The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (39 page)

I blinked, trying to suppress a smile. “Um, this isn’t a fairy tale, you know?”

He shook his head. “No, but it shouldn’t be on an office desk on an ordinary Thursday night either.”

“Oh, Brand,” I said, chuckling. “I can’t believe you’re so particular. Is it going to be one of those Saturday specials or something?”

He smiled. “Just for your first time, it has to be special. After that, I plan to make love to you anytime, all the time, anywhere and everywhere.”

Making love. If only we could—not just sex but the whole works like falling crazy in love and living happily ever after.

I couldn’t remember the exact moment I started to let myself dream a little more of what could be instead of chastising myself for thinking my business arrangement with Brandon could be something more. Maybe that hope had been somewhere inside me all along—it just took a lot to coax it out. And now that it was out, it seemed intent on taking over.

I bit my lip and pretended to mull it over. “Well, since we can’t really go anywhere with your Dad still being in the hospital and you heading back to work full-time by the end of the week, how do you intend to give me my wedding night?”

“I’ll figure something out,” he promised, kissing my nose and pressing our foreheads together. “I’ll make time. I’ll surprise you.”

My heart fluttered at his words but I rolled my eyes at him, smiling faintly. “You better if you’re going to make me wait. For a rake hell, you're damned romantic.”

He frowned. “I’m not a rake hell. That’s Jake’s department. I may have never fully committed to a woman but I didn’t make a habit of dating several at the same time. While that would’ve made for an interesting sex life, I just couldn’t be bothered by the inconvenience of dealing with one needy woman, let alone a couple more.”

I grinned. "Would it shock you if I told you that I actually believe you this time?"

He gave me an arch look. "I'd be offended if you didn't."

Then his expression softened. "I'll be good to you, babe. I promise. I'll make you very happy."

Don't because I don't want it to hurt more than it already will when it's time to go, I wanted to say but I didn't want to ruin the moment. 

The kiss this time was slow and sweet—the kind that warmed me inside out and made my fingers and toes tingle.

"It's time for bed," I murmured against his mouth. 

He sighed. "Fifteen more minutes. I just have to read this report."

I shook my head. "You're not even really supposed to be working yet. This is our honeymoon week."

"Ten minutes?" he appealed, giving me the full impact of his puppy dog eyes. 

"No," I said as I scrambled off his lap. Because I was wedged between him and the desk, my only recourse to escape him was to climb on the table. "We're going to bed now or I'm dancing."

I straightened to my full height, shifting my weight between both of my bare feet to assess the stability of the desk. Since it was probably an expensive solid piece of hard wood, I figured it would hold. 

He looked up at me, his eyes twinkling with laughter. "No, you wouldn't."

I planted my hands on my hips and looked down on him. "I believe I just got taunted with a dare, Mr. Maxfield. And let me tell you that I, Charlotte Alexandra Maxfield, have never backed down from a dare before."

I pinched each side of my robe's skirt and did a deep curtsy, grinning at him. "I believe I shall dance."

"Charlotte!" Brandon groaned, running a hand down his face. "I was just kidding! Get down from there, please, before you hurt yourself."

"Aw, don't be such a grumpy old man, Brand," I said, giggling at his mortification as I twirled around his expansive desk, humming and moving to Christina Perri's melodious track Distance which filled the room. It was a slow, light-hearted romantic song—the kind that would play as a soundtrack on a Sunday morning while snuggling in bed. 

"Join me," I said, extending a hand down at him. "Show me you can be fun and spontaneous."

He firmly shook his head. "I would rather not have the desk collapse with my weight, thank you very much."

I winked at him. "Unless you weigh like a tank, you should be fine."

"This desk is an antique!" he exclaimed. 

"Yup, a sturdy one," I confirmed, tapping the surface lightly with my toes. "You're going to be antique in no time if you don't get up and start having some fun. Come on!"

"This is a bad idea," he countered although I could see him eyeing the space around my feet. "Which is probably why the number of times I've danced on table in my entire life is zero."

I stuck my tongue out at him teasingly. "Your loss. I danced on top of the bar at Marlow's lots of times."

His eyes narrowed. “You did? Was that appropriate for a girl your age and—”

“It was just me and some of the girls when we were cleaning up after we closed,” I interjected with a snort. “As bold as I am, I’m not bold enough to go Coyote Ugly at Marlow’s.”

