Chapter Fifteen
Amanda
I pace my living room shaking my head. I can't believe this. I really can't believe this. It's been two days since I had lunch with him and I still can't entirely wrap my brain around what he proposed to me. Or what I agreed to. It's just – well – insane.
Brady's proposal is insane. Absolutely insane. First of all, I thought of Brady Keating as an arrogant, smarmy, condescending prick. An overgrown frat boy. Because that was my very first impression of him. A rich boy who is completely out of touch with the reality ninety-nine percent of us have to survive in every day.
But, I have to admit that I saw a different side of him when we sat down and had lunch together. He was clever. Funny. And when he spoke about his father's corporate empire – most especially when it came to talking about the Copperheads – I saw genuine passion. A desire to do something more and better with his life. I could genuinely see that he wants to be a better man.
And what made it all the better, at least in my opinion, is that he wants to do these things for his son. He wants to better his son's world and be a better father to him. He wants to make Nicholas proud of him. Leave him a legacy he can take pride in – and continue to build on.
I have to admit that my first impressions of Brady – though, they were totally his own fault – may have been off the mark.
My phone rings and when I look at the number, grimace when I don't recognize it. But I punch the button to connect the call anyway.
“Hello?”
“Amanda Johnston,” a bright, chipper voice on the other end of the line asks.
“Speaking.”
“Hi, Valerie Moore,” she says. “I'm Mr. Keating's PS.”
“PS?”
“Personal shopper,” she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
“Personal – shopper,” I repeat.
“Yes, that's right,” I say. “And I'm here to take you shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Yes, shopping,” she says, sighing as if she's losing patience with me.
I suppose I can't blame her too much. I'm repeating everything she's saying like a mentally challenged parrot. But I'm just not quite getting who she is or why she's calling me. A personal shopper?
“Shopping for like – groceries?” I say.
Her laugh his high pitched and sharp. And completely phony. I'm not an idiot – even though Miss Personal Shopper obviously thinks I am – and can tell that she's laughing to keep from saying something sharp and sarcastic. I know the laugh well because I've heard it coming out of my own mouth on plenty of occasions.
“No, we're going clothes shopping, Miss Johnston,” she says.
“Uh huh,” I reply.
“The car is downstairs waiting for you,” she says. “So, if you can get yourself together and come on down, we can get going. We have an appointment at Katrina's in about twenty minutes.”
She clicks off the line, leaving me looking at my phone. What in the hell is going on? There is no way in hell I can afford Katrina's. The only reason I even know what Katrina's is – which is a high end, trendy clothing boutique – is because I've gone with Amy a couple of times. And I didn't even bother looking at the price tags because I knew it would only depress me.
It's morbid curiosity that drives me more than anything. I get myself dressed and as presentable as possible before making my way downstairs. When I step out of my building and onto the street, I see a black Town Car at the curb – presumably waiting for me.
A perky blonde who doesn't look too much older than me is waiting next to the open door, looking for all the world like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled – not a hair out of place. She's about five-foot-two and can't weigh more than a hundred pounds. And her clothing is all high end and name brand.
When I walk to the car, she looks me up and down, the wide smile on her face never faltering – although, I can see in her eyes that she's utterly appalled by my jeans, sandals, and white peasant blouse. But, to her credit, she hid it well.
“Good morning, Miss Johnston,” she said, her voice every bit as bright and chipper as it had been on the phone.
“Amanda, please,” I say. “Good morning.”
“Very well,” she says. “Shall we go, Amanda?”
“Before we do,” I say, “I'm a little confused about all of this. Why are you taking me to Katrina's?”
“Because Mr. Keating wants to get you some suitable clothing, of course,” she says and then quickly adds. “Not that what you're wearing isn't suitable. I happen to love the peasant-style blouses.”
“It's okay,” I say. “You don't have to pretend. I know I'm not a walking advertisement for the latest in fashion. But I certainly don't need him to buy me an outfit.”
She smiles. “He told me you'd say that,” she says. “And he told me to handcuff you and throw you in the trunk if needs be.”
She laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard in her life. I find it – mildly amusing. I really don't know how I feel about all of this, but as I look down at my jeans and blouse, I suddenly see the threadbare patches and loose threads I hadn't noticed before. That I hadn't really worried about before.
Standing next to a woman who is so well put together is making me feel completely self-conscious and I don't like it.
“So, shall we go?”
I look at the car and then down at my clothes again, feeling even more awkward then before. What could it hurt to go and look, right? I don't have to get anything. I can just look.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let's go.”
“Excellent,” she says and beams at me.
The shop is cool and smells wonderful when we walk in. Soft music is playing and everything about Katrina's radiates class. A woman who frankly, could have passed for Valerie's sister – if not identical twin – smiles wide and walks over to greet us.
“Well, good morning,” she says to Valerie. “Nice to see you again. And who do we have here?”
“Rogette, this is Amanda Johnston.”
Rogette takes my hand, giving me the limpest handshake I've ever felt in my life. She looks me up and down, but unlike Valerie, doesn't do a very good job of hiding her disdain for my outfit.
“Well,” she says, trying to recover by putting on a phony smile. “It's nice to meet you, Miss Johnston. And what can we do for you today?”
“Actually,” Valerie starts, “Mr. Keating asked that I accompany her to find some things that are perhaps – a little more up to date.”
The two women are trying so hard to not sound like snooty bitches – and are failing miserably at it. I can't help but feel exposed and even more awkward than before – and I didn't think that was even possible.
“Oh, Mr. Keating,” Rogette says, her entire demeanor changing at the sound of his name. “Well then, let's start by taking your measurements, shall we?”
“Actually, I don't think this is –”
“Oh, don't be silly,” Valerie says, taking my arm and leading me deeper into the shop. “You're a beautiful woman, Amanda. I think we can work wonders with you.”
“Oh, a project,” Rogette almost squeals.
“A project,” Valerie squeals in return.
Great. I'm a project for a couple of women who never seemed to grow out of the high school Mean Girls clique. I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be less. But as we walk through the store, I see some dresses that catch my eye. Although I tend to wear a lot of jeans and yoga pants, I really love the feeling of a nice dress on me. Contrary to what some might think, I actually enjoy being a bit of a girly-girl.
I just can't afford nice dresses – hence, the lack of nice dresses in my closet.
As we walk through the shop, I stop and see a little sundress that I fall in love with instantly. It's a dark blue with small white flowers on it, and the material is maybe the softest thing I've ever felt. It's gorgeous.
“Very nice,” Valerie says. “I think that will compliment your fair skin very well.”
I look at the price tag and almost faint dead away right there. I put the dress back quickly and turn to Valerie.
“I think this is a mistake,” I say quickly. “We should probably go.”
She picks up the dress and hands it to Rogette, giving me a smile. Rogette takes the dress and glides away to a fitting area and hangs the dress up. She turns and waits for us to join her.
“No mistake,” Valerie says. “We just need to make sure everything fits properly.”
“I can't afford that,” I say, almost pleading. “I can't afford anything in this shop.”
Valerie looks at me for the first time with something like sympathy in her eyes. She shakes her head and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
“You don't have to worry about anything,” she says. “Mr. Keating wanted to pamper and spoil you a little bit. Let him, Amanda. I know I don't know you – only what he's told me about you – but you deserve something good. You deserve something nice. Let him do this for you.”
I look at her and she gives me an encouraging smile. I feel so weird about this. I'm not used to people doing nice things for me – nor do I want to be considered somebody's project or their charity case.
“Honestly,” she says. “I know this all must seem weird to you. Believe me, I've been there. But I've worked for Mr. Keating for a while now and he's a good man. And from what I gather, he likes you. A lot. So, let him do something nice for you.”
Likes me a lot? He's clearly selling the fiction of our relationship pretty well. But then, I didn't know if Valerie thought too deeply about these things. But I can tell that she's making a real effort to forge some kind of connection between us and is trying to be nice. She's dropped the haughty, pretentious attitude from before and is just talking to me like a normal woman – which I appreciate.
I give her a smile and let her guide me over to where Rogette is waiting for us.
“Are we ready to begin?”
Valerie gives me an encouraging nod and a smile.
“I am,” I say.
“Excellent.”