Page 49 of Miss Behaved
“Don’t you two look lovely.” I smile, taking one of their hands, then the other, and giving them each a sweet kiss.
“Look who’s talkin’!” Nadine looks me up and down and fans herself with her purse. “See our boy found himself a suit jacket.”
“Figured if I was going to be escorting you two ladies to this thing, then I better at least look like a gentleman.” I laugh, and Agnes nods once in approval.
“Three ladies,” Nadine says, stepping back and knocking on the door across the hall.
When it opens and Monica steps into the light of the hallway, something tightens in my chest. I can’t breathe—if this is a heart attack, then fuck it. I’ll go happily at the sight of those big brown eyes filled with mischief.
In keeping with the flapper theme, Monica wears a champagne-colored fringed dress. Lace and beads hug her bust. Her hair is pulled back into a wild updo, showing off a long string of pearls that wraps three times around her neck and trails down her stomach. The fringe falls to her knees, but as she walks toward me her dress shimmies over her tan thighs, and I realize the hemline underneath is much higher.
Monica holds her hands over her stomach and looks nervously between the three of us. “Do I look all right? I don’t know what I was thinking letting Luce talk me into this dress. It seemed to cover up a lot more when I tried it on in the store.” Her hands run down her sides, and I wish they were mine.
“You’re a vision,” I say, reaching out and lifting her chin up with my finger, forcing her eyes to me. “Absolutely perfect.”
Monica presses her lips together, and a blush warms from her cheeks down her neck. Agnes clucks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, and I pull my hand away as I take a step back, remembering we aren’t alone.
“Right, then.” I spin to close the door and try to pull myself together.
“Carson’s right,” Nadine says. “You look lovely, dear. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be rocking the heck out of that thing. Own it.”
Agnes and Nadine hook arms, heading down the hall ahead of us. Monica watches them, gnawing on the inside of her cheek—or is that gum? She always was a nervous chewer.
“You clean up nice,” she says, stepping closer.
“Thank you.” I nod.
She watches as Agnes and Nadine disappear into the elevator, and she waits for the doors to close before turning back to me. “About earlier. I hope I didn’t make things awkward. I didn’t exactly go to your room for that—or maybe I did, I don’t know. But I hope it doesn’t change anything.”
A sickening feeling stirs in my gut. I’d love for it to change everything, but, looking into Monica’s worried eyes, I know I can’t say that.
“It was fun,” I say instead. That word might as well be a punch to the stomach as I speak it. Monica’s face pinches, and I can’t help but reach out and trace her jawline to melt her expression. “I meant what I said, Mon. Anything you want, you just tell me.”
Her exhale catches in her chest. “I—why are you being so nice?”
“I care about you.”
Her heart hammers against the pulse in her throat. “As a friend?”
I’ve never hated that word so much. For all the women I’d love to see me as just a friend, hearing Monica say it stabs me dead center. “Sure,” I say, pulling my hand back. At least I’ve graduated up from colleague.
“Friends, then,” she says, holding out her hand with a wide smile on her face. I take it, and instead of shaking it like I’m sure she expects, I kiss its back and then place it in the crook of my arm.
“Friends.”
As much as that hurts to say, friends is progress from where we were a few days ago. Monica closes the distance and slips against my side as we walk down the hallway, a spicy warm scent cloaked in lemons filling the air around us. And I know that this—friends—isn’t enough.
I’m just going to have to make her see it.
Three of the hotel ballrooms are fully decorated for the murder-mystery event. One room is a speakeasy, the next is a winding maze of makeshift roads and alleys, and the third is a series of rooms: a library, a dining hall, a bedroom.
We are all handed a card upon arrival that describes our characters but still leaves us room to play with them. This is hardcore compared to the writing conferences I’m used to. Nothing gets held back, and I hate to admit it, but it’s kind of fun.
My card designates me Vance Craven, a gruff bartender who smuggles booze and woos the ladies. At least they didn’t pick something too hard for me to pull off. Vance was on shift when Sir Wesley Barington was murdered in the alley behind his bar, and he has no alibi for the moment it happened.
Tucking my card into my pocket, I glance down at Monica, who reads hers with a smirk, and I wonder if she’s the secret murderer. It’s usually the unassuming person.
“Reporter Cookie Barington.” She flicks her eyes up at me and laughs. “Sir Wesley was my uncle, and I’ll do anything to solve his murder.” Slipping her card away, she shoots me a wide smile.
