Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

PRESLEY

Everything has changed.

After Brock left my apartment Thursday night, the way he acted was all I could think about. Tuesday was one thing. We had a weird day, and he could have made excuses about how he treated me. He didn’t, and it was like he took things up a notch.

And then Friday night? There was no more pretending we’re just friends. No more watching everything he says and does. No more worry about leading me on.

He kissed my forehead.

He’s done everything but tell me that he has feelings for me. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I suspect the Former Best Friends Club has something to do with it, mostly because Eli, Lincoln, and Hurley, who’s an honorary member because of his relationship with the other two, kept giving me knowing expressions every time they crossed my path at the game on Sunday.

Well those mischievous meddlers might have something up their sleeve, but tonight is my big play.

That is, the dress I’m wearing to the party. It’s a shimmery green that I chose for Christmas vibes, but it gives off mermaid more than anything else with the way it hugs close to my knees and then flares out. The red high-heeled shoes I bought for the outfit give me four inches. A lot closer to Brock’s lips, if you ask me. They have a ruffle on the toes that make them perfect for the festive Christmas look.

If Brock continues to pretend like he doesn’t have more than “friendly” feelings toward me when he sees me in this dress, I have nothing left except to wear him down.

That’s not a tactic I want to have to resort to.

My doorbell rings, and I wish I’d had Mom and Dad come here early so one of them could open the door and I could have a big, dramatic reveal. Instead I stride to the door, setting the tone for the confidence I need to confront Brock and prove my theory.

I pull open the door, leaving my hand on the handle and putting my other hand on my hip, striking what I hope isn’t too obvious of a pose to show this dress off best I can.

“Hey,” I grin, then I have to keep my own jaw from dropping. Brock’s suit does some impressive things for him. Most offensive linemen carry weight in their middle. For them, it’s all about being immovable mountains. Brock is the one that doesn’t belong. He’s strong and huge in his own right, but he’s all muscle, looking more like a defensive tackle than an offensive lineman. This suit makes him look even sleeker. He’s wearing all black from head to toe with a tie in the exact shade of green as my dress.

When I pull my gaze away from him, thinking how I’ve probably crashed and burned my plan by ogling him, I catch him still staring at me.

I can’t help but smirk. “Your tie matches my dress,” I say. My money is on the Former Best Friends Club being involved in this, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how. I didn’t tell any of them about my dress this week. We missed our usual Tuesday hang out, a.k.a. their therapy sessions, because I was in New York, and I haven’t seen any of them most of the week except in passing at the facility and during the game.

Brock steps into the apartment. He stands close to me, and I don’t increase the distance. “Lucky guess?” he says, looking down at me.

“Right…” I keep my hand on my hip while I continue to eye him.

He smiles back at me. The air between us heats up. Come on , I coax him. Just tell me. Better yet, kiss me.

My phone rings from the couch. Probably my mom, letting us know they’re here.

“Ready?” Brock asks. Neither of us has moved, and the door remains open. We’re in a stand-off of some kind, neither one of us willing to totally break this moment between us.

The phone ringing forces me to be the one to step back. I hurry over to the couch to grab the phone. “Hey, Mom.”

“We’re downstairs. Whenever you’re ready,” she says. And then hangs up. I pull the phone from my ear and look down at it, frowning in confusion. That was weird.

“Everything okay?” Brock asks. He’s closed the apartment door, but stands close to it, hands in his pockets, accentuating all those muscles. Arms, shoulders, trim waist.

I pull myself together. The point of inviting him tonight was to make sure he was looking at me . “No. My mom’s being weird.” I grab my red clutch from the couch and shove my phone in next to the small velvet box with a bow on it. If I put it under the tree, I want it to be recognizable quickly and not get overlooked tonight. Then I reach for the wrap in a shade of green just darker than my dress and drape it over my shoulders. “All ready,” I say, walking back over to Brock. He watches me the whole way, so maybe we’re even in our ogling score.

When we reach the sidewalk, Brock puts his hand on my back as we walk toward my parents’ silver SUV parked right out front.

I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool temperature as Brock walks me around to the seat behind the driver’s side. I almost laugh when I slide in and see that Mom has her seat pulled so far up that her knees are brushing the glovebox, leaving Brock plenty of room in the back seat.

