Seal'd Auction: A Bad Boy Military Standalone Romance Page 10

  “Okay, okay,” Caroline takes a couple of deep yoga breaths, exhaling loudly. She puts the box carefully on our dining room table. There’s no address on it. It looks something like a fancy gift box with a big monogrammed C in the middle. Is the C for Caroline?

  “Is this how it came? There’s no address on it?” I ask.

  “It was hand-delivered,” Caroline whispers. I hold my breath as she carefully removes the top part, revealing the satin and silk covered wood box inside. The top of it is gold plated with whimsical twirls all around the edges, and the mirrored area is engraved with her full name, Caroline Elizabeth Kennedy Spruce. Underneath her name is a date, one week in the future. 8 PM.

  We stare at it for a few moments until Caroline reaches for the elegant knob to open the box. Inside, Caroline finds a custom monogram made of foil in gold on silk emblazoned on the inside of the flap cover. There’s also a folio covered in silk. Caroline carefully opens the folio and finds another foil monogram and the invitation. The inside invitation is one layer, shimmer white, with gold writing.

  “Is this for real? How many layers of invitation are there?” I ask. But the presentation is definitely doing its job. We are both duly impressed.

  “There’s another knob,” I say, pointing to the knob in front of the box. I’m not sure how we had missed it before.

  Caroline carefully pulls on this knob, revealing a drawer that holds the inserts (a card with directions and a response card).

  “Oh my God, I can’t go to this alone,” Caroline mumbles, turning to me. I stare blankly at her. Getting invited to this party has been her dream ever since she found out about it from someone in the Cicada 17, a super-secret society at Yale.

  “Look, here, it says that I can bring a friend,” she yells out even though I’m standing right next to her.

  “It probably says a date. A plus one?” I say.

  “No, a friend. Girl preferred,” Caroline reads off the invitation card. That part of the invitation is in very small ink, as if someone made the person stick it on, without their express permission.

  “I don’t want to crash,” I say. Frankly, I don’t really want to go. These kind of upper-class events always make me feel a little bit uncomfortable.

  “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask.

  “Eh, I took a day off,” Caroline says waving her arm. “I knew that the invitation would come today and I just couldn’t deal with work. You know how it is.”

  I nod. Sort of. Caroline and I seem like we come from the same world. We both graduated from private school, we both went to Yale, and our parents belong to the same exclusive country club in Greenwich, Connecticut. But we’re not really that alike.

  Caroline’s family has had money for many generations going back to the railroads. My parents were an average middle class family from Connecticut. They were both teachers and our idea of summering was renting a 1-bedroom bungalow near Clearwater, FL for a week.

  But then my parents got divorced when I was 8, and my mother started tutoring kids to make extra money. The pay was the best in Greenwich, where parents paid more than $100 an hour. And that’s how she met, Mitch Willoughby, my stepfather. He was a widower with a five-year old daughter who was not doing well after her mom’s untimely death. Even though Mom didn’t usually tutor anyone younger than 12, she agreed to take a meeting with Mitch and his daughter because $200 an hour was too much to turn down. Three months later, they were in love and six months later, he asked her to marry him on top of the Eiffel Tower. They got married, when I was 11, in a huge 450-person ceremony in Nantucket.

  So even though Caroline and I run in the same circles, we’re not really from the same circle. It has nothing to do with her, she’s totally accepting, it’s me. I don’t always feel like I belong.

  Caroline majored in art-history at Yale, and she now works at an exclusive contemporary art gallery in Soho. It’s chic and tiny, featuring only 3 pieces of art at a time. Ash, the owner - I’m not sure if that’s her first or last name - mainly keeps the space as a showcase. What the gallery really specializes in is going to wealthy people’s homes and choosing their art for them. They’re basically interior designers, but only for art. None of the pieces sell for anything less than $200 grand, but Caroline’s take home salary is about $21,000. Clearly, not enough to pay for our 2 bedroom apartment in Chelsea. Her parents cover her part of the rent and pay all of her other expenses. Mine do too, of course. Well, Mitch does. I only make about $27,000 at my writer’s assistant job and that’s obviously not covering my half of our $6,000 per month apartment.

