Chapter 13
Russell
It’s going to be a bitch to keep my hands to myself tonight. I stand outside the hotel, waiting for her car to pull up.
The moment I see Jules step out of the car, I want to touch her. To run my hand over the soft curve of her hip, to tuck my hand against the small of her back. Graze the tips of her hair with my fingertips, tuck my thumb into the spot under her throat.
It’s going to be torture to try, so I decide I don’t have to keep them completely to myself.
When she steps up beside me, I say, low enough that none of the people around us can hear, “I’ll need to touch you, somewhat. For appearances. That okay?”
Jules nods, once, and if I thought she looked gorgeous in her apartment, wearing the Oscar the Grouch pajamas…
Now, she’s wearing a soft, shimmering gold dress that bunches up around her hips and falls over her body like a gentle glittering honey.
Her hair is half-up, swept back from her pretty face but still falling loosely around her shoulders.
The makeup people did a great job, accentuating her best features—the apples of her cheeks, those bright eyes.
Her lips aren’t glossy, but matte, which contrasts with the opalescence of the dress.
It makes me want to kiss the color right off them.
She was beautiful at her apartment. Supple, touchable, and vulnerable. Now, she’s gorgeous in a different way—garnished, teased, and gilded. Just as touchable, but in the way you reach your hand up into the sunlight, wanting to feel the warmth on your skin.
“Of course,” she says, and, to my surprise, she slots right into my side. As naturally as if it’s something we do every day. Like a real couple might stand, familiar with each other’s bodies.
I’m not, though. Familiar with her body.
The press of her against my side, even just hip-to-hip like this—it’s distracting.
Filling my mind with images of several other things I’d rather be doing right now, other than walking into the cavernous ballroom, surrounded by the glitz and glamor of Chicago’s wealthiest and most boring inhabitants.
“Wow,” Jules gasps, her head tipping up when we enter, and I remember that this hasn’t always been her life.
When you grow up with a surgeon and philanthropist as a father, galas, and charity events, your typical weekend fare, you find yourself growing numb to the painted ceilings and soaring windows.
Now, I tip my head up to see what she’s seeing—dozens and dozens of chandeliers glowing with candles.
A fire hazard, but it strikes the right chord.
Cozy and warm, pretty in the way that only Christmas can be.
Both fresh and comfortable at once. Like sinking into a brand-new armchair.
When I glance back at Jules, she’s still taking the place in. I want to incite that expression on her face more. Want to take her to every fancy place in Chicago—in the world—if it means she’ll keep looking around like that.
Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around her waist and pull her closer to me, dropping my lips to her ear, “Did you like your surprise?”
She glances at me, that sharp, disapproving gleam to her eyes, “You mean, the pseudo-kidnapping?”
As we talk, we move through the party together, speaking in low voices, occasionally smiling at other people, and taking champagne from trays. It gives me a strange sense of deja vu.
“Most women would be happy to be kidnapped like that.”
“I’m not into dark romance,” she says, but something about the tilt of her head tells me that’s not entirely true.
“Really?” I ask, letting my lips linger a little too long on the spot just before her ear, “You’re not into shopping the Gold Coast with your best friend? Not into having beef wellington for lunch and sipping the finest wine at the bar after?”
Jules pulls back, eying me, the corner of her lip quirking, “Were you spying on me?”
I shrug, averting my gaze so she doesn’t see how pleased I am, “Buddy of mine owns the place. Wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”
“Well, I was,” she says, some of the playful tone dropping from her voice, replaced with something stern. I wonder if I’m getting a taste of what Gus might get when Jules is unhappy with him. “It was too much, Russell. I appreciate it, but now I have this dress, and I can wear it to the others—”
“It’s not about you,” I say, dropping my voice and resisting the urge to lower my lips down to her shoulder, which is bare and shining under the soft, flickering candlelight.
Skin so soft, so smooth, begging to be kissed.
I could plant my lips there if I was behind her, a hand in her hair, pulling her hips flush against mine—
“Oh, really?” she asks, slightly breathless, as though my fantasy projected right into her head. If it did, would she like what she saw?
I tighten my hold on her hip, registering the dark way she’s looking at me, wondering if now might be a good time to specify that although this arrangement is not about sex for me, that could be something on the table.
I could make it worth her time. An added bonus to whatever else she wants from this arrangement.
