Behind Her Smile (5 page)

A month into our relationship, David decided it was time for me to meet his family. We’re on our way there now.

“Are you sure I look all right?” I ask as I smooth a hand down the front of the sleeveless lavender wrap dress I had made over the summer.

The hand on my knee tightens imperceptibly, and then he teases his fingers over the skin, sending ripples of pleasures in its wake. “You are picture perfect.” The praise makes me glow, cheeks stretched wide with a grin. “This is a new experience for me, too. You’re the first woman I’ve brought to meet them.”

“How can that be? You’re Miami’s most eligible bachelor,” I rib.

David smirks, guiding the car through a gated community’s security checkpoint without slowing. “There’s never been anyone as special as you.”

My heart squeezes in my chest, a pleasurable pain. No one has ever called me special before. The threat of tears sting, and I blink them away. Glancing out the window, I hide the swell of emotion overcoming me. David makes me feel proud of who I am. There’s no need to be insecure with his sincere compliments and support.

“Our family is close knit,” David continues. “Chandler and I don’t bring the woman du jour to our parents’ home. Sunday dinners are for the family and those closest to us.” He tangles our fingers together. My heart flutters again. Does David consider us to be in a serious relationship? I chance a glance at David and find nothing but his normal, serene expression.

“Will there be anyone else there tonight, other than your brother?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but Mother springs last-minute friends on us all the time.” David releases my hand to finish steering into the long, stone drive. I don’t bother to smother my gasp in surprise. This structure is not a home; it’s an
estate
. The architecture of the two-story home is Mediterranean. The exterior is dramatic and stunning. Keystone detailing wraps the high tower entryway, and the stucco finish, round columns, and louvered window openings provide glamorous touches to the façade.

“I didn’t realize your family was
this
well-to-do,” I confess, shooting another worried look in David’s direction. He parks in the rounded drive and presses a button to turn off the engine.

“Money doesn’t make us any different. We’re just another family.” David unlatches his seat belt and leans across the center console. His minty breath brushes across my cheeks, the familiar scent of his masculine cologne wrapping around me in a comforting embrace. He brushes his warm lips across mine in a tender kiss. In the past, his touch has silenced every nagging doubt in my mind. School, work, bills—none of it matters when David’s near. This time, his reassurance doesn’t have the intended effect because this fear is about
him.
I want his parents and brother to like me.

I don’t have much family left. My father died long ago, and my sister and mother aren’t interested in a close family bond. I long to find a place for myself in another family—one that celebrates Christmas around a tree and Memorial Day around a barbecue grill. I’m starting to realize that David’s family life is more ornate than the simple dreams I had for family gatherings.

“This is not where I come from. This,” I gesture toward the home, “is intimidating.”

David expels a slow breath. “Trust me on this, Karolina. They’re going to love you like . . . Come on. Let’s go.”

Like what?
I practically screech. Love me like he does? No, no way. We’ve only known each other a month. It’s impossible for David to love me. It’s not like I love him. In fact, I’m not sure I know what love is. But, okay, I could love him. He’s thoughtful and considerate and treats me as if I’m something to be treasured. I feel good about myself when I’m with him.

David drops my hand, turns away from me, and presses open the driver’s side door to climb out of the car. I lift the lever on my side. Twisting, I plant both gold-jeweled sandals on the driveway before standing out of the car. David smiles indulgently at me and places my hand in the crook of his arm.

“A lady should never open her own car door. Not when I’m around and especially not when I have a driver taking us to a social event.” The words, though delivered gently, are a stark reminder that I don’t know the rules that govern David’s world.

David pauses to stoop down and press a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Think of it this way, Karolina. You’re my jewel, and I take very good care of those things that are valuable to me. I want to show you off and display you with the honor you deserve.”

“You’re a closet romantic,” I accuse though I’m beaming. The things David says are straight from the poetry and the novels I read when I pondered the validity of true romance.

“Nothing closet about it, my jewel. You’re inspiring me to act in ways I never have before. Now, are you ready to go inside?”

