Page 56 of Conflicted Lies

“It’s so amazing, Hope. You’ve achieved so much,” she gushes, then turns to Kylie. “And you, Kylie. I love your work as well. I might just have to buy a piece to go with Hope’s pieces around my house to commemorate today’s events,” Mom says.

My mother was never hugely into art until I became interested in it. Aunt Anya, however, has always admired anything beautiful. I don’t bring her to these events either because she’ll stab someone for looking at her the wrong way.

I finally shoot a glance at Kylie and mask my glee. I actually expect her eyes to pop out of her head as she collects herself and clenches her jaw. She doesn’t know that Lena Love’s my mother yet, but knowing her idol has multiple pieces of my work in her home must absolutely be fucking up her system right now.

Kylie’s quick to insert herself, offering her hand to my mother, not missing a beat of opportunity. She begins telling my mother the inspiration behind the pieces and basically pushes me out of the conversation. Mom glances at me, but I wave off her concern. If this is Kylie’s claim to fame, then so be it. I’m petty enough to know I’ve already fucking won if this is what her championship looks like.

“I’ll be back.” I dismiss myself just as Kylie hooks her arm around my mother’s and proceeds to drag her around the exhibit. I suspect this kind of behavior is worse in my mother’s industry—the need and drive to be the best and cutting down others to achieve it at any cost. So, whether Kylie realizes it or not, my mother is great at spotting people like her a mile away.

But if it keeps Kylie away from me for the time being, I’m happy to throw my mother to the wolves as I head to the bar to grab a couple of glasses of champagne for my mother and me. Although I usually use a glass in one hand more like a prop, tonight, I feel like I’ll enjoy a glass with my mom. Having her here isn’t so bad after all.

It’s nice to be in Manhattan. I wonder when my schedule will slow down enough to give me an opportunity to look for a place of my own now that I’ve decided that that’s what I want to do. I want somewhere with a nice sunroom like my studio has. That way, I can have a similar setup if the mood strikes when I’m at home and don’t feel like driving to the studio.

“What, no whiskey?” a voice questions from behind me. I’m terrified the flutes in my hands might crack with how tightly I grip them as I turn around and face… Braxton.

I pretend to trip and spill one of the drinks on him. “Oops. I’m so sorry,” I say as I place the empty glass down and grab some napkins. I begin patting the wet spot on his shirt. I look up at him through my glasses. “I’m so clumsy.”

Dickhead.

Asshole.

Ghost.

Braxton stares down at his shirt. He clicks his tongue, then smirks as he presses my hand, holding the napkins to his chest, and then begins to move it slowly, almost sensually, over the damp fabric.

“Perhaps you can clean up a different mess.” His voice is gravelly.

“How crude,” I bite back, pulling my hand away.

“So is fucking up someone’s car and spilling a drink on them.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s weird. I didn’t know ghosts talked these days.”

“Oh, Shortcake. I’m not ghosting anyone. I’m just doing what you asked, or rather demanded, of me—leaving you alone.” He grins. “But by your peeved tone, maybe that’s not what you really want.”

Whatever.

He’s wiping down his shirt, completely unfazed, which bothers me even more.

Now? He wants to turn up now? And here, of all places? The asshole has some balls coming to one of my events uninvited… and entirely unwelcome. Though, I can’t help but quickly sweep an appreciative gaze over his attire. He’s dressed way nicer than usual. I’m used to seeing him in black slacks and a black button-up shirt. Not that he doesn’t have black slacks on right now, but in place of the dress shirt is an undershirt with a long trench coat over the top of it. He takes the coat off, shaking his head at the mess, then hands it to an attendant who’s hovering nearby.

He must have just arrived. Did he spot me from the door and just head straight for me?

I take a sip of the champagne, the tension palpable between us. So many fucking things I want to say to him, and yet… I just want to rip his fucking clothes off. The thought of going to the coat closet pops into my mind, and I must be out of my fucking head to even consider that with this man.

Braxton’s expression is smug like he’s won or is right about something.

“What?” I bite. It’s then I realize I’m rapidly tapping my foot. I force myself to stop.Fuck. I don’t want him reading anything from body language.

“You look ravishing as always, Shortcake,” he says and steps closer, basically caging me against the bar. He looks down at the glass in my hand and then back at me. “Do you plan to drink that this time?” I don’t bother asking him how he knows I don’t always drink it.

It’s obvious that I’ve taken two sips since he’s stepped into my vicinity, so with a bit of snark in my tone, I say, “I gave up on drinking; seems I do stupid shit when I do.”

“Yes, I guess stealing police officers’ wallets would make me want to quit drinking, too,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you were drinking when our cars had that damaging kiss.”

“I’d say it was more like mine forcefully shoving up the ass of yours, which couldn’t take it.”

His smile grows. “I missed that poisonous tongue of yours, Shortcake.”

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