Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I didn’t have a great relationship with my father. He’d always been the absent type, catering more to his clients and business partners than his family. That was what a wife was for, after all. And, in my mother’s opinion, that was what boarding school and nannies were for. My relationship dynamics with my parents had been doomed from the moment of conception.
Or, really, doomed the moment they found out I’d be a girl.
But whereas my mother and I both battled it out, my father had a consistent, exhausted approach when it came to me, like even just breathing the same air was taxing on his time.
Tuesday afternoon, I rapped my knuckles on the closed door with my free hand, waiting for the call. “You may enter,” my father said in a clear voice, not bothering asking who it was.
I pushed open the door to his office at the hotel, immediately greeted with the differences between his office and my mother’s. Where hers had been light and airy, my father’s office had with dark mahogany wood and lots of it. His desk was dark, his bookshelves were dark, though they held nothing notable on them. My father never cared much to flaunt books he never read. A clean space is a productive space , he’d always say. People who collect books they never touch are trying to help themselves feel more important than they are.
He had a lot of sayings that never made much sense to me.
“I thought you might be in need of a mid-day drink,” I said as I entered, holding a short-stemmed glass of brandy, no ice.
My father didn’t hesitate before stretching out his hand. “Where’s Mr. Pennington?”
“Mother asked for his help at the country club today. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on leaving the grounds and causing a scene.”
He made a displeased face as he took in his first measly sip. After letting his tastebuds adjust, he took a longer drink.
Sometimes I allowed myself to think dark thoughts with a small glimmer of amusement. Picturing the chandelier falling at Saturday’s event was one example. Thinking about what it’d be like to shatter every floor to ceiling window in the Massey Suites hotel was another. Sometimes I acted on those impulsive thoughts, like kissing Sumner. Most of the time I didn’t, though. I was calculated with my temper tantrums, as I’d said.
But as my father took his first sip of brandy, I always wondered what would happen if I spiked it with something .
I studied him closer. My father was a prim and proper man, no facial hair marring his face, never let a hair on his gray head stray out of place. It was a little tousled now, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. “Bad day?” I asked with only a glimmer of true curiosity.
My father mumbled under his breath and drained the rest of the brandy. Three drinks; that was practically a record for him. “I’m not pleased with you after your latest scandal.”
“Which one?”
“Your little display Saturday. With your behaviors, the Astors may call everything off. I doubt they’d want a party girl ruining their reputation.”
“I can’t imagine one measly little kiss would get them to reconsider letting me marry their son, not when there’s a multi-million-dollar business deal on the line.”
“I know it’s not ideal for your generation,” my father went on as if I hadn’t spoken. His eyes already looked a little glassy. “This generation is all about loving who you want and not working unless it’s your dream. Bah. That’s the biggest piece of baloney this world is trying to sell right now.”
I let him rant away, uninterested, but letting him get it out now would turn in my favor later.
“It’s work. It’s not supposed to be fun. Marriage—back in the old days, a woman couldn’t marry a man without a dowry. Marriages have always been contracts. People have forgotten that.”
Well, he was in a particular mood today, wasn’t he? They’d said that Aaron Astor had been made aware of the incident, but I wondered if the Astors were more displeased than my parents let on. I forced my lips flat, knowing that a smile would be suicide. “Is Aaron still wanting to marry me?”
“His parents, as of now, are still wanting to carry through with it. They, fortunately, see the benefits of our families merging.”
“But what about Aaron?”
“How should I know what he’s thinking? I just know about his parents.”
Interesting. Was there a possibility that he was a pawn in this game as well? I’d never considered it in all the times I’d thought about him. Bad teeth, thinning hair, but never like me, forced against his will.
“From here on out, you need to be on your best behavior, Margot.” He rubbed his brow. “You’ll appreciate everything down the road, a few years into marriage, when you’ve got kids to enjoy?—”
“You can force me to marry a man,” I snapped. “But you can’t force me to have his children.”