“What’s Coyote Ugly?” he asked, frowning.

“Coyote Ugly! You know, the movie!” I said, waving my hands up in the air in emphasis. His brows furrowed further as he tried to think. “Not ringing a bell.”

“God, you’re so dull sometimes it’s adorable!” I said with a grin, leaning down to cup his face and kissing him quickly on the lips. I pulled away and tugged on his hair. “Come on, Brand. Dance with me.”

His hazel eyes were locked in on mine and I could see the smile playing tug-of-war with a scowl he was fighting hard to give me.

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” he finally said with a loud, exaggerated sigh as rose to his feet and pushed himself up on the desk. 

“You don’t know that,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck as he pulled me close to him, edging us away from his laptop and files and further into the vacant space beyond them. 

“This is a small conference table used by President Roosevelt when he was still writing books on hunting and frontier history before becoming president, ” Brandon explained as he slowly swayed us around our limited space on the table. “He needed a large desk for a whole bunch of documents and maps for his research so he’d ordered this to be made.”

“Extremely fascinating piece of history,” I said drolly, rolling my eyes. “I can see why it means a lot to you.”

“The reason I’ll regret this is because this desk is going to mean a lot to me now, not because of its link to American history,” Brandon continued, brushing the tip of his nose with mine. “But because you and I slow-danced on it one late evening, with bare feet and in our pajamas, and with the city lights as our audience.”

My heart pounded in my chest just as the sweet, heavy ache settled around it at Brandon’s words. 

He was smiling down at me, his eyes luminous in the sparse light of the room, his mouth turned up on one corner. “Is it such a bad thing that you’ll regret it?”

He shook his head and brushed a kiss on my lips. “I’ll regret it because I’ve now gotten myself attached to a giant piece of furniture I was already thinking of getting rid of. I can let it go even if it’s a piece of history. But I can’t let it go if it’s a piece of our history.”

I think... I think I’m in love. Like the completely, irrevocably, head-over-heels kind. 

I stopped the words before they could slip out—such a feat for someone like me.

But to say them now would put out whatever was burning between me and Brandon because to say the truth would complicate the lie.

I just kissed him and tried to tell him without the words.

If I could pick out letters from each touch of his lips, each stroke of his tongue, each of his heartbeat that reverberated through me as we held each other tight, I’d form the three words I secretly wished I would hear him tell me one day.

The music played on as we broke off the kiss.

And I will make sure to keep my distance

Say, “I love you,” when you’re not listening

And how long can we keep this up, up, up?

Knowing I was bound to blurt it out if I looked longer into his eyes, I lowered my head, pressing my cheek against his chest just as he tucked my head under his chin, his arms wrapped around me, his hand stroking my back gently.

I couldn’t be sure how long we danced but it felt like a lifetime.

If I’d been a child beauty queen, I could probably tell you better that getting primped up for my tea party with the Championettes felt like prepping for a national pageant. 

Felicity and Armina insisted I dress in signature Championette fashion—pastels, pearls and pumps. As if the three P’s weren’t enough, Felicity had to coach me on tea party etiquette. 

While I realized that slurping the tea down noisily wasn’t exactly the most popular form, I didn’t think there was a science to it. 

I had read enough historical romances to know that it was a big deal back in the eighteenth century but that was my point—that was practically two hundred years ago. Knowing whether cream or sugar (cubes only) went in first, or who did the pouring or how one should ask for a cup properly didn’t seem that crucial in ensuring that everyone was having a good time. In my opinion, if I had to sit there stiffer than the starched pencil skirt I’d be sporting, it wouldn’t be a good time at all.

Felicity had gently reassured me several times that order in life and society was an important key to happiness and since she seemed to go around with plenty of sunshine, I’d been inclined to believe her.

“I really look like Mrs. Bethany Harris,” I told Felicity for probably the sixth time that afternoon as I stared myself at the mirror by the living room.

Felicity stepped back from fixing my pearl necklace and shook her head patiently. “You don’t look like your English teacher, Charlotte. You look fresh, refined and lovely.”

“You look like a Championette but still very much what I’d expect of Charlotte Maxfield,” Armina added, motioning to the cropped white denim jacket I wore over my peach baby doll dress. While the palette met the Championette requirement, the jacket and the nude leather booties made the outfit edgy enough that I didn’t feel like I was overdosing on sugar. 

