Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) by Angela Conrad, Kathleen Hesser Skrzypczak Page B

expecting you.  You know the way.”
    I force myself to enter the golden elevator, where the brass plate announced the title PENTHOUSE on it.  I check my appearance in the mirrored wall and uncross my arms.  Too defensive.  I need to waltz in there looking confident, as if I hold a powerful hand and I’m not afraid to play it.
    I remember coming up here the last time, with Bradley.  How we laughed, kissed, held hands, joy bubbling from us after our separations and disagreements.  Both of us thrilled to be back together.  How short the time we shared before that damn show took him away from me again.  How bittersweet his marriage proposal was in the entry above me now.  I jump as the doors open, and I think about my future, what it can be if I just pull this offer off.
    I stand straighter, adjusting the belt on my black, off the shoulder dress.  I check my hair, professional, and braided down my back, my four-inch heels smart and trendy, and then I squeeze my fingers together feeling Bradley’s ring resting on my left hand.  I step out of the elevator, and a maid dressed in a navy uniform with a crisp white blouse greets me and shows me the twenty feet to the double mahogany doors.
    I see the same massive white room, with white furniture, a white marble fireplace without a fire this time.  Instead, it’s filled with white orchids in a white granite planter.  It’s gorgeous, but cold, and for the first time I remember this is my mother’s sister.  They both decorated in all white; how else are they the same?  Classical music plays softly this time and I wonder if it’s on a continual loop or if LaLa plays it just to impress guests.
    The doors swing open to my right, but no Chase to greet me this time, only three little white poodles with bells on their collars. They bark in a chorus of sharp notes.  I can’t help but smile.  A butler in full dress livery chases after them calling their names, “Mya, Mellow, Marty, back inside.”
    Their presence breaks the tension in my stomach and I take deep breaths.  I feel the side of my purse, comforted by the thick paperwork inside, and walk confidently forward.
    LaLa is wearing an outfit similar to the ones Jackie O used to wear, small tweed, a delicate pink, down to the Mary Jane pink pumps, all that’s missing is the pillbox hat and white gloves.  The picture of sophisticated elegance and style, my aunt rushes close to me, almost knocking me over, not with her body, but by the strong scent of her perfume.  Her watch, my god, she must have five carats of diamonds circling the face.
    “Naomi,” she sings, “Come in dear, we’re so glad you called.”
    “We.”  So Chase is here.  Well, all the better because I need his help too, even though it galls me to ask for it.
    “Hello LaLa, nice of you to invite me.  I hope we can become friends.”
    I watch her face for slips, a smirk, or a sting from her stare, but she smiles a genuine smile and hugs me softly.  “Yes dear, yes.  That’s what I want too.”
    “Sis,” comes a male voice and I turn to see Chase almost lying flat on a long, white lounger by the window.  Not attempting to stand or even straighten his posture, he gives me a small wave, like a man passing on a yacht.
    “Hello Chase, I hope we can bury the hatchet and be friendly as well.”
    LaLa claps her hands with glee and I hear high-pitched barking from the next room.  “Wonderful.  I am so glad you are here Naomi.  We have much to discuss.”
    She offers me a drink and I accept a glass of white wine.  It’s superb and I wonder how old and rare the vintage is. 
    We chitchat like acquaintances for an hour, feeling each other out, watching body language and listening for fluctuations of voice.  I hear about Chase’s award-winning talents in tennis and sailing.  LaLa talks of her dogs’ placements in the Madison Square Garden dog shows.  I share as little as possible, mentioning my time working on my degree from Stern, and