My father buried his head in his hands. “What do you want from us, Margot?” he asked with a suffering sigh. “What will make you be a good girl about this?”
For a moment, I relished in his defeated posture and the fact that I’d been the one to curve those broad shoulders. All the years of ignoring me were biting them in the tush, and it was more than a little satisfying to see. Though as much as I resented them, there was always that small voice in the back of my mind that wanted to make them proud. The relationship wasn’t a healthy one, but it never had been .
However, it segued beautifully into the reason why I’d brought him brandy in the first place.
“I want to talk to him,” I said finally. “I want to talk to Aaron before we meet.”
“Your mother and I don’t trust you on the phone with him. Knowing you, you’ll say something ridiculous, and he’ll call it off.”
“I don’t know what he looks like; I don’t even know what his voice sounds like.” I stood firmer, my hands curling into loose fists. “You expect me to give you my full cooperation, and yet you’re keeping me in the dark. Tell me, is that a business strategy you would go along with?”
It was an angle I should’ve brought up before, because I could see the realization sink in for him. No. Of course he wouldn’t. One didn’t need a bachelor’s in business to know it was a horrible way to manage a contract.
“A video call.” When he opened his mouth to object, I added, “You can be present for it. That doesn’t matter. I just… I want to see the face of who I’m marrying.”
My negotiation skills had come from him, our giving and taking like tugging on a rope. With my mother, she only knew how to pull. My father knew how to take a step forward, to give me an inch in order to gather his footing, because he knew it’d mean success later on when he was ready for the final, sharp tug. As I suspected, he acquiesced. “Fine, I will see about a video call. Just… please don’t make me regret it, Margot.”
The win was a small one, but a win, nonetheless. Even though I knew my father would tug the rope down the line and throw my world into a remorseless tailspin, I allowed myself to bask in the victory of this small pull in my direction. “I won’t.”
There weren’t many clothing brands I put on my body.
Fashion was the one thing I let myself behave that way about. It was the one way I expressed myself, the emotions that I kept bottled up spilling out onto the fabric. Malstoni was an Italian designer brand that created absolutely darling event suits, the sleek cuts and fabric types perfect to match the showiness that the elitist crowd surrounding me put off. If I were to get married, I’d be in a Malstoni.
Gilfman, however—a French brand that only had three stores in the United States total—owned my heart and soul.
A soft knock on the dressing room came, followed by a pleasant male voice. “How is everything fitting, Miss Margot?”
“Almost finished,” I said to the salesman as I fastened the buttons of my shirtsleeves below my wristwatch.
“Brilliant.” A moment later, he asked, “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? We have champagne, wine—white and red.”
The salesman wasn’t asking me, though, because my champagne flute was already sitting on a table in my dressing room, its bubbles licking up the glass. “Oh, uh, no, thank you,” Sumner answered hesitantly in the waiting room .
“Something stronger, perhaps? We have a lovely maple whisky.”
“No, I’m—I’m fine, thank you.”
As I shrugged on my outer suit jacket, I smiled at the discomfort in Sumner’s voice. It was clear he wasn’t used to the attention, such service, and I enjoyed introducing him to it. “Forgive him,” I said as I exited the dressing room, smoothing my hand down the arm of the jacket. “This is a new experience for him.”
There were no mirrors inside the dressing room, so stepping out into the open seating area that was ceiling to floor reflective glass, I took in my outfit for the first time. The pastel blue suit fit me like a glove, not that I was surprised. It wasn’t often that Gilfman got my sizing wrong, not anymore. The double-breasted vest tapered in tightly at my waist, more so than a man’s would. It illuminated my silhouette elegantly. The pants narrowed down my thigh to accentuate the shape of my legs, but not so much that they looked like a pair of skinny jeans.
Anyone who thought my suits looked like something men wore wouldn’t think that if they ever saw a man try to put one on.
