Wonderful.
I sigh.
Future doctor, phony sex columnist—those are practically on equal playing grounds, right?
Right…
Not.
I follow Blythe to the elevator, squeezing in with the crowd, thankful for the silence. Speaking on the elevator always just seems a little strange to me, awkward, you know? I mean, come on. All anyone does on an elevator when two people are having a conversation is listen in—you're stuck in a box, there's nothing else to do beside eavesdrop!
"Uh, Skylar?" Blythe calls to me when we step outside the office. I've already turned toward the subway station. But I pause, spinning. She's standing next to a black town car, shaking hands with a driver in a suit, conversing like they are best friends. "My mom sent her car to pick us up."
I mean, duh. Obviously. Why didn't I think of that?
"Thank you," I murmur to the driver as I slip through the door, which he shuts behind me. The seats are a fine tan leather. The handles are mahogany. There are even new bottles of water waiting in the cup holders for us.
I fold my hands in my lap, unsure. Blythe and I don't really do one-on-one girl time. I'm too afraid of her for that—and for good reason.
"So," Blythe chirps, bouncing on her seat to shift directions, facing me. "Before we pretend to be best friends for my parents, I just want you to know one thing. I'm on to you, Skylar."
I gulp at her ominous tone. Did I suddenly get thrown into a James Bond film? She's on to me? On to what? "Uh, I'm not really sure what you mean, Blythe."
"I've never known a sex columnist who loves to play innocent so much," she drawls.
And I can’t help it. I throw on a snarky attitude and smile. Maybe Bridge is finally rubbing off on me. "How many sex columnists do you know, exactly?"
Her eyes narrow. "You blush like a fifteen-year-old girl every time we have to discuss your columns in our weeklies. You can't even say the word sex without smiling self-consciously. And the only R-rated stories you tell are in writing. Not once have I heard you say any of this out loud, because you can't. You're just lucky my brother isn’t one to kiss and tell, or one to rat out a friend."
My heart is pounding, but I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"Oh, you know," she whispers, and I find I'm leaning in to hear every one of her words. "We work for a newspaper. We're supposed to work in journalism, not fiction."
"Everything I write in my columns comes from my heart," I say, and it's not a lie. Really. All the sentiments I put on paper are real, it's just the details that are a little, well, embellished. "It's just easier for me to write about these things, rather than talk about them out loud. That makes me shy, not a liar."
Blythe just nods, smiling sweetly. "Okay…"
Except she says it in a way that means everything but. Maybe if I get her angry, she'll crack. I lick my lips, nibbling on the lower one a little, thinking.
Just go for it.
"You're jealous," I remark flippantly. "You were working there before me, and instead of giving you a column of your own, Victoria hired me."
"Jealous of you?" Blythe asks, only it's not a question, not at all. "Please. I just don't like the entire city reading about my brother's private life every week."
"I don't even write out his name, only initials. There is no way anyone knows who he is unless he wants them to."
"I know who he is," she says just as the car pulls to a stop outside of a gorgeous brownstone on Fifth Avenue, right across the street from Central Park. "And as soon as I can, I'm telling Victoria who you really are. I just have to wait for my brother to break up with you first. And trust me, Skylar, it's only a matter of time."
And then the driver opens the door so Blythe can make a perfectly grand exit, while I scoot ungracefully across the seat, catching my coat button on a buckle and practically falling out of the car. By the time I get to the front door, Patrick is already there holding it open for his sister.
"Hey, Skylar." He leans down, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Hey," I murmur, trying to hide the fact that anything is the matter. "I was worried you'd be late."
He shrugs. "I actually have a conference call in about half an hour, so I thought I would come for the introductions and then while you guys have cocktails, I can take the call from my father's study."
My heart sinks. Feed me to the wolves, why don’t you? But on the outside, I just smile warmly, pretending it doesn’t bother me.
"Where are Mom and Dad?" Blythe asks, handing her coat to a maid who just appeared out of nowhere. I do the same, unused to being helped with such menial tasks. I mean, I can hang a coat on a rack myself.
"Upstairs," he says, taking my hand and leading me to the grand staircase a few feet away.
Now that I have a second to look around, I have to admit, I'm pretty much speechless. This house is amazing. Like, could have its own television special amazing. The Queen of England would find this place impressive. The walls are covered in warm, rich wood. The ceiling is painted—painted! Artwork is displayed in intricately carved golden frames. The upholstered furniture is crafted of shimmering silk, pin tucked and with feet carved like little claws. I can just tell that everything in here is from an auction house, infused with history. The grandfather clock. The grand piano. The marble fireplace. And when I look up, the stairs keep winding for at least two more floors. I mean, it's a mansion—a mansion in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in the world. A dozen of my apartments, heck maybe more, would easily fit in here. I knew Blythe was a socialite, I knew Patrick had some money to burn, but I had no idea they came from this.
"Blythe," a voice calls softly.
I look toward the sound to a woman dressed in a beautiful green woven dress with a matching jacket, and I've learned enough at the style section to know it's vintage Chanel and crazy expensive. By her side is a man in a dark gray suit, complete with a tie.
I swallow, smoothing my hands down the front of my black work dress—from the sale rack, obviously. At least I wore a bright scarf with it today to add a little color, Bridge's suggestion of course. And I'm in designer flats—I mean, they're a few years old, and a gift from my mom, but still recognizable with a bright gold buckle over my toes. For me, this is about as dressed up as it gets. But I feel a little bit like a toddler in a room of adults.
"And you must be Skylar," the woman says, giving me the once over. I can't decipher her expression enough to know if she approves or not—I see now that Blythe is just the ice princess, the queen is right here, hiding away in her castle.
"So nice to meet you, Mrs. Keaton." I reach out and shake her hand, which is a little awkward since she's still seated, sipping on a cup of tea. I turn to her husband, who did at least politely stand, towering over me with the same height of his son. "And you too, Mr. Keaton."
"Welcome to our home," he says after releasing my fingers. "Patrick speaks very highly of you." I sneak a peek at Patrick, who is smiling warmly in my direction. Maybe tonight won't be so bad. "Would you like a cocktail?"
I look around realizing he has a crystal scotch glass beside him, and another one waiting to be filled for Patrick. But somehow, alcohol just seems dangerous in this situation. I need all my wits about me. "Um, maybe just a glass of water, if that's all right?"
"Not a problem," he says and then nods to someone over my shoulder. I can't help but feel as though I've been transported to another century. These people have servants working for them.
"So, where did you grow up?" Mr. Keaton asks once we've all settled on the cushions. Patrick's arm is draped lightly across my shoulders, and I'm drawing comfort from the warm touch of his skin.