The Lies They Tell(35)
Bridges leaned in front of the mirror, knotting his tie, making a frustrated sound. “I suck at this.”
“I can do it.” She stood in front of him, crossing the wide end of the tie over the narrow end, tucking it through the neck hole. He smelled good, fresh out of the shower, like expensive shaving lotion and sporty deodorant. It didn’t feel strange being so near to him now.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when his hands found the small of her back, but she didn’t expect the intensity of his touch, almost desperate. His fingers slid south, and he gripped her there, lifting her slightly to him as he leaned against the back of the couch. Her breath caught—she should say something, put on the brakes—then held as he kissed her. She didn’t remember putting her arms around his neck, but when they finally came up for air, she was eye to eye with him.
He didn’t let go, so she finished the Windsor knot with their noses touching, snugging it up to his collar and patting his lapel. “There.”
“You know”—he kissed her again, softer, just beneath the jawline—“we could blow this whole thing off. Stay here.”
She breathed out, gaining a little equilibrium, as his lips slid to her throat. “You said your grandfather really wants you to go.” She moved back a little, but he was still holding her; she was almost straddling his leg.
“I’ll tell him you got sick or something.”
She laughed a little—she didn’t know what else to do—and pushed away from him, walking over to the windows, which looked out on the cliff and water, a wooden stairwell allowing passage to the beach below. “Nice view.” She kept talking, words shoring up her defenses. “I can totally see it. Handsome young socialite Bridges Spencer swirling a snifter of brandy as he looks down on his private world.” She turned back. “Tell me you’ve got a velvet smoking jacket around here somewhere.”
He stared at her. “Where do you get this shit?”
She shrugged, flicking a carved sandpiper figurine on the windowsill. “Too many books.”
Bridges straightened, checked out his tie in the mirror. “Sweet. How’d you do that so fast?”
“The things you learn in food service.”
“What’s it like?” She glanced at him. “I mean, working at the club.” He took a few steps, hands in his pockets, checking out his shoes. “I’ve never done anything like that. Do you guys, like, totally hate us?” He laughed quickly, but there was vulnerability there, something very un-Bridges in his look.
“Hate you?” She moved to the coffee table, picking up an urchin shell from the bowl, pressing the spines gently into her fingertips. Kitchen talk came back to her, a thousand snarky remarks, plenty she’d made herself, an attitude she’d settled into. She pictured Dad hunched in the Garrisons’ gatehouse that night, hands numb with cold even with the space heater going, just trying to get through until morning and earn his under-the-table two hundred bucks to take the edge off the usual Christmas cash drain. “It’s just . . . you know, there’s a line. Staff on one side, members on the other.”
“Is there a line between us?” He came up behind her, slid a finger under one of her straps, smoothed it out. “I don’t want there to be.”
She couldn’t find any answer that he’d want to hear. “Don’t get deep on me, Bridges.”
His smile was slow in coming, but then he chuckled, shaking his head. “One of these days, you’re not going to have a smart-ass remark. It’ll happen. I’m going to get you.”
“Never.” She led the way outside.
It was strange to have Bridges in her car, his legs filling the space where only Reese and Dad had ever stretched out. “Can you pull in for a sec?” Bridges pointed to the circular drive in front of the main house. “Gramps wants to see us off.”
Pearl’s nervousness returned in full force. She parked and followed Bridges through the gleaming foyer into a parlor, where Mr. Spencer stood by a liquor table, pouring himself a glass. He was already dressed for the evening in pale summer-weight flannel, a brightly colored handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket. He turned in mid-sip and smiled, gaze keen and interested. “Don’t you two look dapper. Pearl, I hardly recognized you. You look like a vision in that pink.”
A vision of what, she wasn’t sure. “Thanks. Nice hankie.”
Mr. Spencer insisted on pictures despite Bridges’s groan. The old man withdrew a smartphone from his inner pocket and snapped a few times, hardly giving Pearl a chance to smile before he vanished it into his coat again.
“Are you leaving soon?” Bridges picked up a snow globe from a nearby end table, rolled it from hand to hand, sending glitter into cascades.
“Once I’m properly lubricated. It isn’t safe to attend these things sober. You run the risk of realizing what crashing bores they really are—” He cleared his throat, took another sip, made a sound of exclamation. “You should take the Mustang. Absolutely. I’ll have Gus bring it around.”
Bridges glanced at Pearl. “Is that cool with you?”
“Uh, sure.”
Mr. Spencer raised his glass in cheers, downed the contents, and came over to squeeze Bridges’s shoulder. “I only get to see you a couple times a year. God knows I wish it was more. Thanks for stopping by and giving an old man a thrill.” Then he took Pearl’s hand and kissed it, something she’d never experienced before; somehow, coming from Mr. Spencer, the gesture didn’t seem contrived. “Pearl. A pleasure.” He made his way back to the table. “Enjoy the Mustang.” He nodded, gaze traveling to the ceiling. “I always had good luck with that car.”