Chapter Twenty Damion
CHAPTER TWENTY
“A curly-haired woman weakens my knees every damn time.”
—Remington
Damion
“Good God, I cannot believe they’re here.”
Already, Mom?
Barely in the door and they were gossiping.
Wonderful.
My parents had forced me to come with them to the ridiculous cocktail party because apparently, as hosts of a ball, their attendance was mandatory. I’d always been able to get out of shit like this, but my dad had become just as nuts as my mom about the season.
So there I was, at Claire’s stupid soiree, counting down the minutes until I could leave. Thank God Beckett was here, upstairs somewhere; at least I could hang out with him until I was sprung.
I reached for a passing scallop, not hungry but needing the culinary distraction, and I’d just popped it into my mouth when I saw her.
Julia.
She was walking toward the stairs with her brother, and I almost swallowed the damn appetizer whole when I sucked in a breath too quickly.
Fuck, I thought as I coughed.
“You okay, Dame?” my dad asked.
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat.
She looked… hell, she looked very Julia.
She was gnawing nervously on that lower lip, walking too fast in high heels as she basically followed at Liam’s, and her hair was cascading out from under her headband like a waterfall of long curls.
She looked hurried and purposeful.
Chaotic and fresh.
Unrefined and alive, just like she’d been in Times Square.
She carried herself like a commoner, but dear God, who didn’t like watching a commoner running wild in the kingdom?
She was wearing a black cocktail dress that did amazing things for her shoulders and legs, but it had ruffles that probably wouldn’t last two minutes without someone commenting on them.
“Did Claire invite them?” my dad asked.
Julia and Liam disappeared up the stairs.
“I mean, of course she did,” my mom said in disgust. “Shawna’s on the committee.”
I turned away, following my parents’ watchful gaze until I saw them.
A couple I didn’t know, a couple who didn’t look like they belonged there.
Holy shit, they have to be the Lowells.
I wasn’t sure how I’d expected them to look, but it wasn’t like this.
Julia’s mom had the same color hair as her, a deep brown that wanted to be red, but hers was straight and ended at her shoulders. She was wearing a black dress—understated and quiet—and sensible high heels, and her smile was warm as she listened to Claire Roth.
She looked smart, like a mom from a sitcom about a working-class family with good values.
Julia’s dad was nodding, listening intently to the conversation from behind functional wire-rimmed glasses, his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants.
His hair was short, like he’d walked into a mall salon and just asked for “a little bit off the top.” His goatee looked more functional than fashionable, like he grew it to keep his face warm.
They looked parental; they looked nice; they looked responsible.
Definitely not like the grifters that they were.
My jaw clenched as I watched them, because their niceness pissed me off. Was that how they’d latched on to Remi, with Midwestern pleasantries?
“It’s insulting, having to work with Shawna on the committee, knowing what she—what they—did to Uncle Remi,” my mother complained.
“Just keep playing it cool, Whit,” my dad said in his best I need to placate my wife tone.
His eyes had that Quinn Rutledge burn going on as he glared at Julia’s parents, the look of a villain whose mind was running through a million diabolical plans.
“Let her relax into thinking she’s gotten away with it, that no one here knows who she really is,” he said, his predatory gaze never leaving his prey. “That’ll make it more satisfying when we get to rip it all away.”