The three of us had spent the last week determining my final outfit and eventually making compromises to keep everyone happy. Sure, I could order both Felicity and Armina to agree to whatever I wanted to wear but they were my friends and had been more accustomed to this scene far longer than I have been that I had to trust their instincts. I consented to the pearls, the pastel palette and the neat bun my braided hair was tucked into. 

Slightly conscious of the possibility that things were not going to go well, I had made the least amount of fuss possible about the whole invitation, choosing not to alert anyone else about it. That way, if things went south, I’d have fewer people to deal with.

I took a deep breath as I turned away from the mirror and faced the other girls. “Well, we can at least count on my last name to get me through the door. Let’s just hope they don’t kick me out before we can sit down for tea.”

“You’ll be fine,” Felicity reassured me as she picked up the hostess gifts I was taking with me. “Just remember to count to ten before you say anything really important just in case it sounds differentl when you say from how it sounds in your head.”

“Got it,” I said with a firm nod. “And no clanking noise when stirring. Let the tea spoon touch only the bottom of the cup but never the walls. Do no more than five graceful swirls and don’t lick the spoon.”

I glanced at Felicity with my brows furrowed. “I remembered all the important parts, didn’t I?”

She smiled and nodded encouragingly. “You did. You’re not uncivilized, Char. You have good manners.”

I squared my shoulders. “Even though I obviously don’t have the required refined set of them, I’ll just wing it. No guts, no glory, right? I’m all out, ladies. Balls to the wall!”

Armina chuckled. “You may want to avoid using terms like ‘wing it’ and ‘balls to the wall’. They don’t quite go with the whole Championette rule book. Just saying.” 

“Right,” I said, flushing a little. “If they did, they’d be more fun.”

“And you know the board members’ names and profiles by heart so you can easily start a conversation with them and show that you’ve taken interest,” Felicity added as she led us to the door. “You’re being invited at a vital time because their new chairwoman is going to be announced today. It could be anyone from the current board, depending on the vote. After they declare it internally, they will do a press release and conduct the officiating rite a week from now. That’s also when they announce new members of the board.”

I secretly groaned at the mention of the board members because one of them was Layla LeClaire who inconveniently happened to be Simone’s best friend.

According to the profile report Felicity put together for me about the Society, Simone had become a member when she married Chad Barton, the top litigator in the state, three years ago. She kept her spot even after they divorced a year later but stopped actively participating after she got busy starting her own business. 

It relieved me that she would most likely not be at today’s tea party and I was crossing my fingers that her friend wouldn’t be an issue. I’d asked Brandon what he knew about Layla but he just shrugged and said that he didn’t know much since he only ever ran into her at social functions. When he had been dating Simone, it hadn’t been public and they hadn't attended that many events together. He made me promise that if there was any issue caused by his previous involvement with Simone, I was to let him know. 

Because he will slay the dragons for you, just as a gallant prince would to protect his princess. 

Since that night in his study when I’d made my feelings clear about having a real marriage for a year, there had been some subtle changes in our relationship. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it but it was almost as if we just fell into this domestic state easily, without conscious effort or deliberate planning. 

I would wake up in the morning and make us an early breakfast and we’d lounge around the kitchen in our pajamas before we started our day—whether it was to see Martin or for Brandon to head to work when the new week had started. We moved Martin back to his house on the weekend where his newly-hired nurse, Fatima, who was a real angel, would look after him. On Sunday, we arranged a barbecue brunch for the family (which of course included Jake) and spent the rest of the weekend there, just hanging out with everyone else. Anna, Tessa and I prepared the food but the dessert (a strawberry shortcake) was all mine and Brandon’s. 

He returned to work on Monday and I spent half of the last three days visiting Martin in the morning and the later half preparing for this tea party and responding to the overwhelming amount of correspondence that had poured in since the wedding. Despite the two of us doing different things, Brandon diligently picked me up to take me to lunch somewhere on his break and he would return home from work on time to help me make dinner for two. Gwen, the housekeeper, stopped bothering to make any food anymore since I moved in because I’d been manning the kitchen. As for the evenings, Brandon kept driving me crazy by making out with me only to stop just before we could take things all the way because he was still waiting for that special ‘right time’ which was apparently this coming weekend. Just like the honeymoon, he was stingy on the details but if the honeymoon he’d planned was anything to go by, I was assured that it would be better than anything I could possibly imagine. All he’d told me was to clear my schedule from Friday to Monday.

