The room explodes into thunderous applause.
I lean in so she can hear me above the noise. “You’re engaged?”
Her head tilts. “No?”
“Sure about that?”
She doesn’t sound very sure, and it seems like the kind of thing she should have the inside track on.
“David flew out to speak with my father last week. He said they had to discuss something important,” Kennedy explains, her eyes squinting like she’s trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics in her head.
“But he didn’t actually ask you?”
“No. I guess he skipped that part.”
The crowd comes at us like a tsunami, and Kennedy’s swallowed up in a sea of well-wishers and carried away toward the front of the room.
I scowl so hard my face hurts.
The ever-elegant Mrs. Randolph appears beside me, in the spot her daughter just vacated, watching the hubbub with a smile.
“It seems congratulations are in order,” I tell her.
“It appears so.”
My gaze never wavers from Kennedy as she’s ushered forward. And there’s a pulling sensation in my chest, like my lungs have been snagged by a hook and they’re being yanked out of my rib cage.
The feeling turns my voice scratchy. “Does she love him?”
Mrs. Randolph thinks for a moment, then she answers smoothly, “David is a fine young man. I believe he’ll be president one day. He’s an excellent match for my daughter.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She sighs. “Claire and I have always been close; we understand each other. But Kennedy . . . I fear she will forever be an enigma to me. What do you think, Brent? Is that the look of a young woman in love?”
Kennedy’s standing next to Prince now. Black microphones are thrust at her, and bright lights illuminate her pale face and wide eyes.
In love? No.
Scared out of her mind? Absolutely.
She looks like a mouse caught in a trap, ready to chew its own leg off to escape.
I was a shitty friend to Kennedy in boarding school, I see that now. But you know something?
This isn’t fucking boarding school.
I march forward, pushing and elbowing my way through the crowd. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Coming through.”
Finally, I reach the unhappy couple. I nod to Prince. “How’s it going, Dave?”
He looks a little confused. “Uh . . . fine, thanks.”
“Good.”
Then I scoop Kennedy up into my arms—and I run.
The element of surprise is on our side, several moments pass before anyone behind us thinks to react.
“What are you doing?” Kennedy squeaks.
“Saving you.”
For a horrible second, I think maybe she didn’t want to be saved. Until her arms tighten around my neck and her body presses closer. “Hurry. They’re coming.”
I pick up the pace and smile. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
10
We burst out the side doors onto the sidewalk and haul ass down the block. Without breaking stride, I fish out my phone. “Harrison, meet me in the back of the building. Code Fast and Furious.”
Kennedy leans back to look at my face. “Fast and Furious?”
I shrug. “He’s twenty-two; they all love those movies. I don’t pretend to understand it.”
Moments later, my Rolls comes screeching around the corner and stops at my feet. Shouting voices follow us as Harrison jumps out and opens the door. I toss Kennedy inside before diving in behind her. My trusty manservant floors it, as I’m sure he has done in his nitrous-oxide-booster-filled dreams, and we make our escape.
Kennedy faces me on the bench seat, breathing hard and flustered. “Oh my god! Oh my fucking god, Brent!”
I hold up my hand.
“If any situation calls for alcohol, it’s this one.” I press a button on the teak center console between the seats across from us, revealing the mirrored minibar with a crystal decanter. I pour two glasses of scotch, then hand her one.
And she chugs it like a frat boy during pledge week.
Impressive.
Kennedy exhales harshly, then opens her mouth to speak.
“Not yet.” I refill her glass.
Which she summarily drains, flinching as the eighty-year-old liquor scorches down her throat. “Wooh.”
I sip from my own glass and point at her. “Now go.”
She exhales again. “Did that really just happen?”
“I think it did.”
“David and I aren’t even serious! We’ve been seeing each other for two months and we’ve lived in different states for half that time. He brought up possibly moving in together once, which was crazy enough—but never marriage. Who does that? Who announces to a room full of people—and television cameras—that I’m going to be his wife, without even discussing it with me?”
It’s possible Davie-boy thought he was being romantic, but she won’t be hearing that from me.
I shake my head. “What a prick.”
“Right?”
I refill her glass again.
And she sips.
“Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s screwing around. With an intern!”