“It’s exactly like the sketch I gave,” I said as I appraised my reflection, turning to see how the suit jacket fell against my back. “It’s quite lovely. What do you think?” In the mirror, I looked at Sumner.
He sat on one of the plush couches in the sitting area. Sumner held his phone in his hand, presumedly had been looking at it before I walked out, but his attention was on me now. I watched as his eyes roamed down my body, taking the fitted suit. It was vastly different from the looks I normally received, but I couldn’t pick apart what emotion shone in his expression. Finally, he came to rest on my face. “Very nice.”
A lackluster response.
“It is quite perfect, isn’t it?” the salesman, Jordan, murmured, coming up to me. He checked that the stitches fell exactly where they were supposed to. “Are there any specific things you notice you’d like changed?”
The jacket seemed satisfactory, so I shrugged it off and examined the look without it. The suit itself was more of a casual one. Though double-breasted, the material was on the slimmer side, and the shoulders had no padding, which gave it a more relaxed look. I pinched the material of the vest, debating on whether I liked how much of a gap there was.
Jordan seemed to agree, his fingers replacing mine near my hip where I’d pinched the fabric. “About half an inch, hmm?” he murmured, analyzing the silhouette. “This wouldn’t be a hard fix at all. I could take it into the back and alter it right quick, if you’ve got the time.”
One of the best things about this Gilfman store was that each of the salesmen were tailors, which made for easy and quick fixes. “We’ve got the time,” I said, passing Sumner my wine glass. He took it wordlessly, and I began to undo my vest’s buttons. “As long as I can get another wine.”
“Of course, of course.” Jordan draped the material over his arm. “Feel free to look about the store as well. It shouldn’t take too long.” And with that, he was gone.
The waiting area grew quiet, save for an orchestra playing faintly over the speakers. I walked over to Sumner and stopped above him, forcing him to tip his head back to peer at me. “You design your own suits?” he asked, passing back my wine glass.
“I give suggestions. The beautiful clothiers bring it to life. My Malstoni suits, though, are all his designs. One does not mess with perfection.”
“Why suits?”
“Why not?”
Sumner blinked a little before donning a sheepish expression. “Fashion design, though. Not that I know the slightest thing about fashion, but that’s cool. Have you ever thought of doing something more with it?”
Though he’d been vulnerable with me yesterday at brunch, I wouldn’t do the same now. He’d chosen to share those snippets of himself; I did not. I didn’t want to tell him about the hopes and dreams of seventeen-year-old Margot Massey, and didn’t want to resurrect the pain that came from thinking about it. “No.” The word was flat. “Speaking of fashion, we should have you fitted for a few pairs of pants while we’re here.”
Sumner at least showed up in the lobby this morning with khakis on, but the horror of his torn jeans still lingered in my mind. “I’m okay,” he said, casting an almost nervous glance toward where Jordan went off to. “I bought a few pairs already.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
I blinked. “You bought dress pants online ?”
“I got free two-day shipping, too.”
I wondered when Sumner would stop surprising me with the clueless things he did. He bought dress pants online . I couldn’t even begin to imagine the quality—what were they made of, polyester? I very nearly brought him to his feet anyway, to force him to try on a few pairs of pants while we were here—like some mother corralling her rebelling son—but I held myself back.
“I bet you’re bored out of your mind, hmm? Watching that rich girl you have to babysit play dress up.”
Sumner winced a little. “I’m not bored.”
“I used to have to drag my friend along with me.” I brought my champagne to my lips and gave a small smirk to him over the rim. “But in New York City, I went to my tailorings alone. It isn’t fun playing dress up when there’s no one to show off for.”
As if on their own accord, Sumner’s eyes fell to my body once again, but this time, there was no suit to inspect. I had on just the dress shirt now, two buttons undone near the top to expose my throat. It stretched across my chest, just how I preferred, and I watched as he forced his attention back to my face. “I thought you said you didn’t have friends.”
“Actually, you said I didn’t have any friends. Which, looking back, is quite rude to assume.”