The new nickname makes me melt. A jewel is a treasure, something to be cherished. I want to be cherished. “Yes, David Morgan. Take me to meet your parents.” He escorts me through the lush greenery framing the walkway. Instead of entering the home, he presses the doorbell. He pats my hand reassuringly while we wait.

A dark-haired woman in a white housekeeper uniform whisks the door open.

“Mr. David, welcome,” she says in a thick, Latina accent.

He nods once, not particularly friendly. “Miranda, I’d like you to meet Ms. Karolina Adamchik, my date.”

Miranda drops her head, murmuring her hello. With a sidelong glance, I assess David’s reaction. This submissive display doesn’t bother him, but I’m uncomfortable with the formality.

“Hello, Miranda. Great to meet you. I’m really looking forward to trying your cooking tonight. David tells me you are a wonderful cook.” The woman smiles stiffly, but her gaze never meets mine. Did I do something wrong?

David shuffles me forward, leaving the odd interaction in the past when I get the full view of the magnificent home. Marble floors stretch through the entire house. Impressive, colorful paintings hang on the wall, but most of the furniture is a stark white. The receiving area opens to the formal dining room with columns and a tray ceiling. Sitting in the center of the oval dining table is a stunning glass sculpture in a brilliant shade of blue. I want to capture that color and use it in one of my designs. The vibrancy is startling.

David apparently is used to the overwhelming beauty of the house and its décor; he leads me past the dining room without a second glance. Next, we enter the great room with a fireplace that opens to the rear-covered veranda, displaying views of an immaculately landscaped backyard and the Coral Gables waterway.

“Mother, please allow me to introduce Karolina Adamchik. Karolina, my mother, Georgia Morgan.” Distracted by the scenery, I don’t realize we’ve paused in front of a glamorous woman perched on the edge of a slate chair. In a white sheath and with blond hair styled into an elegant twist, she is the epitome of class. Suddenly, I regret my purple dress. This is not a home for statement colors unless they come from the artwork.

“Mrs. Morgan, thank you for inviting me to your home. It is lovely.” I hope the words to David’s mother sound as genuine as I mean them. Despite all my worries, deep down, I’m proud of the woman I am. The dirty, impoverished little girl I was is now a bright young woman earning a degree in fashion design.

Georgia Morgan rises to her full height. In her nude pumps, she is a few inches taller than I am. The woman studies me as though I am a newly discovered species. Sharp, gunmetal gray eyes travel the length of my body, lingering on my open-toed gold sandals that I bought at a consignment shop a few days before. They’re a few seasons old, but still, I thought, in good shape. Like her son, Georgia wears an expensive scent—Chanel No. 5 drifts around her as she bends toward me, pressing her cheek against one of mine and then the other. Awkwardly, I follow the ritual, unsure of whether to kiss her skin or not. Apparently not because Georgia quickly retreats. She nods stiffly at her son, her greeting not as warm and welcoming as I hoped. She looks annoyed though it’s difficult to read her reactions because no smile lines—or frown lines, for that matter—wrinkle her smooth, tight skin.

“Don’t thank me. It was my son who invited you.” Unlike David’s smooth, cultured voice, his mother’s tone is nasal and high-pitched.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at David. Invisible tension surrounds him; his face is tight with displeasure. Absently, he latches onto my hand, tightening his fingers around mine. “I want you to know the woman I’m dating, Mother.” He grits out the words.

“Yes, well, we will have plenty of time for that at dinner. Your father and Chandler are discussing business. Shall we have a drink while we wait? That is if you’re old enough for one, Karolina.” Heavy coldness blankets Georgia’s words. I just got here. What could I have done to piss her off? I want to whirl around and stalk out of this house, never to return.

But then I notice the wince of pain David doesn’t bother to mask. It makes me brush aside Georgia’s nastiness. The mention of his brother and father working together without him hurts David. I recognize that pain. It didn’t come in the same form, but still, I wanted to fit in with my family, and they often pushed me out.

Slipping my thumb inside our clasped hands, I stroke the palm of David’s hand with the pad of my thumb soothingly.

“Miranda.” He raises his voice a few decibels to be heard. “Karolina will have a Pinot Gris, and I’ll take a martini.” David steers me to a loveseat opposite of his mother, unsaid words linger in the silent air between us.

