Black Ties and White Lies(25)

“I thought that meant I wouldn’t really be seeing anyone. Hence the word private. Now I’m going to have to walk into a store with a bunch of women who will probably think I’m some kind of fixer upper project for you or something like that.”

She has a point, but it doesn’t really matter. Yeah, Margo will probably get some weird looks, but deep down all of those people are most likely miserable inside and would’ve judged even if she came dressed accordingly. That’s just what people at this level do. “Why does it matter what anyone else thinks?” I prod.

“It doesn’t.” She sighs, pushing her hair off her shoulders so it falls down her back. “But it should matter to you. These are your people. Shouldn’t you be embarrassed or something to be seen with someone dressed like a commoner?” She says “commoner” sarcastically, her spunk returning despite her discomfort with her clothing of choice.

Turning so my back faces the building and I’m face-to-face with her, I pull on one string of the hoodie. “Something you need to learn real quick if you’re going to survive here is that everyone else’s opinion of you is bullshit. You can’t give a damn what they think or you’ll be miserable—just like them. It’s why they’ll stare at you a little too long. Why they’ll turn their noses up at you and gossip to their uppity friends. They want to make you feel miserable because that’s how they feel.”

Her eyes soften slightly. She seems to be regaining her confidence, becoming unapologetically herself by the second. “In reality, every single person in there that looks at you like you don’t belong is just pissed because it takes them thousands in clothes, fancy makeup, hair stylists and cosmetic surgeons to look even half as beautiful as you do in a sweatshirt with a minimal amount of makeup on.”

Taking a step backward, I grab her hand and pull us toward the building. We’re no doubt close to ten minutes late at this point. If I were anyone else, they probably would’ve canceled my appointment and moved on to the next person for the day. The stylists make their money based on commission. Waiting around for customers is not the way they earn their paychecks.

My fingers grip hers until we reach the elevators. I press the button and immediately two doors pop open. I pull her inside, finally letting go as the doors close.

I turn to look at her, finding her already watching me carefully. Her eyes jump all over my face. Her lips part and close repeatedly, like she wants to say something but isn’t.

“What?” I question, just now remembering to press the floor we need.

“Nothing,” she mumbles as the elevator begins to rise.

“The look on your face makes it seem like it isn’t nothing but rather something running through your mind.”

Her eyes find the floor as she pretends to be really interested in her white shoes. “It’s just that Beckham Sinclair, the billionaire bachelor”—she teases—“the guy who dates models, actresses and heiresses, called me beautiful.” Her voice sounds whimsical, like she doesn’t believe it happened, which can’t be the case.

Margo is the kind of beautiful that doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s no way she doesn’t realize it.

“I fail in comparison to your usual type,” she continues. It’s mildly irritating how she speaks of herself.

The elevator dings as the door opens. She takes a step forward, even though she has no idea where to go. Before she steps out of my reach, I grab her elbow, pulling her closer to me. The loose fabric of her sweatshirt sleeve bunches underneath my grip. Margo looks up at me, confusion in her eyes. I lean down, holding eye contact as I take a deep breath in.

“You could never fail in comparison to anyone, Margo.”





His vibrant eyes bore into mine as he looks down at me. The air around us feels electrified. Or maybe it’s the warm flush all over my body making it seem that way. When Beck’s eyes flick to my lips, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’d let him kiss me if he wanted to, no matter how angry I was with him after last night.

“Mr. Sinclair?” A voice comes from behind me.

Beck stares at my pursed lips for a few moments longer before he looks over my shoulder. The desire in his eyes burns out as quickly as it came. His features fix into business as usual. The moment dissipates into thin air.

Disappointment erupts in my chest.

“That’s me,” he answers, stepping around my body. Even though he no longer watches me, he does keep the moment somewhat alive by sliding his hand down my back until it rests at the small of my waist. His hand softly nudges me forward. My feet step forward on their own accord, my mind too busy wrapped in wondering if I imagined Beck wanting to kiss me or not.

The woman waiting smiles wide at us. “Great.” She pins her eyes on me, no hint of judgment in the way she looks at me, despite my lack of preparedness for shopping somewhere so posh. “And who do we have here?” Her tone is sweet, not condescending at all. I like her already. I love her style even more.

Beck removes his hand from my waist the same moment I take a step forward and hold my hand out to the woman. “I’m Margo,” I answer.

Her hand is cold as she places it mine and we shake hands. “Margo…”

“Just Margo.” She’s probably used to women who won’t respond unless you call them ma’am or by their last name. I don’t need that kind of formality. It seems weird and unnecessary.