But before I can say any of that, I hear a familiar deep voice calling my name.
“Russell!”
I turn to find Orie making his way through the crowd, holding his glass of champagne with the care of a man who doesn’t want his drink spilled down the front of his suit.
Like Jules, Orie didn’t come from a background like mine—he’s not as used to the wealth.
He treats each of his possessions with a certain care, like he expects them to last his lifetime.
The suit he’s wearing is the same one he wore under his gown at our graduation. At this point, being a celebrated cardiologist in his own right, he could certainly afford another high-end piece. But it’s just like Orie to avoid anything superfluous.
“Orie,” I say, taking his hand when he gets close enough and carefully pulling him into that particular bro-hug, the one where you pat your friends back in an excuse to embrace. He thumps his fist into my back and when he pulls away, he’s grinning at me.
“And who is this?” he asks, immediately zeroing in on the gorgeous woman with me. Of course he would. I had my fair share of fun while we were in med school, before Margot, and Orie loved to pick apart the different women I’d bring back to our apartment, trying to coalesce them into a “type.”
It never worked, though—I didn’t have a type. At least, I didn’t have a type before that party years ago, and since then, Orie has made sure to comment on my more recent preference for dark hair and brown eyes.
“Jules, nice to meet you,” Jules says, holding out her hand before I can introduce her myself. Her eyes flick between Orie and I, her smile widening. “How do you two know each other?”
“Med school,” I say, at the same time Orie says, “This asshole hit me with his car.”
Jules coughs, nearly spitting out a sip of champagne, and Orie thumps her on the back good-naturedly. I shoot him a look, and he gives me an aw-shucks grin that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Her eyes are wide when she recovers, and she turns to me, “You hit him with your car?”
“Well, not the car I have now,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I was barely rolling—like a mile an hour—and he wasn’t looking where he was going.”
“Pedestrians always have the right-of-way,” Jules says, pointing at me with her champagne glass.
“She’s right,” Orie says, flashing me a bright grin. “I like her. How long have the two of you been together?”
Jules gives me a careful, quick, questioning glance at this. One that says should we lie to him? Orie would keep the secret. He always understood the weight of my father’s expectations, would get an arrangement like this. But for some reason, I don’t want him to know that this is fake.
So, I snake my arm around her waist, pull her in closer to me, and say, “About a month.”
The movement shifts our position ever so slightly, and in the next moment, there’s a warm, golden spotlight dropping down on us from the ceiling. Orie takes a step back, like he doesn’t want the light to touch him.
“Oh, look at that!” someone says, and I raise my hand up to shield my eyes, spotting a DJ in the corner of the room, staring right at us. It seems like everyone in the ballroom turns to look in our direction.
The DJ switches the music to a soft, instrumental version of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause and Jules laughs, patting my chest and pointing up above us just as the DJ says, “We’ve got a lucky couple who’s stepped under the mistletoe!
As of right now we’ve got…” he takes a moment, glancing at a paper, “fifty thousand in mistletoe donations! If we get a kiss, our generous donors will double that money!”
Jules’ eyes go wide, and she glances around, a bit of nervousness creeping onto her face for the first time.
“Kiss her!” someone calls, while another person whistles.
I have three simultaneous thoughts—first, that a stunt like this is pretty tacky, for what’s supposed to be a prestigious charity fundraiser.
Second, that a fifty-thousand-dollar kiss might break some sort of world record.
And third, that rich people really do look for the most pointless ways to spend their time.
A chant starts up around us, “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
The DJ adds to it, “No pressure, but you are under the mistletoe!”
I find Jules’ eyes, trying to read her expression. Of course I want to kiss her—fuck, I’ve wanted to do a lot more than that from the first moment I saw her in the hospital. But I told her this wasn’t about sex, and the last thing I want is to make her feel like that was a lie.
It’s impossible for me to read the expression on her face, especially in this light.
“Come on, man, kiss her!” Orie says, raising up his glass of champagne and looking between me and Jules expectantly.
I search her face, waiting for that hard look. One that says absolutely do not kiss me.
But instead, her chin is tipped up to me, her lips slightly parted, something in her gaze almost open and wanting. So, I step closer to her, and a soft cheer goes up in the crowd, urging us together.
At the start of the night, I’d settled on the occasional touch.
But now it looks like I’m going to get a whole lot more.