  So, what’s the difference between me and Caroline? I guess the only difference is that I feel bad about taking the money. I have a $150,000 school loan from Yale that I don't want Mitch to pay for. It’s my loan and I’m going to pay for it myself, dammit. Plus, unlike Caroline, I know that real people don’t really live like this. Real people like my dad, who is being pressured to sell the house for more than a million dollars that he and my mom bought back in the late 80’s (the neighborhood has gone up in price and teachers now have to make way for tech entrepreneurs and real estate moguls).

  “How can you just not go to work like that? Didn’t you use all of your sick days flying to Costa Rica last month?” I ask.

  “Eh, who cares? Ash totally understands. Besides, she totally owes me. If it weren’t for me, she would’ve never closed that geek millionaire who had the hots for me and ended up buying close to a million dollars’ worth of art for his new mansion.”

  Caroline does have a way with men. She’s fun and outgoing and perky. The trick, she once told me, is to figure out exactly what the guy wants to hear. Because a geek millionaire, as she calls anyone who has made money in tech, does not want to hear the same thing that a football player wants to hear. And neither of them want to hear what a trust fund playboy wants to hear. But Caroline isn’t a gold digger. Not at all. Her family owns half the East Coast. And when it comes to men, she just likes to have fun.

  I look at the time. It’s my day off, but that doesn’t mean that I want to spend it in bed in my pajamas, listening to Caroline obsessing over what she’s going to wear. No, today, is my day to actually get some writing done. I’m going to Starbucks, getting a table in the back, near the bathroom, and am actually going to finish this short story that I’ve been working on for a month. Or maybe start a new one.

  I go to my room and start getting dressed. I have to wear something comfortable, but something that’s not exactly work clothes. I hate how all of my clothes have suddenly become work clothes. It’s like they’ve been tainted. They remind me of work and I can’t wear them out anymore on any other occasion. I’m not a big fan of my work, if you can’t tell.

  Caroline follows me into my room and plops down on my bed. I take off my pajamas and pull on a pair of leggings. Ever since these have become the trend, I find myself struggling to force myself into a pair of jeans. They’re just so comfortable!

  “Okay, I’ve come to a decision,” Caroline says. “You have to come with me!”

  “Oh, I have to come with you?” I ask, incredulously. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh c’mon! Please! Pretty please! It will be so much fun!”

  “Actually, you can’t make any of those promises. You have no idea what it will be,” I say, putting on a long sleeve shirt and a sweater with a zipper in the front.

  Layers are important during this time of year. The leaves are changing colors, winds are picking up, and you never know if it’s going to be one of those gorgeous warm, crisp New York days they like to feature in all those romantic comedies or a soggy, overcast dreary day that only shows up in one scene at the end when the two main characters fight or break up (but before they get back together again).

  “Okay, yes, I see your point,” Caroline says, sitting up and crossing her legs. “But here is what we do know. We do know that it’s going to be amazing. I mean, look at the invitation. It’s a freakin’ box with en
gravings and everything!”

  Usually, Caroline is much more eloquent and better at expressing herself.

  “Okay, yes, the invitation is impressive,” I admit.

  “And as you know, the invitation is everything. I mean, it really sets the mood for the party. The event! And not just the mood. It establishes a certain expectation. And this box…”

  “Yes, the invitation definitely sets up a certain expectation,” I agree.

  “So?”

  “So?” I ask her back.

  “Don’t you want to find out what that expectation is?”

  “No.” I shake my head categorically.

  “Okay. So what else do we know?” Caroline asks rhetorically as I pack away my Mac into my bag.

  “I have to go, Caroline,” I say.

