Page 66 of The Towering Sky
Brice laughed. “Hay Market has a two-month waiting list. I don’t think we’ll get in, even if I try to bribe the maître d’.”
Calliope knew that. Hay Market was the hottest new restaurant in the Tower, which was exactly why she had picked it. She wanted to walk into a glamorous, exclusive restaurant on the arm of a dangerously good-looking boy—a boy she was starting to like far too much.
And she was in the mood to show off a little.
“You’ll get in because you’re with me,” she promised.
Brice opened his mouth to protest, but Calliope lifted a finger to her lips, already pinging the restaurant. “I’m going to need a table for two, right away. Under Alan Gregory,” she said, settling into the con with familiar ease. Her voice had instantly transformed into something clipped and businesslike, utterly unlike her typical low, throaty tones.
Ah, it felt so good to tell these small lies, to dance lightly around the edges of the truth. To force the world to bend to her will, just a little bit.
“He’ll need the full tasting menu, of course,” she said, over the hostess’s stammered protests. “No, not the window. The table by the fireplace. Thank you.”
Brice shook his head, his eyes glinting with admiration. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”
“Would you still be here if I did?”
“Dare I ask, who is Alan Gregory?”
“TheLondon Timesfood critic,” Calliope declared with a self-satisfied smirk.
Brice was intrigued enough to slide off his barstool and follow her toward the door. “And what happens when the chef comes out and realizes that I’m not Alan Gregory?”
“I guess he’ll have to be happy with Brice Anderton,” Calliope replied, the old theatrical smile creeping onto her face. “I know I am.”
AVERY
“I’M SORRY OURdate night ended up becoming a fashion show,” Avery apologized, stepping into yet another gown—her fifteenth, if she hadn’t lost count.
“Trust me, watching you get dressed and undressed dozens of times is a pretty good date night.” Max looked at her with unabashed approval, and a warm flush traveled from the base of Avery’s spine up to her cheeks.
“Can you zip me up?” She gestured behind her, and Max obediently pulled up the zipper.
They were in Avery’s bedroom, which had been completely taken over by racks of black-tie gowns: her various options for the inauguration ball later this month. Almost every designer in America, and a good number of international designers, had sent over a sample dress for her to try.
Avery wasn’t used to “trying on” dresses this way. Normally when she shopped, she projected clothing designs onto aholographic scan of her body; and then if she liked it, the garment was made to order. This was different, because she hadn’t ordered a single one of these dresses. The designers had custom-made them for her on spec, each hoping that theirs was the gown she would pick.
And Avery had to make up her mind now, because tomorrow a photographer was coming to the thousandth floor to photograph her. Apparently she would be the central image of next month’sVoguedownload.
She turned toward the wall of her bedroom, which she’d clicked over to mirror mode, and studied the dramatic runway gown that now spilled over her. It was a bright, fluorescent orange.
“I look like a safety sign.” Avery gave a strangled laugh.
“The most beautiful safety sign in the history of intersections.” Max wrapped his arms around her to hug her from behind. His eyes were warm, catching the scattered light.
“Thank you, Max. For everything,” she said softly. He had been a source of steadiness throughout the turmoil of the campaign.
She was glad that he would be there next week, when she interviewed at Oxford. She could use a little of his unflappable calm.
“I love you,” she said impulsively and spun around to kiss him.
She kissed his cheeks and his forehead and the spot in the cleft of his chin that was darkened by a shadow of scruff: a rainfall of little kisses at first. Then she was kissing his mouth, and his arms had curled around her back, and it wasn’t so light anymore.
The sound of footsteps outside Avery’s door forced them quickly apart. “Mom?” she asked, hesitant.
The footsteps paused. “Did you need something?” she heardAtlas say, and her chest constricted, because she hadn’t meant to invite Atlas in at all.
“It’s fine. Sorry, I—”
