Chapter 8
Fletcher leads me through a horde of couples and smoothly pulls me toward him, sliding his hand in mine while the other settles on the bare skin of my back.
Shouldn’t I have some kind of response to this man’s touch?
Where’s a good outbreak of goosebumps when you need it?
I’ll settle for a heart palpitation or two.
Unfortunately for me, nothing. My thoughts are on Leo.
Remington. Whatever. My mind’s knotted like a hundred strings of Christmas lights that I don’t have the energy to untangle.
Why did Leo give me an alias? What’s the point?
Unless he didn’t want me to know who he really was.
Does that mean he never intended to keep our date?
His apology at The Memory Bank seemed so genuine.
Fletcher squeezes my hand. “Thanks for coming with me tonight, Greta.”
My smile’s wobbly. “I appreciate being your second choice.”
He chuckles. “I feel foolish for not asking you first.” He twirls me while his words spin in my brain. Events like these call for a certain charm, and he certainly has it.
Come on, internal butterflies. Any second now.
I catch sight of Leo just as his gaze flicks my direction. I adopt a nonchalant expression, as if his lying ways don’t bother me. His mouth curves into a smile that should earn him a lump of coal.
Our silent exchange is cut short by a group of women surrounding him like he’s one of the options up for bidding.
I fight an eye roll and look up at Fletcher. “Have you known, uh, Remington long?” I want to ask if Fletcher’s sure his friend is not a con artist. Okay, I kind of need to chill and remember I’m an adult. Mostly. I attempt to be anyway. Maybe Leo has an explanation for his multiple personalities.
“I’ve known him all my life.” He nods at an elderly couple beside us and returns his attention to me. “Certainly you’ve heard of the Mathis family.”
That was it. The family Pap mentioned. All I recall is that they’re wealthy and the older Mathis refused to join the Mavericks. “I don’t really know much.”
“You know more than you think.” His smirk lingers on the smug side, as if he’s the proud keeper of all Silver Creek’s secrets. “The Mathises own Ivy Hall.”
All breath leaves my body. “ The Ivy Hall?” The massive estate is situated on the outskirts of town and has been the subject of numerous rumors.
The more opulent and absurd, the more likely it’s connected to Ivy Hall.
Speculation, like the mansion having an Olympic-sized koi pond, or a ballroom that transforms into an ice rink, or—my personal favorite—a gallery lined with sconces salvaged from the Titanic, has swirled in my ears for as long as I can remember.
I feel silly for never making the connection.
I’m certain the Mathis name has been mentioned around me countless times, but my antique-loving heart must have been more focused on the house than its owners.
“The same,” Fletcher confirms. “My family’s been connected to his since we were kids. Remington would spend summers at Ivy Hall with his grandparents.”
“I see.” I’m struggling to wrap my brain around this new development.
Ivy Hall aside, I do recall Leo saying he’d lived in Silver Creek off and on.
At least he told the truth about that . I remember wondering if Leo grew up poor or was shuffled about with foster families.
Wow, was I wrong. “So is he a donor?” I’m guessing he writes checks with several zeros for the department.
He shakes his head. “Remington’s a firefighter.”
And the surprises continue. Yet the weird part is, I can more easily picture him subduing chaotic flames than being interviewed by Forbes for a “Forty Millionaires Under Forty” article.
Leo has a certain ruggedness about him that pulls my gaze even now, but I resist and concentrate on the man before me.
“Are you nervous about the keynote?” I probably should refrain from telling Fletcher about my awful public speaking experiences.
“Not really. You get used to this kind of thing after a while.”
“Really? I’m no good at it. Crowds freak me out.”
“I can’t see you failing at anything.”
“Do I need to remind you of what happened when we first met?” A nervous laugh escapes, lending a throatiness that sounds more sensual than skittish. “Besides, I rarely accomplish what I wish to on my first shot. Which is why I avoid skydiving.”
He chuckles. “I love your wit.”
I smile in return. It’s nice to be appreciated.
The song ends, and Fletcher’s brows raise. “Care for another?”
However, a stalky man about my age appears at Fletcher’s side. “Hey man, I need you for a second.”
Fletcher pulls close, his hand pressing the curve of my side, and whispers, “We’ll dance again. Promise.”
I nod, though I’m unsure about all this touching. “I think I’ll go attack the fancy snacks for a bit.”
