Chapter 6
Sophia
The Lipgloss
The last time I’d felt this self conscious, I’d been in grade school.
Getting up and talking in front of a class was somethin’ my parents said I’d never need, so why fret over it when my pretty head was never supposed to be the one people listened to?
Still, I couldn’t help feelin’ those nerves creep under my skin.
I hated being the center of attention, as ironic as that was for an heiress whose face was in magazines and scoured across the internet.
But I’d take walking up in front of an entire army of paparazzi over walking into Roland’s, knowing who was behind the doors.
Thank fuck there were no front-facing windows in this place, or else where the hell would I hide? Headlights from another truck bounced across Grant’s pristine, white one, and somehow, my gut sank further into my nude Louboutins.
“He’s just a dumb guy,” I whispered to myself, twisting the clutch in my hands as I paced the front of the bar.
Just a guy.
He’s just a guy.
Just a guy…who tasted me and I wasn’t sure if he meant my lips or—
The noise from inside the bar suddenly became deafening as a couple walked behind me and opened the door, jolting me from my thoughts.
Moisture coated my skin, but I wasn’t sure the humidity was to blame for the heat gathering low inside me.
I should’ve messaged him back, demanding he tell me what the fuck happened that night.
As I pulled out my phone, it buzzed, and I stared down at a new text that had come through.
Walton: The doctor thinks my nose could be broken with the way it’s swelling. Hailey is booking me a flight to leave tonight, but she said there is only one first class seat left.
I sighed as my phone pinged again.
Walton: I’ll leave your things in the hotel room, but the rental car is being returned. I doubt there is a taxi in that place you call a town, so you’ll need to ask your friend for a ride to the airport tomorrow.
Walton always found a way out of the things he didn’t want to do. I was sure that “swelling” was nothing more than mild redness from him touching it. He’d be good with a bandaid and a shot of scotch.
Instead of saying any of that, or questioning if Hailey, his assistant, was being truthful or not about the amount of seats left, I tapped out a quick response, telling him to feel better and rest up.
Exiting out of that text, my thumb hovered over another.
I hadn’t noticed I’d started pacing again until neon red reflected off my ring, almost like a warning.
For my entire life, I’d known exactly who my husband was going to be.
I knew Walton Buchanon and I would stand at an altar and devote ourselves to one another, whether we wanted to or not.
I’d heard of little girls fantasizing about their dream weddings, the day they’d get to wear a big white dress and feel butterflies swell in their stomachs as they kissed the man they loved.
But that had never been my dream because it could never become reality, and I liked to keep my hopes somewhat realistic.
What I dreamed of wasn’t attainable unless I found it in Walton, and the most I could find in him was the last thread of my patience and a hefty urge to get trashed.
I groaned and shoved my phone back into my clutch, then without further thought, pried the million dollar ring from my finger and pushed it into the bag, too.
Tonight, I didn’t have to be the future Mrs. Buchanon.
Tonight, I could just be Sophia, the woman who didn’t give a damn about any consequences or strange looks.
The woman who could get wasted with her best friend on her birthday and then get stoned out of her fucking mind later while binge eating carbs that she hadn’t touched in weeks.
The woman whose future wasn’t bleak and meaningless.
Sophia Pierson could be anyone in Alliston Springs.
I marched up to the door of Roland’s and made my way in, welcoming the loud music and crowded room with so much pep in my steps that I’d forgotten all about the kind of shoes I was wearing.
One of my heels snagged on a knot in the wooden flooring, and I stumbled briefly until I found my footing, stretching my arms wide to level me out.
Not my most graceful entrance, I’ll admit.
The only other time I’d been here, it’d been closed, but the manager who’d been prepping the bar had let Lyra and I inside.
Most of the lights had been off then, but now they brightened the entire space.
Even with all the bodies, the extra lights and the added lift from my heels—springing me up three more inches from my five-two height—allowed me to see the dance floor not far from where I was.
Right as I spotted Lyra with her husband, her gaze shifted to me, a large grin spreading as her arm shot up in greeting.
The music was so loud, I could only read her lips as she stayed in place with Carver’s arm around her, but I could tell she was shoutin’ my name across the dance floor as she waved.
