Page 103 of Free to Judge

Collapsing on the sofa, I hug a pillow to my chest. Then I take a deep breath and answer him.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Peterand I go silent when we hear the squeak from the front door opening. There’s a murmur of voices before the door closes and a familiar tapping of heeled shoes on wood floors has my heart thundering in my chest. Surging to my feet, I bolt off the couch before Peter can shift to a standing position.

The warmth of my mother’s arms surrounds me the second our bodies collide. I bury my head into her shoulder and inhale her familiar scents. For long moments we stand like that. Having her here restores, if not my heart, my flailing spirit.

Even knowing she was coming so she and I could be dressed by my Aunt Emily for tonight’s gala, where I’ll likely have to confront Declan in a room filled with Harvard’s elite, doesn’t dampen the pleasure of having her arms around me as I nurse my broken heart.

She pulls back far enough to cup my cheeks before tsking me. “If your aunt has to do last-minute alterations on your dress because you’ve lost weight, she’s going to lose her mind.”

A ghost of a smile crosses my face. “She’ll look at it as a challenge, just like she does when she has to fit models during Fashion Week.”

My mother caresses my cheekbone with her thumb. “Too true.” Over my shoulder, she meets Peter’s eyes. Extending her hand to beckon him closer, she welcomes him warmly before offering in mock disgust, “If only you would stop being as gorgeous as your parents, maybe you wouldn’t be followed by every member of the paparazzi. It’s criminal to be this handsome.”

Peter barks out a laugh before smacking a loud kiss on her cheek. “Good to see you too, Aunt Ali. How are my folks?”

She slaps him on his shoulder. “I hope you plan on sticking around long enough to find out, you reprobate.”

He tugs me against his side. “It depends on if this one takes me out for real food after this snooty ass party we’re all going to.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “You’re a world-famous chef, yet your food choice is deplorable—just like your father. This proves there are some things genetics wins out over. After every formal event, your father wants nachos. To this day, your mother indulges him.”

Peter’s eyes light up at the thought of a hot, cheesy mess. Before my mother can shoot him down, my phone pings with an incoming text. My body stiffens. Since that night two weeks ago, I assigned Declan his own ringtone so I’d know who was trying to contact me.

Mama frowns at the expression on my face. “Do I even need to hazard a guess at who that might be?”

I don’t bother answering. Instead, I unlock my phone. I’d long turned off the feature that would alert Declan I was reading his text messages. I read his latest attempt and pretend to feel nothing, but what I feel is so enormous I can’t prevent the solitary tear that tracks down my cheek.

Declan:

Kalie, I swear to you, it wasn’t what it looked like.

Just five minutes.

Tonight. I’ll explain everything. I promise.

Peter pulls my phone out of my hand. After scanning the message, he murmurs, “I guess it’s a good thing we’re going to an event where you’ll be surrounded by people who won’t let him near you.”

My mother worries her lower lip in her teeth and I know why.

It’s because she knows—as do I—that Declan, despite his present nefarious clients, is a Harvard Law graduate. He received the same invitation we did. He has every right to attend the reunion, just as we do.

He risks his cover being blown—a cover I almost blew apart when I slammed my fist into his face three months ago—just for the chance to set the record straight.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

After the makeupartist finishes painting my lower lip a deep crimson shade, I wait patiently while my face is spritzed with makeup setter. Next to me, my mother is in her final stages of transformation. Checking out my appearance, I nod, accepting the woman in the reflection.

“I just want to say this before the makeup people leave.”

I brace, causing my mother to chuckle as she comes up behind me. “You are stronger than you are beautiful.” My mother’s hands land on my shoulders.

I turn around to face her. “I come by it naturally.”

Her face softens in the same manner it used to whenever she used to tell me stories about her childhood, her escape from her personal nightmare, and finding and falling for my father. Speaking of which, “Where’s Dad?”

She mumbles something I can’t quite understand. “Excuse me?”