He grins. “Leave some for me.”
“I make no promises.” And I am off in the direction of expensive food.
I snatch a program from a nearby table and almost choke on the admission fee.
It’s five hundred bucks a ticket. I’m assuming Fletcher is the guest of honor, and me, by default.
I cannot imagine paying that much for an event. That’s like thirty Chick-fil-A runs.
My traitorous gaze locates Leo. He’s on the dance floor.
I can’t see his partner because another couple’s blocking my view.
He probably paired up with that leggy blonde I noticed earlier.
Not that I care. He can dance with whomever he wants.
Just then, someone shifts, and … he is dancing with a blonde, but one I least expected.
It’s Mitzy Clemens.
The eccentric woman who nearly made Leo roadkill last week is currently grinning like it’s Christmas morning.
Leo gently sways with her, and my heart thaws a little.
Strapped to Mitzy’s back is a baby carrier, a doll’s head peeking out at the top like a bald meerkat.
Leo doesn’t seem to mind her quirkiness.
He’s chatting with her, looking her directly in the eyes, giving her his full attention.
It’s sweet. This decent act of humanity almost causes me to forget the fake name situation. Almost.
My stomach growls, and I abandon my creepy watching of the millionaire bachelor and the babydoll connoisseur.
I grimace at the small plates and an even smaller selection of hors d’oeuvres.
Using my back as a shield, I prepare to load up my dish like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The Memory Bank was busy today, and I didn’t get a chance to eat.
But the food before me is unappetizing at best. Smoked oysters.
Pickled mushrooms. You’d think for five hundred bucks a person, they would also cater to those who have the taste buds of a kindergartener.
Would it hurt to spring for some cheeseballs and crackers?
I glide to the dessert table. Much better.
Tilly never lets me down. I grab as many cheesecake bites as possible that wouldn’t embarrass me if Fletcher returns.
I’m midbite of velvety goodness, when a presence is at my shoulder.
“I can explain,” Leo’s masculine voice rumbles in my ear.
Goosebumps erupt from the base of my neck to the tops of my toes. I slide my eyes shut. So unfair. I face Leo, or whatever his name is at the moment. Remington? Asher? Blitzen? It’s all up in the air now.
His gaze skims over me, his brows knitting together. “You cold?” He runs a calloused hand down my arm as if trying to warm me up, but it has the exact opposite effect because a shiver races down my spine. My body needs to stop being ridiculous. “Want my jacket?”
“No.” Though I bet it smells amazing. “I want answers.” I step away from his touch. “When we first met, I totally gave you an opportunity to pick a different name. And you stuck with Leo when it’s obviously not your name.”
“But it is.” He reaches around me and pops a cheesecake bite in his mouth. “You look beautiful, by the way. Black’s your color.”
“No.”
He quirks a brow. “No, as in you don’t think you look beautiful? Because you’re?—”
“No, as in I can’t trust anything you say. So if you call me beautiful, I’m going to assume I look like a cave troll.” I’m expecting people to approach me asking for a riddle even as we speak.
“My name’s Remington Orileo Mathis.”
I guess the more syllables you have, the wealthier you are.
I eye his outstretched hand with suspicion.
“My name’s still Greta.” I weakly slip my fingers in his, and he engulfs them with a firm shake.
I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me his real name to begin with.
I’m about to call him on it when Leo eases closer.
“I see you’re here with Fletcher Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Did you two recently meet?”
Weird question. “I’ve known him for years.”
“That so?” Leo rubs the turn of his lightly-stubbled jaw, his sights training on my date, who’s now chatting with the mayor.
It’s like Fletcher is some sort of politician, the way he’s shaking hands and working the room.
Leo’s gaze shifts to the left, and his eyes widen.
“Greta?” My name’s a whispered plea on his lips.
I follow his line of vision. The women who huddled around him moments ago are approaching fast like a pack of she-wolves in stilettos.
“Will you dance with me?”
My gaze seeks out Fletcher. He’s still in deep conversation, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be free anytime soon. “I don’t know.” I expel an exaggerated sigh. “I just ate. Isn’t there some kind of rule about not dancing thirty minutes after food consumption?”
“That’s swimming. And it’s a myth.” He catches up my hand and presses it to his heart. “Please? I appeal to your mercy side.”