Chapter Seventeen
Lisa
Something changes after the camping trip, though I’m not sure how to describe it exactly.
Some of it is easy to pinpoint—the way Dax sleeps over instead of rushing home, or the way he invites me to join the crew when Helping Paws gets an unexpected influx of bedraggled dogs from a puppy mill in Corvallis.
Some of it is harder to describe. It’s a feeling, I guess. The way he steals glimpses at me when we’re driving somewhere together, or the way he holds my hand under the table when we have dinner with Cassie and Simon.
“I really like your boyfriend,” Cassie whispered when we were leaving, though the extra glass of port she enjoyed over dessert made it more of a loud hiss than a whisper. I know Dax heard her, but neither of us bothered to correct her.
Is that what he was trying to say in the tent? That he wanted to have an actual relationship? I’m not sure, and I’m almost afraid to ask. Afraid that’s what I want, and that I won’t actually get it if I voice the desire out loud.
Besides, I spent my entire twenties desperate to get married. Isn’t part of The Test supposed to be me learning how not to be in a relationship?
That doesn’t stop me from wanting it, specifically with Dax.
“Whatcha thinking?”
I shake off my daydream and see him regarding me with curiosity from across the table. We’re eating corndogs in the AfriCafe at the Oregon Zoo, sandwiched between the Elephant Plaza and the Predators of the Serengeti exhibit.
“I’m thinking the zoo was a really great idea.”
He laughs and swirls his corndog through a puddle of ketchup. “Way to pat yourself on the back,” he says. “I don’t disagree, though.”
“Well, you have to admit, a day at the zoo is more or less the opposite of spending the day mediating an argument between two clients who can’t decide whether to redo their rumpus room in giraffe print or zebra,” I point out as I reach across the table to steal one of Dax’s fries.
He pushes the whole basket toward me. “What the hell is a rumpus room, anyway?”
“It’s what pretentious snobs call a game room.” I refrain from admitting I’m one of those pretentious snobs, or at least I used to be. Now, I’m not so sure.
“I’m proud of you, Lisa.”
The comment startles me, and I study my corndog as though the explanation might be skewered on a stick and wrapped in deep fried cornmeal. “How do you mean?”
“For coming up with this idea.”
“The zoo or The Test?”
“Both. I meant The Test, but I’ve gotta admit I haven’t visited the zoo for years. Not since I was six and I came here for some special freebie day for underprivileged kids.”
His face darkens just a little, and I’m not sure whether to ask about it or change the subject. The old Lisa would gloss things over to keep the conversation bright and easy.
That’s not what I do. “Was it not a good experience?”
He shrugs and glances out over the aviary beside us. We’ve chosen a table where we can watch birds flitting from branch to branch, and his gaze follows a golden-breasted starling being pestered by a cluster of speckled mousebirds.
“Part of the deal was that poor kids got a free backpack,” he says. “It was supposed to be a back-to-school thing, I guess. I was so proud of that damn backpack, and I wore it around the zoo all day like a fucking superman cape.”
I smile at the mental picture, though there’s a twinge of uneasiness in my gut. I remember my own mom lecturing us—Cassie, Missy, me—about setting aside part of our allowance to donate to poor kids who needed school supplies. It seemed like a charitable idea at the time, but now I bristle at the memory of her words. At the self-serving place they may have come from.
“Did something bad happen with the backpack?” I ask softly.
He turns away from the birds and looks at me. “I was standing there licking my free orange popsicle and watching the polar bears when this group of boys comes walking up beside me.” His voice sounds distant and a little hollow, but his eyes hold mine. “I heard one of them snickering and then he said, ‘Look, there’s one of those welfare kids with the ghetto backpack.’”
“God.” I wince. “Kids are so horrible.”
He clears his throat. “I didn’t realize he was talking about me at first. I had no idea—” His voice dries up there, and he shakes his head for a second before glancing back at the birds. “Anyway, it felt pretty shitty.”
“Did you throw the backpack away?”
There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression. “Hell no. I couldn’t afford to be prideful. Not then, anyway.”
I nod and start to reach across the table for his hand. At the last second, I realize that might feel like pity, and I know it’s the last thing he wants right now. Instead, I grab another french fry. “That’s really lousy. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
The words sound cliché and hollow, but I hope he knows how much I mean them. That I really do care, and that I hate more than anything that at some point in my life, I’ve probably been one of those elitist kids. Not a bully, mind you, but certainly a self-congratulatory princess doling out hand-me-downs with little thought about how it felt to be one of the recipients.
Dax reaches across the table and gives me a small smile. “Hey. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For listening. For bringing me here today and making it a great experience.” The smile gets bigger. “And for fucking me senseless last night.”
