Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(62)

“Please. Call me Victoria.”

I smirked. Mrs. Drake had been asking me to call her by her first name for years, and it was impossible. Connor’s mother exuded the aura of a famous person—one step removed from mere flesh and blood like the rest of us. She was far warmer than Mr. Drake, but still intimidating. If Autumn ever felt comfortable enough to call her Victoria, I’d eat my shorts.

“Connor tells me you’ve petitioned Harvard to create your own major?” Mrs. Drake asked.

“I will be,” Autumn said. “I’m still putting the project together.”

“Connor’s older brother, Jefferson, is set to graduate Harvard Business School with Honors this spring.”

“I heard,” Autumn said, her gaze flickering to Connor for a moment, her smile stiffening. “What an amazing accomplishment.”

“We’re very proud.” Mrs. Drake beckoned us deeper into the house. “Come. Everyone’s here except for your mother and sisters, Wes. Miranda called and said they’re all driving up tomorrow.”

“The Wahlberg show will have to wait,” I muttered to Autumn.

She grinned. “Whatta pissah.”

I barely contained the laugh that threatened to bust out of me.

God, this girl.

We adjourned to the lavish sitting room of polished mahogany and glass tables. A fire burned in the fireplace. Mr. Drake and Connor’s older brother sat with a tall blonde woman dressed impeccably in slacks, and a cashmere sweater. Jefferson’s fiancée, I presumed. Perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. A dystopian film director’s wet dream of the perfect woman.

I glanced down at Autumn—small and delicate, but holding her own in this intimidating space, a genuine smile on her full lips.

She’s fucking perfect.

The Drake men exchanged handshakes and greetings. “Dad, this is my girlfriend, Autumn Caldwell,” Connor said.

Alan Drake nodded curtly at Autumn. “A pleasure.”

“Thank you for having me, Mr. Drake,” Autumn said.

“Hey, Wes,” Jefferson called, walking over and shaking my hand with a grip a tad stronger than necessary. “Good to see you again. This is my fiancée, Cassandra Malloy.”

Through the introductions, Mrs. Drake motioned over a caterer in a white blouse and apron, holding a tray of small dessert tarts. “We’ve had dinner, but you’re just in time for these and please, help yourself to any drink.”

“Autumn, can I get you anything?” Connor asked.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Wes?”

“I’m good,” I said. Something told me not to leave Autumn’s side as Jefferson indicated she should sit with him and Cassandra.

I clapped Connor’s shoulder as he headed to a glass table covered in bottles of expensive liquor. Autumn sank into one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace and I leaned on its arm. Casual on the outside, but holding a machine gun on the inside.

The senator left the room to take a call. Mr. Drake stood at the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantle, grim-faced and quiet, as usual.

“Tell me, Autumn,” Cassandra said. “Victoria said you’re applying to Harvard for grad school?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s your area of study?”

“Social anthropology,” she replied.

“I wasn’t aware that Harvard had a social anthropology department,” Jefferson said, putting one ankle on the other knee.

“It doesn’t,” Autumn said. “I’m petitioning the Anthropology department with an application that includes a project focused on an area of socially-conscious reform in order to create a special degree for me.”

Jefferson pursed his lips as if reluctantly—and condescendingly—impressed. “And what area do you feel is in dire need of reform?”

Autumn folded her hands in her lap as Connor returned with a glass of, at least three fingers of Scotch. I reluctantly relinquished my post to him.

“I’m still working that out,” Autumn said. “Several areas I’m leaning toward. Population impact on the environment, the effects of racism at different economic levels, or the rights of the disabled and urban planning.”

“So, we have a social justice warrior in our midst.” Jefferson surveyed his audience to see if we shared his amusement.

My teeth clenched at the patronizing tone, but loosened as Autumn replied, “Yes, you do.” Her voice was cool and steady, her gaze unblinking. “Social change on a large scale usually begins with micro-protests or rebellions. Warriors who take a stand. Rosa Parks sitting at the front of the bus is the most famous example. The Me Too movement, being a modern day parallel.”

Cassandra sipped her wine. “Broad stroke, isn’t it?”

Jefferson sniffed. “Indeed. One can’t compare the Civil Rights Movement to a hashtag on Twitter.”

“I think the argument can be made that they have important similarities,” Autumn said, her voice stiffening. “In the same way that Ms. Parks’ action was a catalyst for the Civil Rights Movement, Me Too opened the floodgates of women—and men—coming forward to tell their stories of abuse, often in environments where sexual harassment was considered an unchangeable reality. For the first time, we’re seeing real consequences for abuse of power and voices are demanding to be heard. My aim is to be one of those voices, and if that makes me a social justice warrior, then so be it.”