With my clutch in my hand, I waved both my arms back, mouthing, “Happy Birthday.” There was no use in shoutin’ it, a guitar solo was only just beginning, and I could’ve sworn the music had gotten louder.
Right as I dropped my arms, warmth spread down the side of my neck, a wiry texture grazing my skin as a husky voice said, “You’ll need a partner to head out on the floor with if you wanna go say hi.” My skin prickled with awareness of who was behind me.
Firm, large hands settled on my waist, steadying me from nearly falling again. I turned my head slightly, feeling Grant’s stubble shift over my cheek. “I take it you’re offerin’?”
“For you?” His hand squeezed my hip. “Gladly.”
“What’s in it for you?” My voice wavered, thankfully covered by the music. Somethin’ about him riled me up in more ways than one. I felt it the moment we met, when he pretended to know me. Like I was that readable from some marks on my skin.
Grant didn’t know a damn thing.
He chuckled, rough and deep. “What isn’t in it for me?”
“Dependin’ on your status, it could make you seem ineligible for the night.”
“Ouch, just tonight?” My lips twitched as I sent my elbow back, which he caught. He nipped my ear lobe. “That ain’t very nice, Sophia. Thought we were past that.”
My pulse thrummed as I snapped back, “When, exactly, would that have happened?”
“Let’s see.” Grant’s arm snaked over my waist, pulling my back flush to his front. I gasped as his nose swept over my neck. “Think it was when you asked me to help you fall asleep about two months ago.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s an awfully long time to leave me on read for, by the way.”
“Don’t recall seein’ a text,” I lied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—” I pried his hand from my waist and spun to face him, which was a mistake.
Everything inside me fought to not ogle over his features—brown, unruly hair cut into a short mullet with a loose rivulet falling in front of one of his grey eyes.
High, broad cheekbones, a freckled nose, and a stubbled jaw with a little more growth over his lip that I wouldn’t classify as a mustache, but it was close.
As I lingered on the rather clean cut of his facial hair, he angled his chin toward the bar and smirked, purposefully giving me a view of a cursive quote I couldn’t quite read, starting behind his ear and running down the length of his neck.
“Now you remember? Or just savin’ up visuals for the wet dreams I know you’ll be havin’ when you’re thinkin’ ’bout me some more?” His grin spread further as my cheeks heated. “You look rather speechless, darlin’.”
“Fuck you, Grant.” I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, heading straight for the bar.
As I took a seat and flashed the bartender two fingers, Grant slid into the seat beside me.
From my periphery, his dark jeans and black shirt made him blend into our surroundings as a section of lights lowered just before others began to strobe in hues of blue and green over the dance floor.
His elbow rested on the bartop as he faced me, then his fingers moved like he was also orderin’ from the bartender.
I wasn’t sure what he’d ordered, and I was going to keep it that way.
Do not look at Grant, do not look at Grant, do not look at—
“Thought you’d be happy to see me.”
Shots of tequila clunked down in front of me, and without pause, I slammed one back. A warmth not caused by Grant simmered through my bones, giving me a push to swivel the chair and face him.
“Why would you think that? Do all women just fall to their knees and kiss your feet when you see them?” My forehead scrunched as I waited for his smile to turn down.
It didn’t. I was actually pretty sure it grew into another wide grin. Goddamn his teeth are unnaturally white.
He bit down on his bottom lip, making him appear too young to be hitting on a woman who was thirty.
His lip fell slowly from his teeth, the slow release catching way too much of my attention.
“Women don’t go for my feet. But goin’ to their knees?
Absolutely.” The clench of my thighs at that remark was undeniable through my thin dress.
The bartender dropped two shots in front of Grant.
He shot them both back, all the while I stared at the bob of his throat.
I groaned, happy for the loudness of the music to cover the unholy sound.
I swiveled away and reached for my other glass, shootin’ that one back, too.
The warmth filling my veins now was possibly more to do with the image of what my view would be of him if I did get on my knees—
Nope. No.
Fuckin’ hell, Sophia. You’re engaged.
Not that that was likely to stop Walton.
I could feel Grant’s eyes wander my exposed skin as I turned and surveyed the dance floor, catching Lyra and Carver still in the same spot as before. “Savin’ up visuals for later?” I threw his words from earlier back at him before turning to look at him again.