Chapter 10
I haven’t broken up with Harry yet, and that’s mostly because I don’t want to go dateless to my best friend’s wedding. Now, though, I’m dealing with the outcome of my choices.
I know that Kat knows Harry, and knows him well. I know that she doesn’t hold me personally accountable for his shitty behavior, nor does she expect me to be able to change his shitty behavior. And honestly, if I could change Harry, party etiquette isn’t even in the top five of what I’d change.
Despite the fact I want to elbow him in the ribs as hard as I can, instead, I calmly drape my hand over his forearm, and give him a gentle squeeze.
“Harry,” I start, keeping my voice private, even over the bustling celebration taking place all around us.
He doesn’t look up. “Harry, you’ve been on your phone the entire night. ”
He cautions a sideways glance my way. “These aren’t my friends.”
I bite my tongue, and force a smile, in the event anyone’s eyes are on us.
“They are. My friends are your friends, and, well, vice versa.” He tugs off his tortoise shell glasses, the same ones that made me think he was a sexy nerd when we met, but now I wonder if he even needs them, and if they’re not part of some ruse to look smarter than he really is.
Seriously. These are not the thoughts a loving girlfriend has for her adoring boyfriend. I know this. I know they are red flags whipping wildly in the wind, nudging me to dump him.
He pinches the bridge of his nose before sliding the glasses back on with an exhaustive sigh.
“I think we both know that’s not true.” He leans in, pressing his lips to my cheek.
Harry doesn’t shave more than once a week, because he’s a relatively hairless man.
Not a bit of stubble on his chin at the end of a long day.
I glance across the room, through the hoards of friends and partygoers, and spot Ford.
He’s laughing, head tipped back, probably the most melodic noise coming from deep in his belly.
I’ve always loved Ford’s laugh, low and contagious.
He came to the rehearsal dinner after a day of work, and it’s obvious.
Stubble lines the curve of his jaw, and darkens down his throat.
Between the ink and the stubble, my insides clench at the sight of him, and then, he sees me.
He raises his free hand, the one not occupied with a snifter half empty, and waves, flashing me a smile that makes my toes curl inside my pumps.
I lift my hand and wave, smiling at him, and the motion catches Harry’s focus.
He follows my gaze, then faces me. “You can go hang out with your friends if you want,” he says, paying no attention to Ford, Cade, Sutton and Geo, the huddle of wealthy, handsome men.
I finish my champagne and press a kiss to his cheek, then one on the edge of his lips.
“Come dance, please,” I beg softly, wanting more than anything to have him shove his phone away, and put me first, for once.
“I danced with you at the mixer two months ago at your company party,” I remind him.
I show up for Harry in every way that I can.
But tonight, on the eve of my best friend’s wedding, he can’t even be bothered to slow dance. One fucking song.
I get to my feet and smooth my hands down the black satin dress I bought specifically for tonight, and find Ford’s eyes in the chaos yet again.
He’s looking at me again? Still? I don’t know, but with three champagnes and not much else in my belly, I’m a slut for his attention.
I’d be a slut for him in every way, if it were possible, but not only is he a playboy who has dated every Victoria’s Secret angel half his age in a two hundred mile radius, he’s also Kat’s dad. A pseudo parent to me, in some ways.
It’s just not gonna happen. And that’s for the best.
“I’m going to dance,” I tell him, but when I glance down again to see how he’s absorbed my counter-argument, I find him on his phone, a wall of text on his screen while his thumbs fly over the digital keyboard.
I leave him, and make my way through the crowd to the mini bar, where I snag another flute of very good champagne.
In two gulps, glass number four is gone and I’m feeling good.
Too good to worry about Harry not wanting to enjoy himself, too good to stand in the corner all night and gawk at a man who doesn't even see me as a woman but as his daughter’s friend, too good to do anything but feel myself in this new dress and enjoy the fantastic but fleeting high from the champagne.
The bass hums, rumbling beneath the dance floor, sending vibrations through my thighs.
My hips move of their own accord, and I find my arms in the air, my eyes squeezed closed as colors flash over my eyelids to the beat of the music.
Sweat bubbles up between my breasts and down my spine, and I’m grateful I chose the backless dress tonight.
