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Blake rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says. “But it’s something we all know.”
“What I know,” my father says doggedly, “is that Theodore Furman will inherit the team when his father retires. While he might be a little . . . sloppy now, he’s going to own your team in the next few years. So, don’t say that about him!”
“I make no promises,” Blake says with a yawn.
It’s moments like this that I envy the fact that Blake can oppose our dad. Or that he can finish a sentence without being interrupted.
“Why do you want me there?” I inquire into the brief silence before I’m cut short again.
“Thought it would be fun for you,” my dad declares, shooting a warning glance at Blake before turning to me and giving me a stiff smile. “Your mom had this nice blue dress she wore for social events like this. I think it’ll look amazing on you.”
Every time there’s an event to go to, he suggests gowns from my late mom’s closet. I’ve never had an evening dress that didn’t come out of there. As a teenager, I loved the way he enjoyed picking out clothes for me, even down to the dowdy, ankle-length frocks he bought for me to wear on regular days. Until I realized that it was less about showing his love and more about him wanting me to look a certain way. Conservative, boring, and most of all, unappealing to men. My outfits have not changed much even now, partly to please him and partly because I can’t be bothered to overhaul my closet . . . yet.
I want to say no so badly. But somehow, I manage to keep my tepid smile in place. Right now, it’s easier to go along with his wishes.
“Okay, then,” I agree, ignoring Blake’s groan. “I’ll go.”
My dad flashes me a grateful smile before he turns to Blake and starts to grill him about today’s practice.
I sit in silence, thinking things over. My father is skilled at getting Blake and me to do the things he wants, succeeding most of the time with Blake, all the time with me.
But he never uses our dead mother unless he really, really wants us to do something. And it always works. I mean, why wouldn’t it? She died shortly after giving birth to me and feeling guilty was ingrained into my DNA.
He needs me to come to that party for some reason. I intend to find out why.
Two hours later,I’m dressed in an A-line, full-sleeved aquamarine dinner gown that must have been chic in the nineties. As much as I love feeling as close to my late mother as I possibly can, this dress is not my style, not even in the slightest. But I’m far more concerned with finding out why I’m here than wearing what I want, so I let him win this round.
Again.
I step into the large, elegantly decorated hall that is the antechamber of the Furmans’ obscenely large mansion. I slip along the wall before I’m noticed.
Not that anyone cares about my presence. Put up the image of a boring, quiet girl long enough, people will literally forget you exist. And even if they cared to remember, no one would give me a second glance in this dowdy, decades-old dress.
The goody-two-shoes act first started as a side-effect of craving my dad’s affection and listening to his patriarchal, albeit kind, advice on how women should behave. For a long time, I thought that was all I was supposed to be. Good, nun-like Britney. Until I transferred from my community college in Philly and went on to Rutgers for my degree in massage therapy. During those two years away from home, I finally came into myself.
But I am back in Philly now. I am no longergood ol’ Brit, though I still appreciate my faux image that provided me with a cover. I like being on the sidelines of a world I don’t enjoy, not having to talk to men I can barely stand and flyingunder my dad’s radar while I save up for my dream to own and run a spa in a city far away from here.
Keeping up the pretense has its uses. For now.
I survey the scene and get a quick layout. The other end of the room has a buffet table, a champagne tower, and a bunch of older men talking in low tones. They are Andy Furman’s friends, the aged owner of the Philadelphia Flyers.
Beside that group is a rowdy one. Theodore Furman, Andy’s son, is making a ruckus, well helped by his friends, a dozen other billionaire heirs who have never worked a day in their lives. Some of those childlike men have wives that form their own tight little circle in the corner. Looking over at the embarrassed looking women, I feel genuinely sorry for their predicament. It must suck to realize that you’ve married a whiny toddler.
But maybe getting to wear jewelry worth hundreds of thousands of dollars is a good enough consolation prize, judging from the huge diamonds on their necks.
At the center of the room, the Flyers are among themselves. I can spot Blake’s blond head, even from where I’m standing. They all look uncomfortable to be here, and more than a few of them have peeled off to chat up women standing around the hall.
As I spot Alex talking to a dazzling young woman at the other end of the hall, a sharp prick surges through my chest.
Jealousy, perhaps?
I push the thought away.
But curiosity torments me. What will they be up to later? Alex does not seem like the type of guy who needs to get to know a woman before he fucks her.
And if I were in her place, knowing what he looks like underneath that suit, I’d prefer to skip the pageantry and get right down to it.
Unbidden, an image of Alex stretching the woman over amassage bed and pounding into her flashes through my mind. My body buzzes from inside out, and my cheeks heat up.