I take the moment to slide even further in, making sure that when Brock takes his seat behind my mom that we’ll be sitting right next to each other. If we’re doing this couple thing without saying we’re doing the couple thing, I’m going all in. Do I need an official declaration to be with Brock? Not necessarily. So long as whatever’s going on tonight ends with a kiss.

Brock one ups me by draping his arm across the top of my seat the way he did when we drove to the airport. He doesn’t comment, and this time he lets his hand drop close to my shoulder, fingers gently skimming back and forth over the fabric of my wrap. We chat with my parents on the drive back to their neighborhood, Brock and Dad quickly falling into football talk with Dad grilling Brock about how he sees so much on the line during the games. I hold tightly to my clutch, my fingers tracing the shape of the velvet box over and over. Mostly to keep my hand from finding its way to the top of Brock’s thigh.

Then I realize we’re basically in some weird game of chicken where we’re waiting for the other one to break first. For one of us to point at the other and cry out, “Ha ha! I knew it! You like me.” I lean forward to ask Mom if a friend of hers is coming to the party and put my hand on Brock’s leg as I do, not moving it when I settle back into my seat after she answers. Brock doesn’t look down at my hand, doesn’t even react. My lips twitch. Despite wanting an answer now, this game is fun.

Mom glances at us over her shoulder. Dad goes back to talking about football.

Like every year, the Westcotts have a valet waiting to take the car, and a red carpet from the front drive to the entrance. They pay a photographer to take pictures since it’s LA, and this party will have more than a handful of celebrities. The photographer’s eyes brighten when she catches sight of Brock, and she motions for us to pause so she can get pictures. Perfect. I lean in close to Brock and put one hand around his waist and the other on his chest.

Brock’s move is to wrap his long arm around me and nudge me even closer. Touché, Brock, touché.

We enter through the tall, glass double doors of the Westcotts’ mansion. Mr. and Mrs. Westcott are standing about midway through the large entry, greeting guests. Mrs. Westcott has on a placid smile as she says something to a couple who came in before us. Mr. Westcott’s expression is tense, not exactly angry, but as though frustration is just under the surface. What’s that about? Could he be regretting having their Christmas party as usual, considering what happened last year?

We reach the Westcotts, and Mrs. Westcott turns her placid smile on Mom. “Hello, Pam. Steven,” she says. “Presley, wonderful to see you.” She arches her eyebrows at Brock.

“This is my friend, Brock Hunter,” I introduce.

Her expression never changes. “A pleasure, Brock.” She extends a hand, which Brock shakes and then Mr. Westcott does the same without saying anything, just giving Brock a tight nod.

“As a warning,” Mrs. Westcott says before we move away. “There are some gentlemen here tonight who will be asking questions. We would appreciate you giving them any information you can about the party last year. Trying to recover the ring, of course.”

Mr. Westcott’s jaw ticks, and I suspect his frustration is over Mrs. Westcott bringing private detectives to the party to grill the guests. I press my own lips together to keep from gasping or blubbering out a confession. This will mean extra eyes on me while I try to return the ring and I don’t know if I’m a good enough actor if I get questioned.

“We’re happy to help in any way we can,” Mom assures her. Dad hums in agreement, and we move forward. Before we’re out of earshot, I hear Mrs. Westcott imparting the same warning to the guests who came in behind us .

“Change in plan?” Brock asks lowly. “Considering we know now that she has some kind of security team onsite?”

I shake my head. “No way. Tonight is the night. I’ll be extra careful.”

He draws in a breath. “Extra careful doing what, Pres? You haven’t told me how we’re doing this.”

“Keeping it simple,” I say, tamping down my nerves. If Brock sees me scared in any way, he’ll put a stop to this. Probably take the ring, march it up to Mrs. Westcott, and take whatever heat comes with it. I can’t let him do that. “We’ll admire the tree,” I go on. “You block any view while I set it down, then we walk away casually.” I shrug, but my stomach twists. This will be easy. Besides, I didn’t do anything except find the ring in a box.

Everything will be fine.

I look up at Brock, and his steady gaze warms me, replacing the twisting in my stomach.

“Simple,” he repeats. He slides his hand into mine and holds my gaze. His eyes go soft.

“Checkmate,” I whisper.

He tilts his head. “What?”

