“I don’t want to talk about that, Brent.” She stares straight ahead, her voice dead-end final.
I back off. “Okay. Then . . . how did this happen? The hair, the clothes, the contact lenses—your mother and your sister Claire wanted to make you their Barbie doll for years. What finally made you let them?”
A smile curves her lips. “I didn’t let them.” She leans my way, her shoulders relaxing a little. “Eventually the rebellious stage got old; watching my mother shit bricks over the way I dressed was less satisfying. But the summer after my first year in law school, I had an internship with the appellate court—”
“Where did you go to school?” I interrupt, hungry for every morsel.
“Yale.” She takes a sip of her brandy, then goes on. “So . . . I was working under Justice Bradshaw, who was not only a phenomenal judge but a stunning woman. About a month into my internship, she called me into her office and said she was impressed with my work, but if I didn’t do something about my appearance I wouldn’t be interning with her for long.”
“She actually said that to you?” I choke out. “Shit—that would’ve made for an interesting sexual harassment suit.”
Kennedy nods. “I told her I wanted to be judged on my work, not my looks. And she said, ‘That’s fine for La-La Land, honey, but this is the real world.’?”
Her tone grows more easy as she goes on. The icy mask melts away and her face turns softer, more open. And I can’t take my eyes off her—because this is the girl I grew up with. The girl I know.
“She told me that banker or gangbanger, we’re all judged on how we look. And if I looked sloppy, people would think everything I did was sloppy. But if I looked impeccable, they’d give me the benefit of the doubt that my work could be impeccable too.
“So I started making an effort to look more polished. Within a few weeks, I was dyed, plucked, and tailored within an inch of my life.” Her hand skims down her front. “It was my Devil Wears Prada moment.”
I nod, even though I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about.
And she calls me on it. “You don’t know what that means, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
Kennedy smiles. “It means Justice Bradshaw was my fashion mentor. And that was the summer I turned pretty.”
I stare at her—at the soft curve of the cheekbone, her smooth skin, the thick long lashes and full pink mouth she always had.
“No—it really wasn’t.”
Her eyes flash to mine for a long moment, then she looks away. Swallowing some brandy, she coughs.
“Goes down kind of rough, doesn’t it?” I say.
“Yes. Not to be rude, but if this is your good stuff, I’m afraid to find out what your cheap liquor tastes like.”
I smile. “It’s not the good brandy because of the taste.” I crook my finger, drawing her closer until our arms brush, and I’m able to detect the scent of peaches on her skin. Then I hold up my glass, swirling it gently. “Do you see the light brown color—how soft it looks, like crushed velvet?”
Kennedy peers at the glass and nods.
“But there’s a deeper brown in there too, giving it more complexity. A richness.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then there’s the golden hue over the whole thing that makes it almost ethereal. Like it’s lit from the inside.”
“Yes.” She nods again.
I stop swirling the glass. And say softly, “That is the exact shade of Kennedy Randolph’s eyes.”
Her breath hitches—almost a gasp.
“That’s what I thought the first time I drank it, and it’s what I’ve thought every time I drank it since.” I turn to face her, my voice dropping lower. “I’ve never forgotten you, sweetheart. Not even close.”
She wasn’t expecting that. She looks surprised; small and suddenly vulnerable. Then she shuts it down and her face goes blank. And hard.
“That pisses you off.” I try to catch her eyes again. “Why does that piss you off?”
“You know why.” She moves to stand.
I grasp her hand. “No, Kennedy, I don’t. I never did.”
She jerks away and sets her glass on the coffee table. Then she backs up a step—putting space between us. “I’m not doing this with you again, Brent. You’re not sucking me back in.”
My jaw tightens. “Okay. How about you explain what that means?”
“How about you go fuck yourself with a lacrosse stick?”
Hello, Square One—long time, no see.
I tilt my head, like I’m thinking it over. “Sports equipment is a hard limit for me. But if you want to play with toys, count me in.”
She doesn’t appreciate my humor. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re running.”
Her lips pinch and her eyes glare—and goddamn if she isn’t cute when she’s fired up. I can’t wait to see what full-out furious looks like, and something tells me I’m gonna have my chance pretty soon.
One hand braces on her hip, the other stabs the air in front of me. “Chair or no chair, your ass better be in court tomorrow or I’ll make your life hell.”
“As opposed to the delight you’re making it right now.”
She throws up her hands and moves to the doorway.