2. Francisca
“W ow.” My Uber driver Amiee, who is probably in her sixties, whistles when my parents' home comes into view at the end of their long, tree-lined driveway. “Who lives here?”
“I’m not sure. I was just told to meet my friend at this address.” It’s a lie I’ve told often, so it falls easily off my tongue. My father is either loved or hated in Nashville, and there is no in-between, but that’s the way it goes when you’re dealing with politics. But the awe in my voice isn’t quite fake. Even growing up in the mansion we’re driving toward, I know it’s impressive. With two stories made of towering bricks, six lit-up pillars, and wide steps that cascade down the front to the edge of the circular driveway, it looks like something royalty in Europe would live in.
“I need better friends.” Amiee laughs, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror, and I smile at her.
When we reach the front of the long line of cars that are either dropping people off or waiting to be parked by the valet my mom set up for the evening, I pick up my clutch from the seat next to me, then scoot across it to the passenger door.
“Thank you for the ride.”
“Any time, darlin’, and if you need a ride later, I should be in the area.”
“Thanks.” I start to push the door open, but a young guy—probably sixteen or seventeen—gets it before me.
“Good evening,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable in the dress shirt he’s wearing while his mop of dirty blond hair falls into his eyes.
“Good evening.” I swing my legs out of the car at the same time to avoid flashing him as I get out. Once I’m on my feet, I adjust my dress. The cabernet-colored tulle material with sequins glitters, and while the corset bodice is stretchy, the dress is also short and tight, so there isn’t much adjusting I can do.
As the kid closes the door behind me, I press my clutch against my stomach, which is swarming with anxiety, and walk up the steps to the open door of the house, where I can see dozens of people inside. You’d think after attending parties like this my whole life that I would be used to them, but I’m not. Crowds and people make me uncomfortable, especially these people, with their fake smiles and even faker personalities, each a copy-and-paste of the man or woman next to them.
Stepping over the threshold into the house, I scan the open foyer for my mother, but she’s nowhere in sight, which is a surprise. Normally, she’s at the door greeting people as they arrive.
“Champagne?” a young woman in a crisp white dress shirt and bowtie asks, holding a silver tray out toward me.
“Please.” I take one of the flutes and down the cold liquid in one gulp, watching her eyes widen.
“Thank you.” I place the glass down on her tray and pick up another. If I’m going to make it through tonight, I’m going to need to be tipsy, which is why I didn’t drive myself.
“Uh… you’re welcome.” Her smile is wonky.
Smiling back, I take the full glass with me and move through the crowd, avoiding eye contact by keeping my head lowered and my eyes on my feet. The only thing that sucks is I can still hear the whispers as I pass people.
This is the first event I’ve attended since Matthew and I separated, and I’m sure most of the people here now know we are divorced and they’re coming up with their own versions of why that happened.
He cheated? I cheated? We couldn’t have kids? He worked too much? I was too focused on my business?
None of it’s true—well… not most of it anyway.
Walking around the corner into the living room—which is more of a showroom since no one uses it unless there’s a party—I stumble back after running headfirst into someone coming around it from the opposite side. Their huge body almost knocks me off my feet and hits my hand just right so that my cold champagne splashes across my chest and down the front of my dress, making me gasp.
“Shit.” Large, warm hands wrap around my bare upper arms as I lift my gaze up and up to eyes a shade of blue that are so uniquely beautiful they remind me of one of my favorite paintings by Vincent van Gogh. My eyes leave his, and I quickly scan the rest of his features: blond hair that is a touch too long, square jaw, full lips, and heavy brow. I don’t know him, but I swear there is something familiar about him. “You okay?” he asks.
“Just soaking wet?”
“Sorry.” An attractive half-smile forms at the edge of his lips. “I normally use a little more finesse when getting a woman to that point.”
It takes a moment for what he just said to register in my head, and when it does, I go wide-eyed and gasp, my hand landing on his warm, hard chest. My head falls back to my shoulders, and I laugh harder than I have in a very long time. He must not be from around here or know who I am. None of the men at this party tonight would ever make such a crude joke—not to me. They’d save that kind of talk for when they were locked in with my dad in his office, along with his box of Cuban cigars and expensive whiskey.
This man is refreshing.
“I hope you at least know their names,” I get out through my laughter, and he grins.
“Most of the time.”
Shaking my head, still smiling, I step back from him and hold out my free hand. “Franny.”
“Dayton.” His hand engulfs mine as it wraps around it, and an odd tingle spreads up my arm. “It’s nice to meet you, Franny.”
“You too. Now, if you don’t mind…” I wiggle my fingers so he’ll let my hand go. “I’m going to go get myself cleaned up.”
“I’ll come with. I was just in search of a bathroom when I bumped into you.”