Don’t you just wish you could skip forward through this week till you get to Friday. Between Brandon and the Championettes, the hunky, wonderful husband trumps pastel-pumps-clicking socialites. 

“Are you ready?” Felicity’s question snapped me out of my giddy thoughts. 

Right. Tea party. Even being Mrs. Maxfield doesn’t give you the super power to alter time.

“I’m ready,” I said with a stiff nod before following Felicity out of the penthouse to the waiting car.

We dropped Armina off along the way and I fought the urge to ask Felicity to accompany me to the tea party for the rest of our drive to Clifton House, an old Georgian mansion that had been declared a heritage home by the city about ten years ago. Apart from being a tourist destination, it also functioned as the official headquarters of the Championettes since it was owned by the family of one of the Society's founding members.

“We’ll come pick you up around four, okay?” Felicity told me with a smile as Gilles pulled over by the front steps of the mansion. “Call if you need us sooner or later than that.”

“I will.” I took a deep breath before scrambling out of the car after Gilles opened the door for me. He walked me to the front door where a smartly-dressed, aging doorman greeted me in such a flat, lifeless fashion it was almost catatonic.

He took the gifts I brought and led me down the hall to the large solarium where a half dozen or so vintage wingback chairs were circled together around an oval table draped in white cloth with intricate embroidered edges. Small crystal vases of blue and white hydrangeas, white tiered trays brimming with dainty pastries, and pretty china tea cups were spread out on the table, enjoyed by the women gathered around it. 

Their conversation paused when I appeared at the doorway and I swallowed hard before smiling at them broadly while secretly surveying each of their faces.

There were seven of them, all wearing outfits that nearly matched the pastel palette of the French almond macarons in one of the trays. 

My eyes focused on a very familiar brunette wearing a sorbet-yellow mod dress—Simone Clark. 

She looked up at me with dark gray eyes rounded in surprise and I fought not to let my jaw drop open in front of everyone.

“Oh, hello,” one platinum blond I instantly recognized as Layla LeClaire, greeted me in a sugary voice as she rose from her seat. 

She was about Simone’s age and a definite beauty as well with her white blond hair and classical bone structure. Clad in a lilac shift dress with pink flower prints on it, she would’ve looked sweet if not for the sharp, measuring glint in her pale blue eyes as she took in my appearance with unconcealed disapproval.

What? Am I not wearing enough strands of pearls? Am I not bleeding enough pastels? Or it just because they still see me as the shabby diner girl even with all this icing and my new last name?

"Charlotte Maxfield, what a pleasure," Layla said as everyone else took their turn to appraise me. "We were wondering whether you were still going to join us today since we'd started about half an hour ago."

I frowned and glanced at my watch. "It's one-fifty-five. The invite said two p.m."

Layla's brows arched delicately, her smile tight with impatience. "The tea party was scheduled for one-thirty. I mean, if everyone else showed up at that time, it must be correct. We certainly understand if you were held up. It must’ve been something very important. You could have hardly meant to be tardy to a Championettes’ tea party, if you follow my meaning."

My fists clenched. "I'm not tardy. I have the invite in my purse if you care to look at it."

Layla laughed and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, please, it’s not a big deal. We could hardly peer at a diamond when it’s not big enough to matter, right? Besides, you're not even a member yet so no crime has been committed. And as I've said, we completely understand. There's no need to apologize."

I raised a brow. "I certainly don't recall apologizing in the last thirty seconds since I've stepped into this room so there’s no need to liberate me from the necessity of it. Are you sure you're following me in this conversation?"

Silence filled the room and that wasn't a good thing.

"I'm Layla LeClaire, the newest chairwoman of the Lady Championettes Society as of today," she said as if that answered my question, which it didn't. “You would’ve learned that if you had arrived on time.”

Patience, Charlotte. It’s not fair to insult someone who is clearly not smart enough to manage a straight path through an argument. 

I glanced at the other members who looked very uncomfortable. Some avoided my gaze, like Simone who suddenly found her tea cup very interesting, and some leveled me the same hostile glare as Layla did which no amount of pastel could sweeten.

