Chapter Two Ben
There’s a beautiful woman staring at me.
Or rather, glaring at me. At my hand, specifically, which is awkwardly hovering between our bodies while I wait for her to introduce herself. She marched up to me with such purpose that it was all I could think to do. Now, however, I’m starting to think I look a bit stupid.
“Ben Hawthorne,” she says, my name tumbling off her lips like a curse.
Maybe I’m wrong, but I swear there’s a note of familiarity in her tone. Then again, my family is well-known, even this far north of the city. She probably knows of my father, Irving Hawthorne II, who has his name engraved on plaques all over the greatest art institutions in New York. The Met, the Whitney, Carnegie Hall…
Et cetera, et cetera…
Then again, we’re not in New York. Maybe this stunning creature doesn’t know me or my family at all. Maybe she just likes to be angry at strangers.
I shift on my feet. It’s not often that a person can make me feel uncomfortable with one look, but she has a way of looking down her nose at me despite the several inches of height I have on her.
Still, she’s rather tall. Slender too. She has the sort of willowy, graceful frame of someone who has spent their entire life toning it into submission. Athletic, yes, though the muscles of her bare arms and shoulders are slim in a purposeful way.
Lithe. That’s the sort of word I’d use to describe her if I was writing some sort of romantic ode to her flawless figure.
Not that I do things like that.
But still. If I’m not writing odes to her, someone should. Because, wow, she really is exquisite.
She’s also looking at my hand like it’s something she found floating in a mysterious puddle on the city sidewalk. I clench it into a fist and let it drop to my side.
The mysterious woman’s lips, painted a rosy pink, part as if she’s going to say something—or maybe snarl at me—but then she’s interrupted by the arrival of a sleek-haired hellion and a snobby French brute… the latter of which happens to be one of my closest friends.
“Oh my goodness, Ruby!” squeals Eva Ivanova—soon to be Mrs. Eva Linworth—as she engulfs my pretty adversary in a tight hug. “Look at you! Holy mackerel, girl, you are a vision! See, I knew that dress would look better on you than it does on me. I’m a genius, honestly. You should let me redo your entire wardrobe. I have this sweet little Saint Laurent number that would—”
“Absolutely not,” the woman named Ruby interrupts, a soft smile on her face despite her stern tone. “Nice try, though.”
Eva sighs loudly as if this is an argument they regularly have, then turns to smile brilliantly at me. “Ben! I’m so glad you’ve met Ruby! She’s my maid of honor. Honestly, I’m shocked that it’s taken this long for you two to meet!”
“Oh, that’s… nice,” I find myself saying. Like an idiot. “Are you a model too?”
Ruby narrows her eyes at me like I just asked her if she single-handedly endeavors to worsen the effects of global warming.
“No,” she answers.
Eva’s smile falters for the barest of seconds at the palpable tension in the air.
“Ruby, this is Ben. Bastien’s best man.”
Ruby says nothing. Beside me, Sebastien clears his throat quietly and then claps me on the shoulder.
“Shall we go into la salle à manger now?” he asks, his French accent as thick and annoyingly charming as ever.
That accent is the entire reason Eva gave him the time of day in the first place. Now look at him! About to marry a model! Linguistic quirks can get you far if you know how to work them in your favor.
I’m more than happy to leave the lovely, vicious creature in the blue dress behind, if only because I’m starting to vaguely fear for my life in her presence. I follow Sebastien into the dining room, where a massive table has been set with porcelain finery at the head of the room as well as a dozen other smaller tables to accommodate the fashionable crowd.
My seat is at the main table, right between two other groomsmen. One is a college friend that the groom has known since his time at Parsons Paris, and the other is an up-and-coming fashion designer from Milan. As the youngest son of a billionaire patron of the arts, I suppose I do somewhat belong between them, but I still feel out of place.
The thing is, I haven’t done anything to earn my prestige other than be born into the Hawthorne family. I did some modeling a couple of years ago, which is how I met Sebastien and Eva in the first place, but I have done little else to impress since then. In fact, the most substantial thing on my résumé is the fact that my father recently deemed me worthy of taking over our family’s philanthropical legacy at the NYC Ballet.
Which really isn’t saying much. It’s just a license to spend money. It doesn’t require much in the way of merit or skill.
Still, I’ve been doing my best to prove I’m worthy of the role.
The dinner begins shortly. Even though the groomsman on my right, Pierre, immediately traps me into conversation about how overrated Monet is, or something like that, I can’t help noticing that Ruby has been seated fairly close by. She’s seated diagonally across from me, facing the bride in a place of honor.
She’s also doing an impressive job of pretending that this entire side of the table doesn’t exist.
Yet, I can’t take my eyes off her. While Pierre mumbles about how deeply he detests impressionism, I observe the woman as casually as I can. She has long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but the features don’t look cliché on her. In fact, she looks like the living embodiment of this small seaside town. Hair as golden as the sand and eyes as cold and blue as the ocean.
I wonder why she hates me, because it’s obvious that she does. It’s a little odd that the best man and the maid of honor haven’t met yet, though it certainly seems like she already knows exactly who I am. I’m usually good with people. I’m used to them liking me, usually because they know who my family is, because they think I’m attractive, or both.
The most obvious thing that I notice about Ruby is her impeccable posture. She holds her fine-boned wrists aloft when she uses her knife and fork, as if being graceful is second nature to her. There’s something about her face too. The full lips and somewhat too-large eyes. There’s a Bambi-like innocence in her features that isn’t reflected in her steel spine and sharp gaze.
That’s when it hits me.
Of course. Of course.