“You’re in luck. I know where one is.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“A few times.” I lead the way through the living room to the doorway on the opposite side but take a left around the corner instead of a right, which goes to the large, covered back patio, where I can hear people talking and music playing. At the end, I open the door to the part of the house my parents actually use. Unlike the living room that we just walked through, the one we step into is warm and lived-in, with cozy couches, thick blankets, lots of pillows, and a large TV over the fireplace.
“Should we be in here?”
“My parents won’t mind.” I go down another hall to the half-bath, and the light comes on automatically when I step into the small room with him right behind me.
“You’re Barrett’s daughter.”
“Yep.” I meet his gaze in the mirror as I place my mostly empty champagne glass on the edge of the sink.
“Shit,” he mumbles, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and I start to laugh as I grab a hand towel and wet it.
“Please don’t get weird now.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah, like you suddenly have no personality except for the one that is an exact replica of everyone else’s here tonight.”
“You noticed that too?”
“It’s hard not to notice when you’ve been around it as long as I have.” I start to wipe myself off, and thankfully, the color and material of my dress hides the champagne stain. “Do you work for my dad?”
“No, I work for the district attorney.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“I am.”
“Oh.” I feel my nose scrunch involuntarily.
“What’s that ‘oh’ mean?” he asks, and I meet his gaze once more in the mirror.
“Nothing. I just know a lot of lawyers.” One of them being my ex-husband—not that I tell him that. I finish cleaning myself up, then turn toward the door he’s blocking with his wide shoulders. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Sure.” He steps to the side, allowing me space to scoot past him.
As he’s closing the door, I walk down the hall a little way and lean back against the wall across from one of the pictures we took as a family for my father’s social media platforms during his campaign. Between the photo editing and our plastic smiles, you’d never know that my mom and I had spent the morning crying after getting the news that her grandmother—my great-grandma—had passed away. Or that my brother Jacob was high as a kite, and he and Dad had just gotten into a blow-out fight that ended with Jacob having his car taken away from him for a month.
Coming out of my thoughts, when my cell phone begins to ring, I pull it out of my clutch and smile when I see it’s my best friend Molly calling.
I answer, putting my cell to my ear. “Hey, are you here?”
“No, and please don’t hate me.”
“You’re not coming.” My shoulders slump forward.
Molly has been my saving grace at these functions since we were kids, and both were forced by our parents to attend these parties. Early on, we figured out ways to make it fun for ourselves.
When we were little, we would sneak the extra desserts our moms always said no to and hide under a table somewhere, eating as many as we wanted until we couldn’t anymore. When we were teens, we’d sneak alcohol and get drunk without our parents ever noticing because they were normally too busy socializing to pay much mind to us. And as adults, we usually end up tucked away in a corner, people-watching and talking about all the drama that’s happening in everyone’s lives. And there is always a lot of drama—from affairs to girlfriends attending when wives are out of town, pregnancy scares, and kids of these people who should probably be locked up but never will be because their families can afford great lawyers.
“I was on the way out the door to meet you when I got a call from a client,” she says, dragging me back to the conversation. “They want to look at a property that just came on the market, so I’m meeting them in an hour. I’m not sure how long this showing will take, but last time I met with them, we spent over two hours inside the house and walking the property.”
“It’s fine. I totally understand.”
“I’m sorry,” she replies quietly, and I can hear the guilt in her voice. “I just can’t pass up the chance of possibly making a sale since this month has been so slow.”
“Stop, I love you. It’s fine. I know you have to work.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I’m not sure why I was in such a hurry to grow up. Adulting is lame, and I absolutely do not recommend it.”
“Me neither.” I laugh as the bathroom door opens, and Dayton steps out into the hall, adjusting his suit jacket. An attractive grin curves his lips when he finds me waiting for him.
“Have you seen Matthew yet?” Molly asks, and my smile slides away.
“No.” I force my eyes off the man walking toward me. “I just got here. I haven’t even seen my parents yet.”
“Well, let me know how that goes, and call if you need me.”
“I will, and good luck.”
“You too.” She hangs up after saying goodbye, and I turn for the living room, tucking my phone back into my clutch.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep, my friend just called to let me know she’s not going to be able to make it tonight.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I step into the living room and find Jacob lying with his head on the arm of the couch and an entire bottle of champagne in one hand, the TV remote in the other.
“Hey, sis.”
“Are you hiding in here from Mom and Dad?”
“Yep.” He lifts the bottle up and out toward me. “And you might want to hang with me. I just saw Matthew, and he’s here with someone.” His gaze slides to Dayton. “Or maybe not, since it looks like you brought someone of your own.”
“Dayton, this is my brother Jacob. Jacob, this is Dayton. He works for the district attorney. We just met a few minutes ago.”
“You move fast, sis.” He smiles, jerking up his chin in a silent hello to the man next to me.
“You’re an idiot.” I roll my eyes at him and head toward the door.
“Let me know if you want me to kick Matthew’s ass,” he calls out as the TV turns on.
