Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) (3 page)

"Are we going to eat or what?"

* * *

A formal dance had been arranged for the graduating class at the Carlu, an incredibly beautiful yet rather pricey private event space in Toronto. Although Autumn still found dances uncomfortable, given her history with her abuser, she'd promised Andrew they would attend, even if only to admire the architecture of the space.

Pressing the close button in the elevator, she paused to admire her date. "You clean up nicely, Daniels.”

Clad in a tailored black suit and coordinated green dress shirt, his unruly waves smoothed into semi-submission, Andrew Daniels was every bit a movie star in her eyes. Judging from the stares of several women as they entered, it was a popular opinion. The female (and occasionally male) attention he routinely drew from their classmates had once bothered her, but not anymore. Last October, she'd overheard two Film students in the women's washroom, commenting on their relationship. "Devoted" came up several times in the exchange, along with comparisons to some romance novel she'd refused to read due to her self-diagnosed allergy to saccharine prose.

His reputation for fidelity had helped assuage any lingering (and admittedly irrational) insecurities she held about her worth. Now, she walked beside him with confidence, thankful to have a loyal man to rely on. Someone who would never hurt her (intentionally, of course; couples fought, and they were no exception). Someone who understood her and accepted her as she was, on good days and terrible ones.

"Odds that the punch is spiked?" he asked, leading the way to the table.

"So high that Vegas wouldn't even bother to accept a chit."

"Excellent!"

Andrew passed her a glass and they both sipped, nodding in shared agreement.
So very spiked
. Tequila, she figured, as she drained her glass. One of Sia’s big hits was blasting from the speakers, enticing her to come dance.
One more drink
, she decided ironically in light of the song playing, knocking back a quick refill.

"It’s a chorus, not a command," Andrew teased.

Autumn discarded her cup and laughed, pulling him towards the dance floor. "Liquid courage. Come make an ass of yourself with me."

Realizing her intentions, Andrew tugged half-heartedly on her arm. "Wait, I want another one now... Damn it!"

Surrendering to his girlfriend’s sudden whimsy, he twirled her around in a circle, pulling her close as she wobbled on her heels.

“Just stay off the chandeliers, alright? I’m pretty sure they cost more than a small house.”

“The only thing I plan on holding onto tonight is you,” was her husky reply.

They spun, swayed and shimmied, each one-upping the other with old dance moves done intentionally poorly. Autumn sang along at the top of her lungs, gaining a chorus of nearby Vocal majors looking for an excuse to belt out a tune. Her mind drifted to Veronica, knowing that she would be adamant that they dance and sing to every song until the DJ shut the night down.

For you, Veronica.
She would be the free spirit, unafraid, in her friend's honour.

The night flew by in a haze of music and greetings, in silk and lace and pressed suits rendered rumpled by impromptu busting of clichéd moves. Given the arts-driven curriculum of Casteel, it came as no surprise that at times, the dance floor morphed into an unrealistic teen movie scene, complete with choreography. And while she frequently tugged Andrew away into a dark corner to decompress (and caress... okay, perhaps
just
to caress), she forced herself to stay active, stay social.

This was their night. No ghosts allowed.

She did think of them, but only once: during a One Direction song that made her cringe, she slipped outside of the reception proper into the foyer of the Carlu. Promptly, she bumped into an unexpected sight: Professor Paul Grant, head of Biology and the grumpiest faculty member, aside from Headmistress Logan. He’d made a grand sport of torturing her with questions during Biology class in grade eleven.

He had also saved her life.

"Couldn't beg your way out of chaperone duty?" she joked nervously.

Grant raised a razor-thin eyebrow at this, edging forward in that way she’d dreaded whenever insomnia had rendered her textbook into a soup of syllables. "What do you mean, Ms. Brody?"

Autumn found herself captivated by invisible lint on the bodice of her dress. "I just figured that this would be the last possible thing you'd want to do with your Saturday night.”

"Not at all." She instinctively straightened her posture as he reached her side, inwardly cursing herself for it. "I always volunteer to supervise the graduation formal."

Autumn tilted her head askance. "Really?"

"I know I have a reputation for being...
demanding
, Ms. Brody, but I do care very much about Casteel's students. I've known some of these men and women since age ten. I take pride in your successes. Congratulations, by the way, on your forthcoming novel. January, correct?"

He smiled and she nearly rocked back on her heels and fell. She'd never seen him smile, not once in the entire two years she'd attended Casteel.

"Um, yes, January. Thank you, Professor Grant."

"I've already pre-ordered my copy. I trust the biological aspects will be accurate?"

"If they're not, I'm sure you'll be calling me the very next day," she replied warmly. As he turned away, she called out to him. "Professor?"

"Hmm?"

"I... Without your knowledge and your help, I might not be standing here. I wouldn't be. There's no
might
about it and... Thank you."

His hand stretched out and she took it, shaking it with a gentle squeeze in gratitude. In his eyes, the lingering pain of his own losses reminded her of why he had so readily led Andrew, Veronica and Evan into the school's tunnels in pursuit of her.

"You are very welcome."

From behind her, Andrew's slightly slurred voice rang out. "There you are!"

Grant released her hand and in that moment, she recognized in the instructor’s brusque mannerisms a piece of herself on that first day at Casteel. He had walls of his own, she understood—walls built to shield a heart broken by the loss of a dear friend (and possibly, a first love). Impulsively, she threw her arms around him, hugging tightly. A confused mumble gave way to a careful reciprocation of the embrace.

“You brought a lot of people peace, Professor Grant. Mary’s proud. I feel it.”

His reply was scarcely more than a whisper. “I hope so.”

