s secure in a taxi, I walk back up the stairs. It’s going to take all my willpower not to text her in an hour.
Ten
Kyleigh
I’m still stunnedover the fact that I have Rowan Landry’s cell phone number in my phone, and I’m supposed to call him whenever I want to fuck him. It’s a power trip, I swear. I want to text him this morning just to see how serious he is about this agreement.
Instead, I’m on my way to my mom’s storefront with her coffee order. It’s time that I confront her about what I saw, as much as I’m dreading it. Rowan was the perfect distraction this weekend, but I can’t put it off any longer.
That’s not to say that my stomach isn’t a ball of nerves. I’m so full of anger and sadness and shock that I’m not sure how this is going to go.
My mom has her own bridal boutique in downtown Chicago. Although she’s been approached by major companies to design for them, or to sell the brand to them and have her work as the creative director, she’s stuck to the boutique wedding experience. She believes the dress makes the wedding and that every bride deserves to feel her most beautiful on her wedding day. She used to sew them all herself until business really took off, and now she employs some seamstresses to fulfill her vision.
It’s been an amazing experience, working alongside her since college and watching her fit brides, talk about the design, and interpret exactly what they want, even if they don’t know it themselves. I’ve seen so many brides cry just from looking at her sketches and fabric swatches before the dress is even made. I’ve looked up to Mom all these years and figured maybe I would take over one day, but now, I’m not so sure. Because it all feels like a lie, and I can’t imagine that would ever change given what she’s done.
Her usual eighties music is playing when I walk in the back door. I push back the dread of what I saw a couple days ago.
Instead of going into my office and dropping my purse off, I go right to her office. No one else comes in until ten, so I have enough time to talk to her in private.
She’s wearing her usual loungewear, although it costs more than some of our clients’ wedding dresses. Maybe not exactly, but close. She’ll change into her pantsuit or a dress if a client is coming in. Sitting at her drawing board with her glasses on, she has one hand on a scrap of fabric, examining it.
I knock lightly to avoid startling her. “Mom.”
She doesn’t turn around. “Come and look at this, Ky. Is the lace too old-fashioned for this dress?”
I steel myself, drop the coffee holder on her desk, and walk over.
Her dark hair that matches my own is pulled into a low bun. I resist the urge to yank the holder out of her hair and tug her to the floor. How could she do this to our family?
“I need to talk to you.”
She swivels in her chair and lowers her glasses, obviously hearing the hitch in my voice I always have when I’m upset. “Okay, but what about the lace?”
“I don’t give a shit about the lace.”
Her head rears back. “Kyleigh.” She tries to give me her mom tone that used to work on me.
“I came here on Saturday,” I say. “I forgot the card for the wedding, and I came here.”
I grab my iced coffee from the holder and slam my straw down to free it of the paper, then aggressively place it in the cup and suck down a big gulp. There’s so much I want to say, but I’m here for answers.
“Okay, what does that have to do with the lace?”
I tilt my head at her and narrow my eyes. She slides off her stool and walks over to her desk, taking the coffee out of the holder.
“I’m waiting,” I say.
