Chapter 20 #2
Which was ridiculous, because obviously I didn’t need to hear from Jesse Westwood. I was a grown woman with a deeply rooted sense of independence and plenty to keep herself busy without him. But still, I thought I would’ve heard from him by now.
Tossing my phone down on the desk, I leaned back in my chair and sent a glare at the ceiling. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Are you talking to yourself again?”
I looked up to find Miranda standing in my doorway, watching me with thinly veiled amusement in her eyes.
She’d been checking in on me every so often these last few days, but she hadn’t pressed me for more information.
I genuinely appreciated her quiet support and unspoken understanding that some things were just too embarrassing—and difficult—to talk about.
“I was simply commenting on some of my less desirable characteristics,” I said honestly, smiling as I waved her in. “What’s up, boss?”
“I’m hosting a table tonight at a fundraising event,” she said, coming over to stand in front of my desk, but not sitting down. “Some of the girls from the office are going. You should come too.”
“Thanks. I might just do that. I haven’t had a reason to get dressed up for much too long.”
Her smile widened. “In that case, I’d say you owe it to yourself to go out and get pampered this afternoon. Hair. Nails. Just make sure to buy a dress says, I’m successful, but also fun.”
I laughed. “Successful but fun, huh? That could be interesting to shop for.”
She winked at me. “Seven o’clock. I’ll send you a pin location for your Uber driver. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll do my best, but finding a dress that says what you want it to say might take several weeks.”
She backed toward my door and pointed at the watch on her wrist. “You’ve got six hours. Make them count. Tick, tock.”
I chuckled as she left, but decided to take her advice and packed up not long after. Since I didn’t have a preferred hair salon or nail technician in this city yet, I did a spot of Googling and found a salon that provided both within walking distance of my apartment.
After booking an appointment, I headed to cute boutique in my neighborhood that I’d walked past a few times. The sales assistant was incredibly helpful, pointing me toward a deep red dress with sleek lines, a plunging neck and back, and a hem that skimmed my ankles when I walked.
I bought it without a second thought, making it to my appointment with time to spare. Both the hairstylist and nail technician were wonderful, and I immediately added their contact details to my phone, surprised that it had been so easy to find people that I genuinely liked.
The next step was heading back to my apartment to change and get ready. I kept my makeup generally light but added a touch of dramatic flair to my eyes just to make them pop. Then I smiled at myself in mirror, ready for my first big event with people from the firm.
The fundraiser was being held at a museum downtown. The exterior of the building was all lit up and a snaking line of fancy cars deposited their occupants on an honest-to-God red carpet outside.
Butterflies erupted in my stomach, but I climbed out of the car with my head held high, not pausing for the small contingent of press standing beyond velvet ropes. They weren’t here for me anyway.
One or two seemed to know my name, but I ignored them when they called out to me, heading inside without further ado.
If Jesse had been with me, stopping might’ve been worth it, but as it was, talking to them without him only seemed like providing further cause for speculation.
And if I said one wrong thing, it would be a disaster.
Miranda and the girls were by a cocktail table in the grand entrance hall, smiling when I joined them.
“There you are,” Miranda said, looking me over like she was critically assessing whether my dress had fulfilled her brief. She grinned. “It’s perfect. You look gorgeous.”
“So do you,” I said, meaning it and accepting a cocktail one of the associates handed me. “Thanks, Darla.”
“No problem,” she said easily. “It looks like you need it. Seriously, girl. Relax. You look like you’re about to cross-examine someone.”
“I might,” I replied. “It’s how I cope.”
She laughed and I pumped my eyebrows at her but then stepped away from the table with my cocktail in hand. “I’m just going to take a look around. I’ll catch up soon.”
“Sure,” Miranda said. “If we’ve already headed in, we’re table number twelve.”
“I’ll see you there.” I turned and drifted toward the nearest display, an assortment of traditional African masks that I studied for a beat before letting my gaze drift across the room.
This sort of environment was so familiar after the amount of times I’d attended similar functions with Thomas. Yet back in England, I’d known all the regulars attending. Here, there were no familiar faces.
Except, that wasn’t true.
A moment later, Jesse came striding across the hall from the direction of the bar. My heart skipped, then tripped over itself, and then started pounding.
I hadn’t expected to see him here, but it didn’t come as much of a surprise that he was, in fact, in attendance.
The way I’d heard it, the Westwoods had their fingers in almost every pie around.
Still, I was entirely unprepared to see him again after a week of radio silence—and a kiss I absolutely shouldn’t still have been obsessing about.
Across the room, he seemed taller tonight, his broad shoulders square and open beneath a perfectly tailored suit. It looked like he’d made a vague attempt to tame that dark brown hair but had given up halfway through when it’d refused to comply.
Unable to wrench my gaze away from him, I suddenly felt a little dizzy, which was absurd. There was no reason for the room to feel like it had tilted slightly, but then, when Jesse looked up like he’d felt me watching him, the entire world seemed to fade around the edges.
His gaze locked onto mine, those blue eyes so incredibly piercing even across the distance that I couldn’t look away. For just a second, something electric passed between us, but then he started moving, walking toward me with deliberate strides and determination blazing in his gaze.
My heart kicked up, traitorous and loud in my chest as I stood there, rooted to the spot like an absolute fool. Okay. Just be normal.
I had no idea what that meant anymore, but I was going to do my best to act like it anyway. I absolutely would not freak out.
“Jaqueline.”
I turned abruptly at the sound of my name, a cool shiver skating down my spine at the unwelcome familiarity of that voice.
No. No, it can’t be.
Standing right in front of me, in Chicago instead of France, was Thomas—and for some reason, he looked genuinely happy to see me.