  “No, listen. The yacht. Of course, the yacht. How could I bury the lead like that?” She jumps up and down with excitement again.

  “We also know that it’s going to be this super exclusive event on a yacht! And not just some small 100 footer, but a mega-yacht.”

  I stare at her blankly, pretending to not be impressed. When Caroline first found out about this party, through her ex-boyfriend, we spent days trying to figure out what made this event so special. But given that neither of us have been on a yacht before, at least not a mega-yacht – we couldn’t quite get it.

  “You know the yacht is going to be amazing!”

  “Yes, of course,” I give in. “But that’s why I’m sure that you’re going to have a wonderful time by yourself. I have to go.”

  I grab my keys and toss them into the bag.

  “Ellie,” Caroline says. The tone of her voice suddenly gets very serious, to match the grave expression on her face. “Ellie, please. I don’t think I can go by myself.”

  2

  When you have coffee with a guy you can’t have…

  And that’s pretty much how I was roped into going. You don’t know Caroline, but if you did, the first thing you’d find out is that she is not one to take things seriously. Nothing fazes her. Nothing worries her. Sometimes she is the most enlightened person on earth, other times she’s the densest. Most of the time, I’m jealous of the fact that she simply lives life in the present.

  “So, you’re going?” my friend Tom asks. He brought me my pumpkin spice latte, the first one of the season!

  I close my eyes and inhale it’s sweet aroma before taking the first sip. But even before its wonderful taste of cinnamon and nutmeg runs down my throat, Tom is already criticizing my decision.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually going,” he says.

  “Oh my God, now I know it’s officially fall,” I change the subject. “Was there actually such a thing as autumn before the pumpkin spice latte? I mean, I remember that we had falling leaves, changing colors, all that jazz, but without this…it’s like Christmas without a Christmas tree.”

  “Ellie, it’s a day after Labor Day,” Tom rolls his eyes. “It’s not fall yet.”

  I take another sip. “Oh yes, I do believe it is.”

  “Stop changing the subject,” Tom takes a sip of his plain black coffee. How he doesn’t get bored with that thing, I’ll never know. But that’s the thing about Tom. He’s reliable. Always on time, never late. It’s nice. That’s what I have always liked about him. He’s basically the opposite of Caroline in every way.

  And that’s what makes seeing him like this, as only a friend, so hard.

  “Why are you going there? Can’t Caroline go by herself?” Tom asks, looking straight into my eyes. His hair has this annoying tendency of falling into his face just as he’s making a point – as a way of accentuating it. It’s actually quite vexing especially given how irresistible it makes him look. His eyes twinkle under the low light in the back of the Starbucks.

  “I’m going as her plus one,” I announce. I make my voice extra perky on purpose. So that it portrays excitement, rather than apprehensiveness, which is actually how I’m feeling over the whole thing.

  “She’s making you go as her plus one,” Tom announces as a matter a fact. He knows me too well.

  “I just don’t get it, Ellie. I mean, why bother? It’s a super yacht filled with filthy rich people. I mean, how fun can that party be?”

  “Jealous much?” I ask.

  “I’m not jealous at all!” He jumps back in his seat. “If that’s what you think…”

  He lets his words trail off and suddenly the conversation takes on a more serious mood.

  “You don’t have to worry, I’m not going to miss your engagement party,” I say quietly. It’s the weekend after I get back.”

  He shakes his head and insists that that’s not what he’s worried about.

  “I just don’t get it Ellie,” he says.

  You don’t get it? You don’t get why I’m going? I’ve had feelings for you for, what, two years now? But the time was never right. At first, I was with my boyfriend and the night of our breakup, you decided to kiss me. You totally caught me off guard. And after that long painful breakup, I wasn’t ready for a relationship. And you, my best friend, you weren’t really a rebound contender. And then, just as I was about to tell you how I felt, you spend the night with Carrie. Beautiful, wealthy, witty Carrie. Carrie Warrenhouse, the current editor of BuzzPost, the online magazine where we both work, and the daughter of Edward Warrenhouse, the owner of BuzzPost. Oh yeah, and on top of all that, you also started seeing her and then asked her to marry you. And now you two are getting married on Valentine’s Day. And I’m really happy for you. Really. Truly. The only problem is that I’m also in love with you. And now, I don’t know what the hell to do with all of this except get away from New York. Even if it’s just for a few days.