The sheepish smile returned, accompanied by a blush on the top of his cheek bones. It complimented his already warm skin nicely.
“I haven’t seen in her in ages,” I told him, slipping a hand into my pants pocket. “College kept me busy; her courses kept her busy. She’s touring with her boyfriend now. He’s in a band. She doesn’t come home all that often. ”
He tilted his head as he listened to me speak. “Are you’re upset with her? For leaving?”
I wasn’t sure what gave him that impression, since I’d been quite careful about my tone. I thought about it, sipping my champagne. It was almost drained now. Apparently, Jordan thought I meant to bring the refill after he’d tailored the vest. “Slightly.”
“It’d be hard to drift apart from the one person you were close with. Even though you went off to college too, you must’ve felt abandoned a little, huh?”
“Are you my therapist now?”
He rested his hands on his knees, giving a small shrug. “Just a friend who’s assuming you’ve never talked about it before. And you should talk about the things that bother you. If you leave them bottled up, it can make you bitter.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Bitterness is one of my better qualities.”
“Happiness is better.”
“I’m not a happy person.”
The words sounded like more of a confession, the momentary banter dissolving into something more serious. He was able to lull my thoughts out of me, ones that seemed harmless in my mind but pathetic when spoken aloud. I didn’t like it. I blamed the wine.
I moved to turn away, to go and wander the store as Jordan said I could—and go to investigate where my refill of wine had disappeared off to—when Sumner snatched my hand. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, brushing against my pulse point. “You can be,” he said with far too much seriousness in his voice. “You can be a happy person.”
The sudden contact had me freezing on instinct, focusing all my attention at the touch. When was the last time someone touched me? It was a ridiculous thought, but it surfaced anyway. My mother, gripping my chin. Before that… who’d reached out with a gentle touch instead of a demanding one?
I sniffed. “I hope you didn’t take this job in an attempt to fix me. That would be quite disappointing.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“A million and one people would disagree with you about that.” I still focused on where he still held me in place, the tension of his fingers not loosening. His skin was soft; I couldn’t feel any callouses. “One would argue, too, that you don’t know me well enough to make such a judgement.”
“Then tell me.” Sumner released my wrist and sat back more comfortably on the sofa, his arm lining the back of the beige material. The tension of the moment relaxed with his posture, though even with his touch gone, I could still feel the ghost of the pressure. “What do you think turned you into an unhappy person?”
“I need a tragic backstory to justify my bitterness?” I asked, bringing his own words back.
“Most people do, yeah.”
It was such an amusing question that I didn’t let it sink in for a long moment, didn’t let myself think of it beyond its entertainment. What turned me into an unhappy person? We might’ve had enough time to get my vest tailored, but we didn’t have that much time. Besides, what he’d told me about himself the other day might’ve been vulnerable, but I hadn’t been asking for his deepest secrets and insecurities. In fact, he’d said it all so off-the-cuff that I wasn’t sure they were insecurities of his to begin with. Sumner couldn’t ask me about mine and expect an answer.
I leaned down and brought my face near level to his, closer. He blinked at the proximity, his beautiful blue eyes widening a fraction of an inch, but he didn’t pull back. “You’ll soon discover, Mr. Pennington, but I’m not like most people .”
“I’m finding that out, yeah.”
I studied him from that close distance for a moment longer. The blue in his eyes was very deep; up close like this, I could almost convince myself they were gray. A speckling of freckles dotted underneath his right eye, like a little constellation.
Sumner held still through my studying, and it took me a moment to notice he was holding his breath. I made him nervous. Perhaps because he thought I’d try to kiss him again. The realization caused a tingle to glance across my skin.
Satisfied, I dropped down on the sofa beside him, realizing belatedly that two couldn’t quite fit comfortably on it, at least not without touching. Where Sumner had his arm stretched, the back of my neck brushed it. Our thighs were another thing that pressed together on accident, drawn together by the gravity of the sinking cushion.
