The Perfect Life (4 page)

She peered up at me as we inched along, allowing me to guide her through the slew of bodies, and her happy smile shrunk into a pensive twist of her lips. That was the second time I’d seen her do that with her mouth, and I really fucking liked it when she did. My dick twitched behind my zipper as I waited for her response.
Okay, maybe I liked it too much.

“I call it being safe.” Rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin as she spoke, her straightened posture was meant to reinforce her statement, which I’m sure she felt didn’t require any further explanation. I was afraid she was going to release her grasp on my arm and walk away from me, but thankfully, she didn’t until we reached our destination. And even then, the moment she dropped her hand, I could feel the lingering warmth where her fingers had been.

While we waited next to the stage as Allison worked to get everyone in the correct places, I leaned down to where she stood in front of me and whispered, “You know the brilliant Harry B. Gray once said, ‘No one ever achieved greatness by playing it safe.’”

The minute the words tumbled from my mouth, I wanted to kick myself for saying them. Why in the hell didn’t I just drop it? I was never one of those people who always had to have the last word in a discussion or couldn’t accept when I was wrong. I prided myself on my humbleness and modesty, never having any issues with accepting my shortcomings, and constantly working to learn more and keep an open mind.

Yet I said it anyway. Almost as a dare. A challenge. Goading her into continuing the conversation. I barely knew her, but I had an intrinsic urge to ruffle her feathers. Get her a little flustered. Convince myself she wasn’t as perfect as she seemed.

Slowly, she turned around to gaze up at me through her thick, long lashes with a steely determination and confidence I was only used to seeing when I looked in the mirror. “I have no idea who Harry B. Gray is, but I can assure you of one thing.” She paused to bless me with a breath-stealing smile. “He’s never met me.”

Allison eloquently greeted the several hundred guests and introduced them to the people standing behind her on the stage, which included the Mending Hearts’ Board of Directors, myself, and Jeff and Tracie Long. Then she began to tell the story about how she originally got the idea to start up the not-for-profit children’s home in Detroit dedicated to providing a refuge for abused children. It was a story I’d heard her recite many times over the years I’d known her. As she painted the picture of the numerous bruised and battered foster kids that her biological parents had taken in while she was growing up, I found myself scanning the crowd filled with people who had deep pockets and spent an obscene amount of time in a gym.

From the massive, musclebound New England Patriots football team and the swimsuit-model eye-candy hanging from their arms, to the beady-eyed, East Coast business moguls and their Botox-brides, I could honestly say I’d never felt more out of place than I did at that moment. It wasn’t that I’d never been around rich people before, or that I felt insignificant or unworthy around them, as self-esteem was never an issue of mine. I knew I was a reasonably intelligent, attractive enough guy with a rewarding career who truly enjoyed helping those in need. But those people . . . they were from a different planet. Maybe it was the difference in the mindset of people from the Midwest to those from the Northeast, but whatever it was, the stifling atmosphere surrounding them hung heavy with arrogance and pompousness.

When my gaze landed on the star quarterback, front and center in the mass of the elegantly dressed bodies, I realized everything I’d previously thought about the rest of the guests didn’t apply to him. Not a single bit.

Like his wife, Colin Cassidy radiated charisma, and people naturally flocked to him. His pearly-white smile was friendly and unpretentious, and in the few minutes I’d spoken with him, I instantly understood the draw. He made you feel like he was genuinely interested in what you had to say, even if it was menial small-talk, and though I was most definitely a heterosexual, female-loving man, there was no denying his conventional good looks.

My attention shifted to the people directly around him. On his right stood a couple who I guessed was in their fifties, and straightaway, I pegged them as his parents based solely on the physical resemblance between him and the older man. The woman, who reminded me a lot of one of my favorite elementary school teachers, had her arm hooked around Colin’s, and her face glowed with pride each time she glanced up at him. That look was most definitely one belonging to a mom.

On the other side of Colin was a guy and a girl who appeared to be around the same age as Colin, in their early-to-mid-twenties, and by his obvious level of comfort and familiarity with them both, they were all clearly close to one another. My initial thought was that they were his siblings, but after a few moments of scrutinizing them, I wasn’t so sure. The young woman was petite, maybe five feet and a hundred pounds, and though her tiny nose and brown eyes were a bit mousy, she was undoubtedly attractive. Straight, platinum blonde hair, which I doubted was her natural color, fell down her back, nearly reaching her waist, and despite donning small features everywhere else on her body, the plunging neckline on her ruby red dress proved that her full breasts were the one exception. The guy, on the other hand, was of average height and build, much like myself. He had matching brown hair and eyes and a clean-shaven baby-face, and whereas I would’ve said he was a decent-looking guy, handsome even, he definitely didn’t demand attention like the two people he was standing nearest to.

Just as I began to study the younger couple’s body language, attempting to determine whether their relationship was romantic or platonic in nature, the entire room broke out into a deafening applause, yanking my focus away from the people-watching and back up to the podium, where a teary-eyed Allison backed away from the microphone and a poised Monroe approached.

God, she is stunning.

Thankfully, every eye in the room was fixed on her so I could openly stare without it being weird, even if they were all looking at her front and my view was from the back . . . and an unbelievably stimulating view it was. I felt sorry for any of the men she would be hiring to work in the house with her on a daily basis, wondering how any of them would be able to keep their focus on the task at hand for long. Unless, perhaps, they were gay, and even then, I’m not sure they’d be able to resist her allure.