I lean into him. “What’s going on, Brock?”

He brushes a curl from my cheek. “Trust me.”

I open my mouth to tell him that my feelings haven’t changed, if anything they’ve grown, and I’m sure he feels the same. That I’m going to kiss him and put us both out of our misery, but it all dies in my throat at the way he’s looking at me. The intensity of his gaze could burn right through me. It sends shivers across my skin, leaving goosebumps prickling on my arms. My knees even go a little wobbly.

“Okay.”

Keeping hold of my hand, he leads me into the party and straight to the tree. I’m with him. I want to get this ring out of my possession and enjoy the rest of the night. We stand together, staring at it, pretending to admire the decorations and the millions of little lights on it. It’s huge. Over fifteen feet, at least. A sparkling silver tree skirt is rumpled artfully around the bottom.

Both of our gazes dart across the crowd, looking for the “gentlemen” that Mrs. Westcott warned us about. “Clear?” he says, but it sounds like a question.

I don’t see anyone suspicious looking. Would these guys stand out? Or has Mrs. Westcott thrown around enough cash that they’ll be good at blending in. I summon all my confidence. “Clear,” I say, even though I’m anything but sure about that.

I unzip my clutch and pull the velvet box out, cupping it in my hand. Brock steps behind me and I crouch, setting the velvet box down.

I stand quickly, and Brock puts his arms around me from behind, as though we’ve been standing like this the whole time. He kisses the side of my head, like he did on Friday night when we were reading and I was crying. It’s the most comforting thing even though it shouldn’t be. The touch of his lips should send my heart rate rocketing out of control. The softness of them, the smell of his cologne, pine and oranges, the way his lips shift my hair.

And yet, it makes me feel safe.

I stare down at the box, surprising disappointment filtering through me at the thought of walking away and leaving it there. Even if I’d kept it, I may have never known how Aunt Shannon got it. There’s too much about her I’ll never know, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t just hand this over to the police as soon as I found it. It represents all the little things. I swallow back emotion because this isn’t the place I want to break down over the years I lost. Brock tightens his arms around me, and I squeeze gratefully where I’m holding onto them.

A moment later he lets me go, and we step away from the tree, hand in hand.

There’s a string quartet this year providing the music, but it’s all instrumental covers of popular songs. When we first came in, it was an Arianna Grande cover, but they’ve switched to “Last Christmas,” slowed down in a way that somehow works.

“Let’s dance?” Brock asks.

“Of course.”

He leads me to the middle of the room, where several other couples are also swaying. I catch sight of my parents talking to another couple from their neighborhood, the Beaumonts, I think. I’ve met them a time or two when Dad has a barbecue. Mom winks at me. I raise my eyebrows at her, but she turns back to Mrs. Beaumont without acknowledging my reaction.

New guess: Brock knew the color of my dress because my mom told him. How did the meddlers get my parents involved in this? And what do they have up Brock’s sleeve?

As he slides his arm around my waist and takes my hand in his, I forget why I care. As long as Brock’s in on it—and judging from how close he’s pulled me to him, Brock’s in on it—it doesn’t matter. If it includes kissing Brock under the mistletoe, I approve. I peer around the room, hoping to find some, and notice that the silver tree skirt is clear of any gifts, especially ones in black velvet boxes.

That’s unnerving. Well, it’s probably good that someone found it quickly. I think. I swallow. It’s over, and I should be relieved. Sadness pricks at my chest, but it’s the same questions. How did Aunt Shannon get the ring? Why did she leave it to me? Did I do the right thing by giving it back? I mean, of course I did, but is that what Aunt Shannon meant for me to do? Maybe once the Westcotts announce the ring is home safe and sound, more answers will start popping up.

A random confession from the thief that includes breaking into Aunt Shannon’s and stashing it in a storage container? A girl can hope.

The Christmas song ends, and the quartet starts playing another song. The violin’s melody is somehow familiar, but I can’t place it right off .

“Follow me.” Brock pulls me through the crowd toward the stage where the quartet is set up.

“What’s going on?” I ask, but Brock just smiles, the way he has been all night.

When we get right up to the front, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “Stand right here.”

“Miss Tatum?” a voice says, making Brock look up. I turn to look behind me. A man in an official-looking suit, not a sleek party suit like all the other men at the party, stands there, eyeing me. One of the gentlemen Mrs. Westcott was talking about?