Miranda pads into the room, her white sneakers making next to no noise. She balances our drinks on a polished silver tray. She places round, black coasters on the cocktail table between Georgia’s chair and the loveseat. The formality continues to wow me and ignite more nerves.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Beside me, David’s jaw works back and forth with my words.

“Cheers.” He lifts his cocktail toward Georgia. “To family.” She catches his sardonic tone but still clinks her own martini with David’s and my drinks. Uncomfortable silence descends again. What happened to the tight-knit family I heard about from David? Thankfully, David’s father and brother appear only a few moments later.

“Son, I didn’t know you were bringing a guest.” The elder Morgan strides in to the room wearing a three-piece suit.

“I told Mother,” David says, his posture relaxing even as he moves to stand. I mimic his actions, pasting another pleasant expression on my face.

“Father, please meet Karolina Adamchik. Karolina, this is my father, William, and you know Chandler already.” This time, I’m prepared when both men make a move to press their cheeks to mine.

“Thank you for having me in your lovely home.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

“Pleasure is ours. Dinner ready?” William’s gaze floats over me, quickly moving on to the next topic. Again, I notice David’s minimal flinch. This time, it’s like a pinch to my own gut. I don’t want him to suffer. Silently, I vow to do my best to ease David’s discomfort.

“You coming with us to New York next week?” Chandler smacks a hand on David’s shoulder, eliciting a deep frown from my boyfriend.

“Probably not. I’ve set up a meeting with Alec Christos, and I’m finally going to close on his business,” David says smugly.

Alec?
My ears perk up. David hasn’t mentioned him, nor have I seen the man since that afternoon on the deck of Hotel Monroe. In fact, I’d nearly forgotten about Alec until this moment.

“That man comes with risks,” William says sternly.

“And a boatload of money. Does it really matter how he makes it? We’re not doing anything illegal by investing his funds,” David retorts.

“Perhaps not, but we have a reputation to uphold,” Georgia adds.

David hardly discusses his work with me. I wonder if it’s because his family battles with him at every turn.

“Oops!” I cry as my gold clutch tumbles to the floor. Stooping down, I scoop up my purse and smile sheepishly at David. He flashes me an appreciative look at the distraction. The look fills me with pride. We’re a team. No one mentions Alec again.

When we reach the formal dining room, I wait for David to place my drink on the table and then pull out my chair before taking a seat. The nod of approval he gives me makes my chest fill with pride as if I’d aced a test on the rules of civility.

Then I glance at my place setting.

There are two forks, two spoons, and a knife. Three Waterford glasses are at the top right corner of the plate and a napkin coiled inside a matte, black circle. Now, what? Auspiciously glancing around the table, I notice Georgia draping her napkin across her lap and follow her lead.

Miranda pushes a silver tray into the room laden with bowls, two bottles of wine, and a glass pitcher of water. While William launches into a business story that I have a hard time following, the housekeeper makes her way around the table, pouring one goblet with mineral water and offering more wine. I refuse as I’ve barely sipped from my glass, but I watch with interest as Miranda quietly pours a heaping glass of red for Georgia. After the drinks have been served, Miranda serves each of us—ladies first—a bowl of a cold, red soup. Once everyone has a bowl, David reaches for the outer spoon and begins eating. Again, I follow, trying to appear nonchalant.

“What is it that you do, Karolina?” Georgia asks.

“I’ve just started my last year at Miami Design Institute, and I’m studying fashion design. All my life I wanted to make my own clothes and it’s always been my dream to work for a fashion house.” Careful to avoid slurping, I swallow a bite of the tangy, cool soup. It’s delicious.
Gazpacho.
That’s what this is called if I remember correctly.

“Quite the difficult business to get in to. Do you think our familial connections will get you where you want to go?” Georgia asks bluntly.

“Mother,” David snaps. “That’s incredibly rude.”

“What? I don’t want you to get hurt by a woman after your trust fund.” Georgia sniffs, affronted.

My head jerks up, and I stare at Georgia Morgan intently. I resist the urge to squirm under her small, victorious smirk. I smooth my features into a calm mask.