Sumner moved first, just like always, shifting to create an inch between us. “So, last night, I couldn’t sleep, and I did some internet scrolling,” he began. “Did I tell you I’m pretty good at digging up information? I think I might’ve found out a few things about your fiancé.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do tell.”
He unlocked his phone in his grip and scrolled, but the screen was angled so that I couldn’t see it. “I tried a few different searches. His mother’s name, his father’s name, Astro Agencies?—”
“How did you get all that information? I never told you his mother’s name.”
“You told me about the company,” he replied without missing a beat, blinking. “Astro Agencies. At the diner. I searched backward from there.”
Had I told him? I must’ve, though I didn’t remember it. I drained the final traces of my wine and set it on the glass coffee table. “Well, what did you find about him, then?”
Sumner shifted so that inch of space between us vanished once more, our legs pressing together as he offered his phone screen closer for viewing. An article with blocky text popped up on the screen. “So, this article is about male heirs of businesses that are on the rise,” Sumner said, pointing with his finger. “The Astor sons are number seven.”
“Male,” I scoffed. I didn’t take the phone from him, but laid my hand over the back of his, steadying the grip. My fingers were cold against his. “Someone created a male and female list before. The Astro sons weren’t on it, but I was. Number four, to be exact.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. You should’ve been number one.”
He was giving me that same puppy dog smile when I glanced over. Our faces were close, and I became all too aware of the way his fingers curved underneath mine as I held his hand in place. It reminded me of how he’d laid his hand over mine in the car on the way to brunch, and the backs of his fingers were just as soft as the other side.
“It’s too small of text,” I decided, letting go of his hand and sitting back into the couch. “Read it to me.”
“It talks about his three older brothers first,” Sumner summarized. “The eldest is ten years older than him, and the article talks about how he’ll most likely inherit the company. The other three also currently are holding positions at the company. Aaron, though—” Sumner cleared his throat. “‘After obtaining his degree at Stanford University, the youngest of the Astor sons has decided to stay out of the spotlight and stay under the radar of business holdings. However, sources state he’s dedicated much of his time to community service and brightening his community, an admirable path for someone who desires no credit for the work he gives. He refuses photographs of himself, wishing to pursue his good deeds behind the scenes, a truly humble decision?—’”
“Wow, this writer is an Aaron Astor fanboy, aren’t they,” I muttered.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Sumner’s attention flick over at me, and then away. “No pictures, but it does sound like he’s got decent character.”
I folded one leg over the other and crossed my arms, staring at our reflection in the mirror across from us. “He doesn’t work at his family’s company?” I asked, trying to recall what he’d said.
“They all do. It doesn’t say positions, though.” He scrolled a bit. “The only other thing it says about him is that he seems to be the son that’s the least interested in shares of the company. Which makes sense, since he doesn’t have a chance of inheriting it.”
Interesting. Though the bits of information were just crumbs, nothing substantial, but I mulled them over anyway, a bit of my hunger satiated with them.
“He’s never reached out to you?” Sumner asked hesitantly, as if he could gauge my mood already. “Aaron?”
“I never said that.”
“You said you haven’t met him.”
“And I haven’t.”
Sumner shifted on the sofa, jostling against my side. I wondered if his patience was wearing thin with my short answers. “Have you ever reached out to him ?”
“I’m meeting him tomorrow, as it turns out.”
“Wait, meeting him,” Sumner echoed, lowering his phone and blinking in confusion. “What? How? I thought you said he was on the west coast?”
“Good listener,” I complimented, leaning against his arm as I tipped my head against the couch. The wine had left me feeling a little lightheaded. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, though, but there has been this invention called a video chat.”
“And he said yes to it?”
I tilted my head to the side to peer at Sumner. “You seem surprised.”
Sumner quickly shook his head. “No, no. You just said he’s a private person, that’s all. But that’s exciting. Makes sense to get a new suit for the occasion. Hopefully the Wi-Fi is good so you get a clear view of him.” He looked down at his phone, but the screen was now inky black .
