Page 42 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
I try to take it all in while smiling back as warmly as possible. Josh holds out my seat for me, and I take my place. I’d rather not be in Presley’s line of fire, but it’s nearly unavoidable at a round table. Josh is to my left, and he made sure to put me between him and Presley. Guess he doesn’t want any Presley gropes.
“I hope we’re not late,” Josh says.
“Right on time,” Mrs. Brower reassures him.
Her voice is warm, and her gaze is level. She’s smart; you can always tell smart people by their eyes. She seems alert, assessing but not calculating, unlike Presley, whose gaze rakes over me regularly, as if trying to figure out what such a tiny package has to offer Josh when Presley is available.
A waiter approaches to take our drink orders. I get a Negroni; I don’t actually know what it is, but people always talk about it in shows, and I’m happy to try it on the Browers’ dollar. We chat about the weather and the Reillys’ week in Austin until the server comes back to tell us about the dinner specials.
As he takes our orders, Josh places a hand on my thigh and orders for me. “I’ll take the prime rib and she’ll have the filet mignon in the port wine reduction.”
Presley stiffens beside me.
When the waiter leaves again, Mrs. Brower smiles at me across the table. “It’s nice to meet you, Samantha.”
“You as well, Mrs. Brower.”
“Please, call me Elizabeth. And that’s Steve,” she says with an affectionate smile at her husband.
I would place them in their early sixties, max. They’re both seriously attractive, but I don’t think either of them owes it to surgery. Nice genes, Josh.
I can’t say the same for Presley. I’m not opposed to anyone getting work done, but she’s had fillers in her lips. It’s subtle, I’ll give her that, but there’s no mistaking the faint loss of elasticity that comes even when the surgeon has the lightest touch.
I kind of wish she had big, huge fillers. And lots of other obvious work. It would be easier to think of her as a caricature. A cartoon villain. But Presley has the understated glow of the very wealthy, and she doesn’t overplay her hand. Her chic coral dress is a winter-appropriate satin, expertly tailored and accessorized with a simple pearl drop pendant and small, thin gold hoops.
She couldn’t be more night and day from Lady Mantha’s bleach-stained and frayed clothes, cheap fishnets, and neon pink hair.
It’s almost like she can smell it on me—the act I’m putting on with the country club–appropriate attire I dug from the back of my closet. But I had three years of solid practice blending in with Presleys in Pi Phi, so I keep a serene smile on my face.
“That’s a great bag,” I say, flicking my eyes to her purse beside her chair. “Chanel, last season, right?”
I know it’s Chanel. Even a dummy knows what the interlocked Cs on the clasp mean. I have no idea what season it is. That’s me being a brat.
“It’s the current collection, actually.” Her lips stretch as far as the fillers will let them. “But Chanel is so timeless that seasons are meaningless, wouldn’t you agree?”
I give a thoughtful nod. “It’s not a Birkin, exactly, but I see your point.”
Her eyes narrow the faintest bit, but I turn toward Josh, who has his arm across the back of my chair. He bends toward me and whispers, “I’m a little bit in love with you right now.”
I smile at the suppressed laugh in his voice. It looks like we’re enjoying an inside joke, but I fight the shiver the soft caress of his breath sends down my spine.
“We don’t know much about you,” Mr. Brower says. “Tell us about yourself.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m twenty-five, grew up in Hillsboro, went to UT, majored in nursing, and now I work at a nursing home.”
Mr. Brower’s eyebrow goes up. I can’t tell how he feels about this, but Mrs. Brower leans forward, her expression interested. “Do you like the work?”
“I do. Most days. Sometimes it’s hard, but most of the time, even on the hard days, it’s pretty great.”
“Why not a hospital?” Presley asks. “Is the nursing home easier?”
I can’t tell if she’s trying to criticize me. The question is rude, but her tone is only curious.
“I chose elder care because I realized I love spending time around the older folks. I have the temperament for it.”
“What does that mean? You like hard candies and gin rummy?” She says it in a teasing tone, but she’s tipped her hand now; she’s definitely trying to throw me off-balance.
“Hard candies, yes. Gin rummy, no. Our residents are card sharks, honestly. The number of times I have to break up strip poker games . . .” I trail off with a shake of my head, while Mr. Brower and Mr. Reilly give me startled looks and Presley’s lips tighten for the barest fraction of a second before she recovers.