My stomach drops. I know way more than I should, and I’m not comfortable talking to someone about the party last year given where the ring ended up. Is there any way to get out of this?

“Yes?” I ask politely.

“I need you to come with me please,” he says in a low voice.

Brock steps in. “I know Mrs. Westcott wants you to talk to all the guests, but can this wait until later?”

“No, Miss Tatum. We need to speak to you right now.” The way he emphasizes that has me thinking this could be more than just relaying what I know about last year. But how? We slipped the box under the tree quickly and naturally.

I think it’s best to act innocent until proven otherwise. “Is something wrong?” I ask. I hope my confused face looks convincing.

“Please come with me.” He moves to take my elbow to escort me out, I assume, but Brock blocks his hand, putting an arm protectively around my waist.

“We’ll answer your questions later.” Brock’s expression is impassive, but his resting face is … intimidating. It reminds me of that glare I thought he was giving me at Lincoln’s wedding when he was just concentrating on my necklace. I’m pretty sure he means for this expression to be threatening.

The guy forces a smile, but he doesn’t cow. “You’re welcome to enjoy the party. We need to have a quick word with Miss Tatum. Now.”

Brock’s expression narrows. “I go where she goes.”

The man hesitates and then finally says, “Follow me.” He leads the way back the way we came into the party. I make sure not to look over at the tree, and Brock doesn’t say anything as we exit. Before we leave the ballroom, I glance over my shoulder at the last place I saw Mom. She isn’t there, but a quick scan shows her and Dad not very far away talking to someone else. Mom furrows her eyebrows at me, but I give a quick shake of my head and force a calm expression for her. I definitely don’t want her getting involved in this.

The security guy takes us back to a small office off the entry foyer. Inside is a makeshift security office like you might see on a TV show. I’ve only been in the Westcotts’ house once, outside of the Christmas parties I’ve attended, but I think last year it was a regular office. There’s a computer on the desk with two large screens, and another man in a suit like the one who led us here sits in front of it, scanning feeds from all over the house. I flush when I see that between three different camera angles trained on the ballroom, it has full coverage of the tree. I swallow but turn to look at the security guy standing in front of us with that same confused look. Everyone knows they’re here to ask questions, and for now, I’m going to pretend that their intense interest in me doesn’t have something to do with the box I left under the tree. Maybe there’s a chance they’re going to ask me if I saw anything because I’m on camera near the tree. I cross my fingers, hoping that something blocked me when I set the box down.

The first security guy holds a hand out to a straight-backed chair in one corner. “Would you like to take a seat, Miss Tatum?”

“What’s going on?” I repeat before moving. Someone who’s innocent would be getting nervous about that by now. Lucky for me, the nervous part is easy to portray given that I am indeed nervous .

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the box you left under the tree.” He gestures to the chair.

I take one more stab that they’re bluffing because Brock and I were in the area around the time the box appeared. “Box?”

The security guy lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. “Booker,” he says to the guy at the computers. The computer guy taps a bunch of buttons and on one of the screens a video comes up. The camera shows very clearly me and Brock walking up to the tree. It’s from the side, so when Brock stands behind me, it hides nothing. You see me crouch, put the box down, and then stand back up to Brock wrapping his arms around me.

My face is completely on fire.

“I made her do it,” Brock says.

“Don’t even start with that.” The last thing he needs in his career right now is to get mixed up in this. “He had nothing to do with it. Don’t listen to him. Make him leave.”

The security guy eyes us both. Brock is scowling hard core now. “Presley.”

“He had nothing to do with this,” I insist.

“What is ‘this’?” the security guy asks.

I’m not dragging Aunt Shannon into it either. Not without knowing more than I do. “I found the ring”—Security Guy scoffs, like I knew he would—“and I knew no one would believe me.” How did I not consider the fact that the ring was stolen from this very party last year, so obviously the Westcotts upped security? Given all the things Mrs. Westcott has done recently, and especially the warning we got at the beginning of this party, I should have foreseen this. Did I really convince myself it was just a couple PIs asking questions?

“I wanted to return it.”

There’s a tap at the door, and Security Guy steps away from me to open it. Standing outside is a policeman.

My entire body goes cold.