I smile back and curl my fingers into his. “You do that a lot, you know.”
“Fuck you senseless?”
“That, too. But I meant changing an uncomfortable subject by saying something crass.”
He studies me a moment, then nods. “Good point. You’re probably right.”
“I’m not complaining. Just an observation.”
He gives my hand a squeeze then lets go and picks up his second corndog. “Come on. Let’s finish eating so we can get to the Warty Pig demo.”
I laugh and pick up my phone, which just buzzed with an incoming text message. “That’s Sarah,” I report. “She says thanks again for helping with yesterday’s field trip to Helping Paws.”
“It was fun.” He grins. “Junie and all her friends seemed to love it.”
“She had a total blast.”
He laughs and swipes his corndog through the ketchup again. “I loved how she taught that big Rottie mix to roll over. Duke’s been skittish around everyone else, but Junie just walked right up and melted his heart.”
“She has that effect on everyone.” I take a bite of my corndog and suddenly remember something I’ve been meaning to ask him. I chew quickly and dab my mouth with a napkin. “Speaking of Junie, are you familiar with the Diamonds and Opals Charity Ball?”
Dax gives me a guarded look and grabs a fry. “That fancy black tie gala they have in the Pearl District every year? What does that have to do with Junie?”
“The proceeds this year are going to the Association for Down Syndrome Research,” I explain. “Simon’s on the board of directors, and he bought tickets for the whole family, but it turns out Missy and her husband can’t make it.”
I let the words hang there for a second.
“Are you wanting to go?” he asks.
I nod and take a sip of my iced tea. “I was already planning on it, but now there are a couple of extra tickets. I was wondering if you might like to join me.”
There, I said it. Well, I didn’t say it quite right.
“Actually, no,” I say. “Let me rephrase that. I know you probably wouldn’t like to go, since you told me before you hate dressy events.”
That gets a smile from him. “You have a good memory.”
“Right. And I guess what I was trying to say is that I would love it if you’d accompany me to the ball. I’d really like to have you with me.”
Dax takes a bite of his corndog and chews thoughtfully. “It’s the last Saturday of the month, right?”
I don’t ask how he knows, though I’m curious. I also wonder if he realizes that’s the final day of The Test. If I say nothing, maybe he’ll forget.
“It’s at the Markham Center this year,” I say. “Black tie only, of course.”
“Of course.” He nods and sets down his corndog before taking a slow sip of soda. “I accept.”
“You do?”
I probably sound like a kid on Easter morning, but I don’t care. I’m giddy that Dax is going with me. “I promise I’ll make it painless. We can hang out with Simon and Cassie and mock snobby rich people all night if you want.”
That gets a smile out of him. “You know how to push my buttons,” he said. “The good ones, I mean.”
“I’m a big fan of your buttons.”
He laughs and picks up his corndog again. “Okay, then. Want me to pick you up in a limo at six?”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“Nah, it’ll be fun. I rarely take the opportunity to be a wealthy jackass. Might as well give it a shot.”
“Thank you, Dax.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Really. This means a lot to me.”
“I know it does,” he says. “That’s why I said yes. Also, why I’d say yes to just about anything you asked me, especially when you do it with your shirt unbuttoned and that pleading look in your eyes.”
I glance down to see all my buttons are, in fact, fastened. I meet his eyes again to find him grinning. “Okay. Maybe it’s just you.”
Something flutters in my belly, and I do my best not to break into a little happy dance at the table. “Maybe so,” I say as I reach to steal the last french fry.
…
We walk into the ballroom of the Markham Center to a symphony of sounds. Literally, a symphony. There’s an eight-piece orchestra playing in the corner, while tuxedoed waiters float around the room like they’re doing the waltz with their platters of artfully arrayed shrimp puffs.
I smooth my hands down the skirt of my black silk chiffon gown, a four-thousand-dollar dress I scored for mere pennies from Rent the Runway.
Not that anyone here needs to know that.
Judging by the number of designer labels I spot in this crowd, there’s more money in this room than in Bill Gates’s checking account. Ladies in beaded evening gowns laugh a little too loudly, everyone jockeying for attention. It’s the place to be seen for wealthy Portlanders, and I have to admit, it’s a scene I know well. I spot a former client across the room and give a friendly wave before looping my arm through Dax’s.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, fine, why?” He glances at me and offers a smile made stiffer by the way he’s clenching his jaw.
“Because you keep yanking at your tie like it’s strangling you.”
“It is strangling me.”
I reach up and adjust it for him, then stand on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth. He gives a sexy little growl and pulls me against him, going in for a deeper kiss.
