I glanced at myself in the mirror behind the bar to see that my upswept blond hair was perfectly set, and more than one man was watching my—well, our—progress across the room.
We stopped in front of two men sitting on barstools, their heads close in earnest discussion. One of the men, who turned out to be Jack Carstairs, was even more blond than I, his ice-white hair clipped short on the sides, but molded with a sleek, flawless wave that angled neatly away from his forehead. Even though he was seated, I could tell he was tall by the way he hunched down to speak to the man with him. If I was more than seven inches taller than Rachel, then he was at least a foot taller. Perhaps also noticing our approach in the mirror, he turned to watch us, a hint of annoyance flitting briefly across his striking, angular face. Though I was curious about Press, I caught myself staring at Jack. The irises of his blue eyes were alarmingly light, and I wondered for a moment if he were an albino—a kind of person I’d heard about but had never seen. His skin had a cool, pinkish-white cast, but his eyes were definitely blue. His clothes were neat to the point of fastidiousness and his hair had surely taken many minutes to perfect. Rachel had mentioned Jack many times, and hadn’t said he was a homosexual, but I had heard that homosexual men were often very particular about their appearance. (When Rachel married him a few years later, I remembered my silent speculation and had a laugh at myself.)
But it was the other man whom Rachel addressed, and who finally arrested my attention.
“Press! You and Porky Pig need to stop talking right this minute.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Rachel, you bitch.” He turned his gaze to me, frankly looking me up and down. There was the merest hint of approval in his unusual eyes. “What will your friend think?”
“Why, she’ll think you’re a perfect love, even though you used to be big as a house. Didn’t he used to be big as a house?” She rested a hand prettily on Press’s leg. “You remember you told me how he got a wad of icing stuck up his nose at your birthday party when you were kids?” Then she turned to me, rolled her eyes. “He made such a fuss, crying and carrying on, that he couldn’t breathe and his mama had to take him home.”
Press smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. “Jack was wrong to call you a bitch. Dogs are bitches. You’re just a brat.”
Rachel gave him an exaggerated pout.
“See? You love me.” She held her face close to his so he could kiss her cheek. His hand slipped down, lingering on her back, and for the first time I found myself wondering if there had ever been anything between them. It took me by surprise to realize that I had already begun to think of Press as belonging to me.
When Rachel formally introduced us, I felt my face and neck go hot. I offered my hand and hoped that he wouldn’t feel it shaking, because I could feel just the slightest tremor in it. Even though the college Rachel and I attended educated only women, it had many male professors, and, of course, I’d known boys at home and met others at dances. But this felt new. Different. Preston Bliss, though he was only four years older than Rachel and me, was truly a man.
Getting off the stool, he stood up, and I was immediately glad I’d worn the flats. His eyes weren’t quite even with mine, and I soon learned he was five feet eight to my five feet nine. My reaction must have shown in my eyes because—after a tightening of his jaw that was so slight that I might have imagined it—he gave me a broad smile and enveloped my hand in his.
“Charlotte, I’m Preston. But please call me Press. Everyone does.” His cool, rather soft hand gripped mine with firm pressure.
Perhaps it was just because they weren’t quite even with mine that I noticed his thick eyebrows first. If he’d been a female friend of Rachel’s, she would’ve long ago attacked them with her vicious tweezers. (I had been one of her victims, but even now my brows are as fair as my hair, and so she didn’t torment me often. Also, she was a bit near-sighted and was too vain to wear her glasses.) Press’s hair, dark like his brows, was coarse with aggressive, barely tamed natural waves. He faced me with an unabashed frankness that showed in his brown eyes, which didn’t leave mine for a second. His skin was more olive than I had expected. Maybe it was something about his being young and wealthy and Virginian that had made me think he would be more like the fair, patrician-looking Jack Carstairs.
Press’s nose was rather large and his lashes brown and thick. His chestnut wool jacket hung neatly over darker brown pants and almost hid a deep-green sweater vest. His shirt was white, his tie the color of a yellowed autumn leaf. Jack’s more conservative gray wool jacket and regimental tie seemed rather dull in comparison.
Glancing away at Rachel for the briefest of moments, Press then looked back at me and said, “You’re much prettier than Rachel led me to believe. Like a fashion model.”