Ignoring him, I open the door and come face-to-face with my mom, who looks wide-eyed and panicked.
“There you are.” She grabs my hands in hers and starts shoving me back into the room, causing me to bump into Dayton, who is right behind me. “I heard you arrived and have been looking everywhere for you.”
“Sorry, I had to use the restroom.”
“It’s fine. That’s fine. Why don’t you just stay in here with me for a while, and we can?—”
“Mom,” I cut her off while squeezing her hands. “I already know that Matthew is here with someone. It’s okay.”
“Oh, honey, you saw them together?” Her face falls, and she wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. If I had known he’d show up tonight with a date, I wouldn’t have invited him.”
“We’re divorced. You knew this was bound to happen at some point.” I sigh, forcing her to let me go. It’s difficult with the way she’s latched onto me.
“How can you be okay with this? You just signed your divorce papers.”
“We’ve been separated for months,” I remind her gently.
“He said you’re the love of his life and told his mom he wants you back!” she cries, wrenching up the drama.
Even if that last part were true, it’s never happening.
“Mom, take a breath,” I urge, then wait until she does. “Now, listen to me. It’s okay. I’m okay. I don’t care that he’s here with someone.” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m glad he has a date.”
“Glad?” she gasps. “How can you say that? You two were meant to be, Francisca. You were born to be with him.”
Oh my God, here we go.
“Mom, he and I are never getting back together.”
“Like ever!” Jacob sings out from the couch, and I close my eyes, noticing only then that Dayton is still right behind me, with his hand at the small of my back. Something else I notice is his hand spans almost the entire width of my waist. It’s so big.
“Jacob Austin Dawson, what are you doing in here? And why do you have a whole bottle of champagne?” Mom snaps, losing interest in me.
Thank God.
Grabbing Dayton’s hand, I quickly begin dragging him with me out through the still-open door.
“Francisca!” Mom calls out, and I start walking faster.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” I call over my shoulder, still dragging Dayton with me.
“Francisca!” she yells, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
“We’ll talk in a bit, Mom.” I hurry down the hall with my new friend, then drag him around a corner, then another, striding toward the kitchen. The moment we step through the swinging door, the men and women my mom hired to work the event all stop what they are doing and silently stare at us.
“Sorry, please pretend like we’re not even here,” I tell them, letting go of Dayton’s hand as I walk across the kitchen to the pantry.
After flipping on the light, I grab the stool my mom keeps tucked away under one of the bottom shelves and carry it to the back corner of the pantry. Opening it up, I use it to reach up to the top shelf and grab the bottle of tequila my dad brought back from his last vacation in Mexico. Unscrewing the cap of the beautiful white and blue antique-looking bottle, I plop down on the stool and take a drink of the sharp alcohol, gagging at the taste. Tequila is definitely not the same without lime and salt.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I look up at Dayton and find him leaning with his shoulder against the shelf, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s a big guy, so he takes up a lot of space, but I didn’t notice just how big until we were in here.
“Hi.” I offer him a weak smile.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, his eyes roaming my face. I can only imagine what he’s thinking after just meeting me and experiencing the full effect of my family in less than fifteen minutes.
“Totally.” I look at the bottle and debate stomaching another drink, but the option is taken away from me when he steals the bottle from my hand.
After looking at the label, he smells the open top. “Tequila doesn’t say everything is okay; it says ‘I want to forget things.’”
“Actually, tequila says, ‘I want to have a great time, make a few fun mistakes, and wake up tomorrow not remembering what those mistakes were.’”
“True,” he mutters with a small smile, passing the bottle back to me before returning to his original position of leaning against the shelves with his arms crossed. “So, you’re divorced.”
“Yep.”
“And your ex-husband is here with another woman.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Also, yep,” I say, and he starts to laugh.
He has a great laugh; it’s rich and deep. It’s also genuine, which is a nice change.
“Okay,” he mutters, glancing around. “Then why are we hiding in here?”
“Did you not just meet Betsy Dawson?”
“No, I actually met Betsy Dawson earlier this evening when I arrived. I don’t know who that woman we just had an encounter with was.”
“Oh, honey,” I start in my thickest Southern accent. “That would be my mother, Betsy Dawson, Miss Alabama herself, circa 1989.”
“I see.” He grins.
“Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom from the bottom of my soul, but she can be…”
“A lot,” he finishes for me, and I nod.
“Yes, so I just needed a few minutes for her to get distracted by other people before I go back out there.” I put the lid back on the bottle and stand. “It’s probably safe now.”
“Probably?”
“It never takes her long to get distracted, and there are a lot of people here to distract her.” I turn around and start to climb back up onto the stool, but he steps up behind me, fitting his front to my back, takes the bottle from my hand once again, and easily places it on the higher shelf. He’s so close that the rich, crisp scent of his cologne wraps around me as his warmth seeps into my skin through the thin material of my dress.
So close that I can feel every inch of his hard body pressed up against mine.