The straps that eat up my calves no longer feel sharp or painful the more I move my feet, and the more bodies that crowd in around me, moving, laughing, panting–the better I feel.
I dance and dance and when the drink tray comes by, I take another and keep dancing. Kat and Zennie come dance with me for a bit, but as evening turns late, and five drinks turns to six, things start to blur.
And just as fatigue sets into my lower back and my silk dress feels stuck to my body, Harry appears, eyes wide, his hand gripping the edge of my elbow like an angry mom who lost sight of her child in the grocery store.
I think he’s about to tell me that he’s been looking for me, but then he presses his lips to my ear and hisses, “Julie, you’re acting like… total trash right now!”
Trash.
The word echoes in my mind, my eyes set on his mouth, watching his lips move, other words surely coming out but all I can hear is trash, trash, trash.
My boyfriend just called me trash. I yank my arm from his grip, cradling it to my body like his touch burned me.
He reaches again and I step back, a bit uneasy on my feet from the heat of dancing, and maybe the booze too.
Reaching out, he grabs me by the back of my neck in a move I’ve wished for him to do many, many times, just not in this setting.
He drags my face to his, bringing our foreheads together, and hope blooms foolishly in my belly, sending a knot of anticipation to my throat.
He’s going to kiss me. He feels passionately about me showing my body to other men, and he’s jealous. That’s it.
That’s what’s going on.
I roll my lips together and ready myself for his possessive kiss, for the kiss to put us back on track and prove to me that there are more than lectures and disappointment inside of Harry.
“I’m going to go get you some water, and you’re going to drink it.
You need to sober up. You’re out here dancing like a slut, wearing a dress two sizes too small for you.
It’s not a good look, Juliette. Now, stay put.
” And with that, he’s gone, ducking through the small crowd on the dance floor to get to the bar in the back of the space.
I look down at my body, and the way the black satin clings to every curve, showing off all of my imperfections, yes, but my beauty, too.
I knew when I tried it on that the dimples in my thighs and ass would show through, and I knew that my waist doesn’t look quite as snatched, and that there are more flattering dresses out there.
But the dress is beautiful, and I love it, and to be honest, I love the way it shows off my body.
With the wind ripped from my sails, I turn in the crowd, ready to move toward the tables off the dance floor and take a break. But my face smacks directly into the center of Ford Mercer’s chest, and I blink up, hazy and groggy, to see the most beautiful pair of green eyes blinking down at me.
He outstretches his hand, palm up, and tips his head to the abandoned area of the space–the same space where the reception will be held–and nods. “Balcony?” he asks over the music, the rough timbre of his raised voice rumbling like an earthquake between my thighs.
I nod, and slip my hand into his, ignoring the rush of warmth that spills into my thong from sharing an intimate touch with Ford Mercer.
Outside, the night air immediately stings my sweat-damp skin, and just as I wrap my arms around myself, I feel Ford’s coat come down on my shoulders.
It’s near silent outside, but for the occasional chirp of a lone cricket or lost bird.
His breath huffs out of him, hanging between us in white clouds, and faraway, the sea licks at the shore.
“I love the sound of San Francisco at night,” I hear myself say, feeling faraway from this moment, because it’s so perfect.
Me. Ford. Fancy clothes. Night time. Booze. Alone.
It’s every fantasy I’ve run through my mind since I discovered how to make myself orgasm at age sixteen.
He doesn’t respond to my small talk, but instead stands there, his chest a wall of muscle behind his pressed, crisp dress shirt, suspenders making my mouth water. Finally, he tips his head to the side and quietly says, “you’re a showstopper in that dress, Juliette.”
The back of my neck goes hot and fuzzy, and my cheeks flame.
I tug at the lapels of his coat, attempting to close it around me.
Did he hear my boyfriend tell me my dress is too small?
Booze aside, I am not too drunk to feel the mortification washing over me that, of all fucking people, Ford Mercer had to hear my boyfriend essentially tell me I look fat.
I bring my palm to my forehead and place it there, trying to steady my double vision and racing heart. “Th-thank you for the other day, by the way,” I say, changing gears to the only place I know–Velvet. “The photos are phenomenal. I can’t wait to show you.”