A part of me wondered how Destelle would’ve responded to the news. I knew, though. Destelle, who pushed me away from the idea that was Aaron Astor, would’ve been dismayed at the idea of us meeting. She’d be afraid that if I met him, it’d be that much harder to pull myself out of the sinking whirlpool I’d fallen into.
I wondered what my expression looked like. I was about to look toward the mirror when Sumner turned back to me, our faces suddenly inches apart.
I stilled. When I’d studied him before, I’d very much so been in the position over him—now, though, his face was the one hovering over mine. I took my time looking over the new angle of him. The bright lights of Gilfman’s waiting room reflected like sparkles in Sumner’s eyes as he looked down at me. His lashes were a deep brown, not black, framing his crystal blue eyes. There were freckles just underneath his right one.
How pretty , I thought, realizing that’d been the word he’d used with me the day prior. Pretty . Pretty from afar. Prettier up close.
“What did you mean?” I asked him suddenly, though faintly, in a tone one could’ve called a whisper.
Sumner’s lashes fluttered as he blinked, but he, too, didn’t pull back. “When?”
“At brunch. ‘ They ate you up .’ What did you mean?”
I wondered if he remembered that. I wondered if he expected me not to remember that, or to not have put any thought into it. The truth was that it’d been all I’d thought of last night as I stretched out in bed, going back and forth between the compliment and the puzzling statement that followed.
His expression, if possible, became more serious. “I could see why you might’ve not felt like a happy person,” he answered. “Because everyone around you enjoyed making sure you weren’t.”
“They ate it,” I echoed with a shake of my head, still not understanding the phrasing. “Like a main course at a meal?”
“Like a paper shredder. Taking something that was whole and tearing it apart.”
My first instinct was to roll my eyes at him, because of the grandness of his metaphor, and because I didn’t feel shredded. It didn’t feel like there were ribbons of me, tattered and scattered around. I felt whole.
He continued, “The fact that you don’t think you’re pretty tells me that.”
“I wear suits. Women who wear suits aren’t pretty .” Not in the way women who wore dresses were.
“Clothes don’t make you pretty, and whoever convinced you of that can shove that thought up their ass.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the curse word or the blunt way he’d said, but I tipped my head back against the couch and laughed. It broke apart the serious moment that’d been building, shattering it. My laugh wasn’t a lovely one; it was sharp and abrupt, one that caused my eyes to close. My lips tilted up in a way that almost felt uncomfortable, but I couldn’t fight them back to their normal position.
“You,” I breathed, giving my head a little shake. “You’re definitely not from around here.”
Sumner didn’t reply. His serious expression had vanished, replaced with an emotion I couldn’t place. His stare was intense on me, almost as if I’d just stripped naked in front of him. Whatever it was, it tightened his brow as he looked at me, but his parted lips held zero tension. Stunned . He looked stunned.
“What?” I asked, self-conscious under the attention of his strange expression. “Now you’re staring.”
The accusation did nothing to snap Sumner back to the present. He didn’t pull back and apologize for gaping so openly, didn’t rush to explain. In fact, it was almost as if I hadn’t spoken. Whatever caught his attention distracting him too much to form a response.
“Here we are, Miss Margot,” Jordan said as he entered the changing area in a rush, gasping at a realization he made as he crossed the threshold. “Oh, I forgot the wine! Hopefully you weren’t waiting for it this entire time.”
I sat up from the couch and swayed for a moment, warmth kissing at my cheeks. Jordan couldn’t have cared less about the strange sight he walked in on, but I couldn’t stop picturing what it might’ve looked like. What it felt like. Clearing my throat, I wiped my features clear of any and all emotion, shrugging back on the air of unaffectedness. “That’s quite all right, Jordan. It seems I’ve had more than I should’ve, anyway. Let’s try on the vest, shall we?”