I’m breathless by the time I pull back. “Better now?”
“Much.” He grins, a real one this time.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s grab a glass of wine. Maybe that’ll help.”
“I don’t know if I can swallow with my neck in a noose.”
“I’m sure you’ll give it your best shot.”
I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow again as we head toward the bar on the south end of the ballroom. I survey the crowd, keeping an eye out for familiar faces.
“Your sister’s here, right?” Dax asks.
“Cassie texted to say they’re running late,” I tell him. “The board roped Simon into giving a last-minute speech, so they’re hiding out in the car scribbling notes or something.”
“Or something.” He grins and glances down at me. “Is that code for making out in the back seat?”
I laugh and clutch his arm tighter. “I see you’ve caught on quickly.”
“I think it’s cool,” he says. “How they’re so into each other.”
“I agree.” I step around a tuxedoed waiter and wonder which part of their couplehood Dax admires. The crazy-hot chemistry? The easy conversation? The fact that it’s so clear that Simon has Cassie’s back, and vice versa?
Or maybe it’s the whole package. I can’t help wondering if Dax wants that for himself someday, the way I want it for me.
I hold back on saying any of that, since a charity ball swarming with well-heeled masses is hardly the place for that sort of conversation. “They’re a great couple,” I agree benignly.
We step around a massive ice sculpture that’s an architectural model of the new community center they’re hoping to build with funds from this event.
“Pardon me,” I murmur to two ladies dripping with diamonds and swirling in a cloud of Hermes Perfume 24 Faubourg. The stuff sells for $1500 an ounce, so I can’t say I’m disappointed when one of them grabs my arm.
“Oh my goodness, Lisa Michaels,” the redhead gushes. “I was just telling Ashley here what a fabulous job you did redesigning Peter and Bridget’s penthouse over in the West Hills.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, delighted to be recognized for a job I’m pretty darn proud of. “How are Peter and Bridget?”
“Fabulous,” the blonde says again, and I wonder if it’s the only adjective in her vocabulary “They’re at their place on St. Kitts right now, having a little escape.”
“Well deserved,” I chirp, though I have no idea what two trust-fund billionaires without jobs would need to escape from. I smile anyway and gesture to the redhead’s diamond choker. “What a gorgeous piece.”
“Thanks.” She strokes her fingers over the fat rock at the center and leans in conspiratorially. “Max bought it for me to make up for the fact that he spent fifty-grand without telling me on his last boys’ getaway. You know how it is.”
“Of course,” I say, though I have no earthly idea how it is. Not from personal experience, anyway.
The brunette extends a well-manicured hand. “I’m Tiffany,” she says. “I love the work you did for Peter and Bridget’s place. The color choices in the formal dining room were exquisite.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “Aubergine and coral really pop in the right setting.”
“I don’t suppose you have a card?” Tiffany asks. “I’m looking to redo my place in Lake Oswego.”
“Absolutely.” I fish into my beaded handbag and extract a business card from my monogrammed silver holder. “My sister and brother-in-law live right there on the lake, so I’m over there quite a bit. I’d love to swing by sometime and take a look at the space.”
“Wonderful,” she says with a little finger flutter that’s equal parts friendly and dismissive. “I’ll be in touch. Ciao.”
“Ciao,” I echo, thanking my lucky stars she didn’t do that stupid trendy air kiss that got so popular with Portland socialites a couple of years back.
As the ladies wander off, I feel Dax watching me. “What?” I ask, not sure how to read his expression.
“You.” He gives a small smile, but I can’t tell how to read it. “You really know how to work a crowd like this.”
“Thanks.” I’m not entirely sure that was a compliment, but I’m choosing to take it as one. “Schmoozing at events like this can be important for my business.”
“I can see that.” He smiles and leans down to plant a kiss at the edge of my ear, and I shiver with pleasure. “And I can see right down to your belly button in that dress. Have I mentioned it’s fucking fantastic?”
I grin and reach up to finger one of the beaded straps. “What, this old thing?”
He laughs and grabs my hand again. “Come on. Let’s go get that wine.”
We’ve almost reached the bar when an elegant blonde steps in front of us. She wears a glittering red Versace gown and a smile so big I could count her teeth.
She reaches out to touch Dax’s arm, and I have to fight the urge to bite her hand.
“Dax, honey.” She smiles wider, and I think maybe I can see her kidneys. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Judging his tense expression, the feeling is not mutual. His arm stiffens in my grip, and I glance up to see he’s clenching his jaw again.
He turns and looks at me with a stony expression, and I know.
It’s her.
“Lisa Michaels,” he says slowly. “I’d like you to meet Kaitlyn Whitaker.”