With a nod of understanding, student and teacher parted ways. Andrew, thankfully, asked no questions. He simply took her hand and twirled her around, leading her back into the crowd as the soft notes of some mainstream ballad began to play.

* * *

A quiet hush had settled over the lobby of the Carlu. The night was ending and with it, high school. It was surreal, even beyond the warm buzz of the mystery punch coursing through her veins.

True to their elevated sense of importance, Casteel's administration had arranged for several taxis on a constant standby to take their graduates home safely. No doubt that they expected the teens to take full advantage of the festivities and party harder than the regimented world of boarding school could allow—although they certainly found ways, as Autumn well knew. Sitting with her head upon Andrew's shoulder, waiting for the next available cab, she recalled spring evenings near the pond, half-assed efforts at concealing alcohol in bottles of juice from the cafeteria. Laughter, flirtatious banter and candy—always candy. There was apparently something about pleated kilts and ties that elicited cravings for sugar-coated sugar with a side of high fructose corn syrup.

Andrew’s fingers danced along her bare arm. "You okay?"

"Wonderful." And she was.

She'd found her mentor, George St. James, shortly before deciding she'd prefer to kick off her shoes and sleep, rather than endure another song by Iggy Azalea. Warm embraces were shared, with promises to be in touch soon: after all, he'd not only helped her secure her book deal, he'd helped her develop it.

Come fall, he would be one of her professors at Ryerson. A friendly face in a new world, one with new challenges. Although many had been surprised by her switch to Journalism, she'd realized during her grade eleven ordeal that investigation appealed to her as much as fiction. She'd take Creative Writing courses on the side—there was no escaping the Muse—but her heart told her this was her path.

"Taxi's here," the concierge announced to their left.

"Sweeter words have never been spoken," Autumn murmured, slipping first into the cab at Andrew's insistence.

He waited for her to provide her address before challenging her statement. "Is that true? You've never heard a sweeter phrase in your life than 'taxi's here'?"

Autumn played it coy. "Hmm, maybe I'm forgetting something. Care to refresh my memory?"

She eyed him up and down, drinking in the sight of his rumpled suit, loosened tie and the wild waves of hair, damp with the sweat of too many dances under heavy lights. Unconsciously, she licked her lips, thinking of the delicate cut of his muscular abs and the soft jut of hipbone hidden beneath his slacks.

"Well, I can think of a few." His lips grazed her ear as he leaned sideways and murmured, "You're worth waiting for..."

"Mmm... Yes, those were incredibly sweet," she agreed, thinking of the letter he'd sent her once. "Any other candidates?"

"I love you. I can't imagine my life without you," he continued, scarcely audible. His hand slid up her thigh, earning a hiss of pleasure. "Are those sweeter?"

Autumn flushed, noticing the driver shifting in his seat. "I... I agree. Your case has been made."

"I have one more suggestion.” Andrew enveloped her lobe in his lips and sucked briefly, with the barest hint of pressure. "Wanna hear it?"

Autumn nodded furiously, her own hand wandering to cup his groin in retaliation. His sharp intake of breath assured her the intrusion was welcome.

"When I get you to that hotel in New York, I plan to worship
every inch
of your beautiful body."

Fireworks. Every ounce of willpower was directed towards keeping her hands from tearing at his suit and making things even more awkward for the poor man attempting to navigate the east end of the city. Drawing a deep breath and holding it, she gently pushed Andrew back against his seat.

"Behave," she admonished him as she exhaled.

"For now," he conceded. It was a promise that sent a shiver down her spine.

They managed to keep still, hand in hand as ten agonizing minutes passed in near-silence, save the sporadic crackling of the dispatch radio. The taxi had barely pulled into the driveway before Andrew threw ten dollars too many into the man's hand with a grateful smile and pulled Autumn from the backseat. His arms wrapped around her from behind as they watched the cab depart, his palms gliding to cup beneath the swell of her breasts.

"Suggestions?"

"You started this. You should have made a plan." She pressed against him, craving contact even as she nervously calculated viewing angles from the ground floor windows of her home. "We have to go in now. My dad waited up, I know it."

"Okay..." With a groan, Andrew gestured to her door. "Thank God for loose-fitting dress pants."

Autumn giggled, tugging her keys from her coat pocket and opening the front door as gently as possible. Pandora was already in the foyer, chirping happily and circling their legs as they tip-toed into the kitchen. On the fridge door, Autumn noticed the familiar scrawl of her mother on the whiteboard.

Don't wait up; we're spending the night at the Doucettes' place. Love you.

(Separate rooms are encouraged, but optional. We're not fools)

Mom

Autumn slumped against the counter, her cheeks burning—and not just from the tequila. "Oh God! You know what this means, right?"

"That they know I never make it to the guest room when I visit?" Andrew suggested weakly.

"Well, yeah, but more than that. They know we've had sex."

"To be fair, it was a pretty safe assumption. We're both legally adults."

Autumn rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter! My daddy knows you've had sex with me. He may seem all cuddly like a kitten, but I am very much his little girl. And you want to ask him if we can shack up in September?"

Andrew grimaced, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. "Good point."

"On the plus side, they intentionally vacated the house, probably expecting us to come home as wound up as we are, so... they approve?" She looked to her boyfriend for confirmation. "I mean, if they had a problem, wouldn't they be here, standing guard over my bed?"

Andrew mulled this over for what felt like several minutes, but was surely no longer than a scant few seconds. "Let's look at it this way: if they approve, then we should proceed directly to your room and celebrate. And if they don't..."

"If they don't?" she prompted anxiously.