“Congratulations,” I said slowly and calmly, lifting my chin up at Layla. “Clearly, you’ve already made huge strides in being a true political leader—artificially charming, outright manipulative and a practiced prevaricator who can whistle lies through her teeth.”

Gasps erupted all over the room and Layla’s face blanched before the blood rushed back beneath the surface of her milky white skin until she resembled a blister about to burst. 

I didn’t care.

I was too pissed off to play it nice. If they sought to intimidate me by sending me an incorrect invitation and bully me enough that I wouldn’t even bring it up, they clearly had no idea who they were messing with.

With my shoulders squared, I whipped out the invitation from my clutch and slapped it on the surface of the table before sliding it forward, my eyes never wavering from Layla’s.

“Being caught in a lie is like being a fish caught in a hook—the more you struggle away from it, the more likely you’ll lose your head—or your intestines,” I said with a smirk. “I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t so predictable.”

I turned away from her and faced the other women, flashing them a broad, sunny smile. “Since I’m inclined to believe in the good nature of mankind, I’ll assume that no one else knew of that sloppy trick to make me look bad on my first meeting with you ladies so I’ll start over. My name is Charlotte Maxfield. I’m honored to have been invited as a guest to your tea party today. I’m very interested in the work you do—when you’re not busy instigating juvenile catfights—and I’d be happy to help out where you can use my assistance.”

“You have no right to insult us like this!” Layla, who seemed to have recovered her speech, snarled from behind me. 

I glanced over my shoulder and gave her a pitying smile. “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”

“I am the leader of this Society!” she practically yelled and I felt the urge to take cover before this blister burst and spewed puss and all kinds of disgusting things all over us.

I grimaced and glanced back at the other members who were sharing an almost uniform expression of disbelief and shock—even Simone—except for a tall, red head who was sitting back smiling, her green eyes shimmering with laughter.

The fact that someone was seeing the humor in the situation other than myself made me instantly feel better. 

I grinned. “I think some of you may have to reassure Layla of her new post here since she doesn’t seem to believe it. I mean, she keeps saying it. It probably hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“See here, Charlotte,” another member I recalled as Patricia Verron—a plump, older lady with a loud, fuchsia-colored mouth—rose to her feet and glared at me admonishingly. “We invited you here as a courtesy to the Maxfields but Layla was sure that you wouldn’t fit in well with the group and we can clearly see that now. You’re insolent and disrespectful!”

I sighed, knowing that there was no stopping me now. “I appreciate the tact you admit your motive with considering how disrespectful it is to slap it on someone’s face just how uninterested you are in their company and make it sound as if you’re doing them a favor by putting up with it anyway. No disrespect intended but I think at this point, it’s hardly fair to call out my insolence when your prejudice provoked it.”

“We are an esteemed society of female philanthropists and you would do well to remember that!” another member, Catherine Rochner, identifiable by her beak-like nose which she was rumored to always defend by referring to it as a true aristocrat’s nose, spoke up sharply. “We don’t just pick up the next trailer trash to have stumbled into the marital bed with a rich man.”

Wow. Clearly, someone’s dug my hole so deep I just plunged right into it when I walked in here today. Unbelievable. I never even had a chance.

I thought of how Brandon would be so disappointed in me for blowing this but I fought the pinpricks of tears in my eyes and thrust my chin up.

He’d be more disappointed in you if you let them walk all over you.

I took a deep breath and steeled my spine as I met each of their gazes. “It’s a real pity that the only charity you all seem to be capable of is limited to your glitzy fundraisers and cozy tea parties. If you can’t even be charitable to others with less impressive backgrounds than yours, I can’t figure out why else you would do your philanthropy if not just to simply make yourselves look better by helping the poor and earn the tax credit for it.”

Layla started to make some kind of protesting noise but I pinned her with a glare. “As for you, I simply regret that someone of your vindictive nature gained the opportunity to make a difference when all that you seem intent in doing with it is to play the high school queen bee.”

I swivelled my gaze over to Simone who was flushed a deep shade of red, still mute in her seat. What a lovely coward. I wasn’t sure what I really wanted to hear from her but I had some hope that she would be decent enough to say something to call off her attack dog of a friend especially since I had the strongest suspicion that a lot of this was about her. 