  But of course, I can’t say any of these things. Especially the last part.

  “This hasn’t been the best summer,” I say after a few moments. “And I just want to do something fun. Get out of town. Go to a party. Because that’s all this is, a party.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Tom says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since you told me you were going, I started looking into this event. And the rumor is that it’s not what it is.”

  I shake my head, roll my eyes.

  “What? You don’t believe me?” Tom asks incredulously.

  I shake my head.

  “Okay, what? What did you hear?”

  “It’s basically like a Playboy Mansion party on steroids. It’s totally out of control. Like one big orgy.”

  “And you would know what a Playboy Mansion party is like,” I joke.

  “I’m being serious, Ellie. I’m not sure this is a good place for you. I mean, you’re not Caroline.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?” I ask. Now, I’m actually insulted. At first, I was just listening because I thought he was being protective. But now...

  “What you don’t think I’m fun enough? You don’t think I like to have a good time?” I ask.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Tom backtracks. I start to gather my stuff. “What are you doing?”

  “No, you know what,” I stop packing up my stuff. “I’m not leaving. You’re leaving.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I came here to write. I have work to do. I staked out this table and I’m not leaving until I have something written. I thought you wanted to have coffee with me. I thought we were friends. I didn’t realize that you came here to chastise me about my decisions.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” Tom says, without getting out of his chair.

  “You have to leave Tom. I want you to leave.”

  “I just don’t understand what happened to us,” he says getting up, reluctantly. I stare at him as if he has lost his mind.

  “You have no right to tell me what I can or can’t do. You don’t even have the right to tell your fiancée. Unless you don’t want her to stay your fiancée for long.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,
Ellie. I’m just worried. This super exclusive party on some mega-yacht, that’s not you. That’s not us.”

  “Not us? You’ve got to be kidding,” I shake my head. “You graduated from Princeton, Tom. Your father is an attorney at one of the most prestigious law-firms in Boston. He has argued cases before the Supreme Court. You’re going to marry the heir to the Warrenhouse fortune. I’m so sick and tired of your working class hero attitude, I can’t even tell you. Now, are you going to leave or should I?”

  The disappointment that I saw in Tom’s eyes hurt me to my very soul. But he had hurt me. His engagement came completely out of left field. I had asked him to give me some time after my breakup and after waiting for only two months, he started dating Carrie. And then they moved in together. And then he asked her to marry him.

  And throughout all that, he just sort of pretended that we were still friends. Just like none of this ever happened.

  I open my computer and stare at the half written story before me. Earlier today, before Caroline, before Tom, I had all of these ideas. I just couldn’t wait to get started. But now…I doubted that I could even spell my name right. Staring at a non-moving blinker never fuels the writing juices. I close my computer and look around the place. All around me, people are laughing and talking. Leggings and Uggs are back in season – even though the days are still warm and crispy. It hasn’t rained in close to a week and everyone’s good mood seems to be energized by the bright rays of the afternoon sun.

  Last spring, I was certain that Tom and I would get together over the summer and I would spend the fall falling in love with my best friend. And now? Now, he’s engaged to someone else. Not just someone else – my boss! And we just had a fight over some stupid party that I don’t even really want to go to. He’s right, of course. It’s not my style. My family might have money, but that’s not the world in which I’m comfortable. I’m always standing on the sidelines and it’s not going to be any different at this party. But if I don’t go now, after this, that means that I’m listening to him. And he has no right to tell me what to do. So, I have to go. How did everything get so messed up?