Ruby Sullivan. She’s a dancer. A ballerina. Just this past spring, I watched her perform in Sleeping Beauty as the Lilac Fairy at least a dozen times. It was my first season in the new leadership role, and I wanted to become personally acquainted with the talent and potential of the company.
Most men maybe wouldn’t consider attending the ballet a particularly masculine hobby, but my ego isn’t fragile like that. In fact, I think it takes a true gentleman to appreciate the beauty of the performing arts. Also, there’s something kind of brutally macabre about ballet that has always fascinated me. Underneath all that glitter and chiffon are bruises and blisters, shredded satin, and tangled ribbons. The dancers throw themselves across the studio with inhuman courage and bend their bodies into almost grotesque shapes to achieve perfection.
In my opinion, they’re ten times tougher than the average athlete.
Now that I know who she is, I want nothing more than to get her attention again.
“Actually, Pierre,” I interrupt sharply, just loud enough to be heard across the table over the din of chatter. “I quite like the impressionists.”
He wrinkles his nose at me unapologetically. “Oh, mon ami. Say it isn’t so.”
“No, it’s true. My favorite painter is Degas.”
Pierre scoffs, looking even more French than Sebastien with that casual disgust on his face. “All those ballerinas? But it is all he painted! He had no range!”
Just as I hoped, the words Degas and ballerina do the trick. Ruby’s gaze flicks over to me. As soon as I catch her eye, I give her a trademark grin that usually enthralls even the sternest of people.
“What about you, Ruby?” I ask. “You must like Degas too.”
Her eyes flare with annoyance and she cocks her head to the side like she’s contemplating which part of me she wants to rip into first. “Why would I?”
“Because you’re a ballerina, of course.”
“We don’t use that term anymore,” she snaps. Then, to my surprise, she turns her gaze upon Pierre and offers him a bright, warm smile. “I agree with you, Pierre. The impressionists are dull.”
Pierre chuckles. “Ah, ma ballerine, I knew I could trust you.”
Ruby doesn’t chastise him for calling her a ballerina. Apparently, when it’s said in French and, probably more importantly, not by me, it’s perfectly acceptable.
I sit up a little straighter in my chair, unable to hide my frustration at her obvious cold shoulder.
One of the other bridesmaids leans forward with a glint in her eye that tells me she’s been trying to get my attention since we sat down at the table. I think her name is Laura. Or Lorena. Loretta?
“Tell me, Ben, are you enjoying Mermaid Shores?” she asks.
I shrug. “It’s quaint, but I’m not a fan of small towns.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“They’re too… small.” The idiotic end of my sentence is due to the pointed glare I can feel coming from Ruby.
“Well, I love it here,” says the bridesmaid. “I’m thinking about summering here next year.”
“Fascinating.” I glance at Ruby, who looks like she’s trying to telepathically explode my head. “What about you, Ruby? How do you like this humble little place?”
I’m certain that I’ve found our common ground. Two New Yorkers forced to endure a weekend of picturesque simplicity for the sake of our friends, after which we’ll be relieved to return to the big city.
Except, Ruby says, “Mermaid Shores is my hometown. I love it here.”
Oops.
The bridesmaid openly laughs at my blunder, then pulls Ruby into a conversation about the shoes she’s wearing.
The groomsman on my other side, Erik, chuckles quietly. “It’s okay, Ben. If every pretty girl fell at your feet, that just wouldn’t be fair. There has to be at least one exception.”
I don’t bother glaring at him. All I can do is look at Ruby, or rather, at her side profile, because she’s gone back to pretending that her head only turns in one direction—specifically, awayfrom me.
I’m tempted to think that Ruby is cold and unfriendly to everyone, not just me, but the evidence points to the contrary. Every other person at the table who seeks her attention gets a soft, polite smile and gentle words. She is poised and very clearly introverted, but has no trouble mingling with those around her.
It’s just me that she dislikes, which makes no sense, considering we’ve never met before. Plus, even if she knows who my family is, she shouldn’t be treating me with such strong contempt. The Hawthornes have been significant financial contributors to the ballet since the company was founded in 1948.
Not that she should be sucking up to me either.
I’m just… confused.
Also, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s really familiar. Not just as a dancer I’ve seen on the stage, but as someone I might have spent time with, sans stage makeup and sequins.
“Ruby, how is Amy?” I hear someone further down the table ask. Then, before she can answer, they continue with, “Those of you who don’t know—Ruby’s sister is a prodigal artist.”
“Wait, isn’t Amy Sullivan the artist who did that insane mural for Dior at Paris Fashion Week this past winter?” someone else chimes in.
Another person gasps loudly. “Ruby, you’re her sister?”
A light flush colors Ruby’s cheeks at the onslaught of attention. “Yes. Well, I’m her twin, actually.”
Appreciative conversation erupts, thick with praise for the immensely talented duo.
A twin. Gosh, there are two of them.
That’s why she’s so familiar. I know exactly who Amy Sullivan is. There’s no way I couldn’t, given that my family is obsessed with sniffing out young artists with extreme potential.
Pierre’s voice rises above the rest for a moment. “Amy is a true visionary! Her work is très profound!”
I snort loudly. “Pierre, you do realize that Miss Sullivan is heavily influenced by the impressionists, right?”
Ruby’s attention swings back to me, as jagged and fatal as a serrated knife.
“What do you know about my sister’s paintings?” she snaps.
Despite the challenge in her voice, I find myself smiling.
“Don’t you know, Ruby? I’m a bigfan. I have one of her pieces hanging in my townhouse on the Upper West Side.”
She narrows her eyes again, then sniffs as though an unpleasant stench has just assaulted her dainty nose. “Good for you.”
And that’s the end of that.
Erik laughs again. “Another swing and a miss.”
“Shut up, man.”