“If your fight with me is for your friend Simone, I’m afraid that your crusade is in vain,” I continued telling Layla. “I did not steal anything that was still hers to have. I did not wish for this to be ugly and I had hoped that you would be better than this but if you’re simply taking me down because I happened to marry Brandon, I suggest you give it up. Whether my last name is Samuels or Maxfield, whether I sleep in my old, ratty double bed or in a California king thirty floors up in the sky, whether I’m in Blahniks or sneakers, I’m the same girl I’ve always been—the kind who will not stand down because you feel like kicking me around. I will kick you right back if you don’t back off and it will hurt.”

With my heart beating rapidly from the dangerous excitement of my declaration, I straightened my shoulders and gave them a half-smile.

“When you’ve learned to be better than a bunch of petty hypocrites, look me up,” I said with a shrug. “I might be interested to help you then.”

With that, I turned and strode out of the house, walking until I found myself strolling toward downtown which was only a few blocks away.

Despite my famous last words from that tea party, I felt defeated—mostly because I didn’t even get a chance. I had known it would be an ambush as much as I had wanted to believe it otherwise. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Having read what I did about the Championettes from gossips online, I had known that they wouldn’t welcome me with open arms. Despite their claims to charity, most of them had reputations for being prissy and arrogant but I had always been the type to cut most people some slack and I thought I could manage that with them. 

The only problem with giving people a chance is that they don’t always return the favor.

I wondered how I would tell Brandon.

I wondered how I would tell Felicity. She would be devastated. She had such great faith that the Championettes would meet me and all love me because she thought the world of me. She might be employed as my personal assistant but Felicity held none of her affection back and she’d given me plenty of it. I could tell. And now I failed her in this.

It’s only failure if it was worth it. To be part of a group who condescends on people like that is no achievement.

Determined to feel better, I undid the tight bun of my hair and wiggled the braid loose until I could feel the blood flowing back around my head. It also felt strangely symbolic as if I'd liberated myself of the constraints of a Championette. Then I wandered around downtown for a good half hour, grateful for the anonymity that reminded me of how simple it used to be just being good, old Charlotte.

It didn’t completely cheer me up though so I thought of Felicity’s formula for banishing the blues—shoe shopping.

The booties were beautiful and surprisingly comfortable despite the height but after an hour of standing and briskly walking in them, I was starting to feel my arches ache.

I went into one of my favorite shoe stores. I used to gaze at some of the pretty shoes here that I couldn't afford before. When I was done gazing my fill, I would go purchase a new pair of Chuck Taylors once I’d worn a hole into my old ones.

“Hello,” a young girl greeted me as I surveyed a rack of leather ballet flats. “What can I help you with today?”

“Oh, I’m just looking,” was my automatic reply out of habit. I would never even bother the store clerks before with trying on anything because I couldn't afford it then.

She smiled at me in understanding. It was in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon so the store traffic was slow. “No worries.”

She nodded to my shoes. “Those booties are fabulous. I saw them in Vogue and a couple other magazines. They’re one of this season’s most coveted pairs and they’re crazy expensive.”

I felt myself blush because I didn’t really know how to react properly. I didn’t even know how much they cost. Armina had them in a long line of shoe options and I just picked them out. “Um, thanks.” 

The girl shook her head as if she was trying to snap herself out of the dreamy gaze she had been directing at my shoes in the last sixty seconds. “Anyway, I just thought I’d pay them the compliment they deserve. We don’t sell anything like them here—nothing as high-end anyway—but if there’s anything that catches your attention, I’d love to grab you a size so you can try them on.”

Knowing that the girl could probably use some commission on a slow day like this, I pointed to another rack that featured the different sneakers they carried. “I’d like a pair of those high-top Chucks in white and women’s size six and a half, please.”

Surprise flickered across her face but she quickly recovered her composure and nodded before heading to the back room.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the store wearing my new pair of Chucks and carrying my booties in a paper bag where I tossed in my clutch as well. 

I still had about half an hour before Felicity and Gilles picked me up from Clifton House and I needed to be somewhere they wouldn’t need to come get me. That way, I’d avoid explaining anything yet to Felicity about the tea party spectacle. I also needed a friend.

I took out my phone and texted Brandon.