“Thank you all so much for that warm welcome,” Monroe addressed the crowd with her melodic voice. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I could hear the smile in her tone. “And thank you again to Allison Northcutt for not only having the dream, but the desire and dedication to conceive and create the incredible, life-changing organization, Mending Hearts.”

Everyone began to clap again, and once the noise level died off, she picked up where she left off.

“Leading up to this night, I spent more hours than I’d like to admit preparing for this speech. I threw away notecard after notecard, continually failing to find the right combination of words to reach each and every one of you in a way that would properly convey the significance of what all of us on this stage are striving to do, one city at a time. And then one night last week, well after I should’ve been in bed, my husband Colin,” a brief pause as she nods her head in his direction, “walked into my office and asked me what was keeping me up so late. After I explained my dilemma to him, he didn’t say a single word, but he walked over to my bookcase and grabbed a photo album off one of the shelves. Dropping the heavy book on my desk, he opened the front cover to reveal pages and pages of the kids I had met and worked with during the four years of my undergrad at the Mending Hearts house in Detroit. Tears sprang to my eyes immediately at the photos of those smart, bright, loving children, and the sense of overwhelming joy that flooded my body reminded me of how I could reach each of you.”

As she spoke the final few words of the last sentence, a screen dropped down from the ceiling off to the side of the platform where no one was positioned, and within moments, a giant collage of twenty-five different children’s images appeared. Several murmurs could be heard amongst the large group, and at first, I was a little confused, thinking the pictures were the ones she was talking about in her story.

But I was wrong.

And she was a genius.

“All of the photos you see here,” she turned her head to face the oversized screen just as the collage disappeared and another one took its place, “are loved by people in this room. Sons, daughters, grandkids, nieces, and nephews. These kids are the lights of your lives, the ones you’d give anything for.”

The quiet whispers became a low buzz, numerous people smiling and pointing at pictures as they recognized faces.

Monroe shifted her attention back to the audience as she drove her point home. “Now imagine someone physically or sexually abusing your little loved one, and think about how you would feel. The rage. The disgust. How you’d want to help them. How you’d want to punish whoever was responsible. Think of the lengths you’d go to do whatever you could to help.” Waiting for her words to sink in, she waited a couple of seconds before continuing, “That’s what we do at Mending Hearts, for the kids who either don’t have anyone to stand up for them, or for those who are too afraid of the offender to tell anyone else. We help them heal. We work closely with law enforcement agencies to obtain justice in their name. And we teach them to be survivors. Not victims.”

Like a famous orator, she commanded the room with ease. Every person within earshot, event staff included, hung on her every word, utterly enthralled by her message. Hell, I knew everything one could possibly know about the organization—for Christ’s sake, I had
lived
at the Chicago house for over eighteen months before Jeff and Tracie came along—and I was spellbound, ready to donate money for the cause.

After Monroe concluded the speech, letting everyone know how they could follow the progress of the new Boston chapter online and announcing the tentative grand opening for the following February, which was only a little over five months away, she stepped off the stage and was instantly swallowed up by a swarm of bodies trying to get near and congratulate her. I wanted to be one of those people to tell her how she’d nailed her presentation and that I knew, without a doubt, she was going to be an amazing inspirational leader for the kids at her house. But instead, I watched from the background, not quite ready to tear my gaze away from her.

A few minutes passed, and I began to worry I was teetering between a random bystander who was just taking in what was going on around him, and a creepy lurker, so I turned around and stepped off the raised platform, moving toward the restrooms for a much-needed break. Thankfully, no one else was in the bathroom and once I emptied my bladder and scrubbed my hands, I splashed a little water on my face, hoping that would help wash away the trance Monroe Cassidy had put me under. And when that didn’t work, I pinched my eyebrows together, shaping my forehead into a stern V, and asked aloud, “What in the hell is your problem, Sax? Get a fucking grip.”

The door swung open, and two exceptionally large men—who I could only assume were linemen by their lack of necks—entered the washroom, both nodding a silent acknowledgement in my direction before moving to the urinals. Taking that as my cue that my pep-talk was over, I dried my hands with a paper towel and wasn’t surprised in the least when I missed the two-foot shot into the trashcan as I walked out. Mortified at my lack of hand-eye coordination, I hastily picked up the wadded paper ball, disposed of it, and barreled through the door, not bothering to look back and see if the other men had witnessed my fail.

As I emerged back into the main space, I avoided the throng of people still gathered around Monroe and Colin, and strode across the room to the less-crowded lounge, sidling up to the bar for a much-needed drink. A strong one. The bartender promptly poured four fingers of his finest scotch into a highball glass and I shoved a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar before blowing out a deep breath. Looking around the secluded area, I noticed the young couple, who I’d been studying while they stood next to Colin earlier, were only a few feet away from me. They appeared to be in a heated argument, based on their body language and the scowl on her face. I twisted my body so it appeared I was looking out at the people in the ballroom, but I could still see them easily off to the side.

Though his back was turned to me and I couldn’t see if his expression matched hers, there was no denying the irritation in his voice when I heard him say, “I can’t believe you’re leaving! You’re so fucking immature and selfish when it comes to this shit, Effie. If you’re not the center of attention, you’re not interested.”

“That’s not true, Seth! I’ve always supported you and Colin! I went to every single one of his games when we were growing up, and all of your . . .” The young blonde huffed, throwing her hands on her hips and pushing her exposed chest out.