Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Pippa
-I will survive-
The second I step out from behind the bar, the very air in the room changes.
Or at least it seems like it does.
It’s as if someone pressed pause on the sound level, except for the bass that is still relentlessly thumping through the speakers. Heads turn. Conversations falter.
I feel like every pair of eyes has landed on me, and while I’m aware that’s not actually true, a fair number of people are openly staring at me.
Some of them are gobsmacked, their jaws actually dropping.
Others are grinning and amused. A group of lads at the bar elbow each other, pointing at me like I’m the punchline to the world’s funniest joke.
A couple of women whisper behind their hands, their eyes darting up and down my dress and looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
I mutter silent curses under my breath, and every single one of them is directed at Sandra and Lucy. Those absolute witches.
The dress feels tighter with each step, the slit brushing against the top of my thigh in a way that makes me acutely aware of just how much of my skin is on show here.
I hold my chin up high, though, trying to channel the slinky confidence of Jessica Rabbit instead of the overwhelming urge to sprint for the door.
The man they’ve chosen for me to ask out, my victim, is sitting at a corner table with a small group of people.
From behind, all I can see are the broad shoulders of his tailored suit and the way he commands the space without even speaking.
His companions are laughing at something, their glasses clinking as they sip their chosen poison.
As I approach the group, one by one, they notice me.
A man with slicked-back fair hair elbows the guy next to him.
Next, the sharply dressed woman beside him turns her head in my direction.
Her eyes skim over me, slow and scornful, and she lets out the tiniest huff of amusement before leaking out a pitying smile.
She is looking at me like I am some lunatic about to make a complete fool of myself.
I mean, I am, but it’s still rude of her to assume it.
My heart pounds. I want to turn around. I want to run.
But a forfeit is a forfeit. The other two always manage theirs.
I can’t be the first one to fall on my face.
Sandra’s threat about repeating this on Oxford Street flashes through my head.
That would be a hundred times worse. I can’t back out now.
I take a deep breath and do the unthinkable.
I can feel my hand fidgeting and twitching as I lift it up and tap my victim on the shoulder.
Someone, anyone, just kill me now.
Time slows down as he turns at my touch, and when his face comes into view, my stomach flips so violently I’m sure I’m going to faint.
Those bright green eyes. Those sweeping eyelashes.
Men shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes like that.
They should be illegal, or at least come with some sort of a warning in bold letters.
BEWARE: MAY CAUSE TINGLING OR TEMPORARY PARALYSIS.
His dangerous eyes widen. For a split second, he looks stunned.
Good. At least I’m not the only one in shock.
Slowly, his eyes travel downwards and come to rest on my chest. Good God, I feel as if I’m going to melt into a puddle. I need to cool it. Then one side of his hard mouth curls into a sarcastic, lazy grin. It should be a crime to smile like that.
My mouth goes bone dry as I tilt my head down slightly and peer coquettishly up at him through my lashes.
His jaw is square, his face clean shaven, and his hair dark and thick with just enough of a careless tousle to make it look unfairly perfect.
Up this close, there’s something rakishly attractive about this man.
Not in the way George is attractive. They are definitely opposites.
George seems almost boyish compared to this man.
This man radiates something else entirely, power maybe, danger definitely, and a kind of effortless charisma that makes my mouth go dry.
Remembering what Lucy said about making it real, I look up fully and bat my eyelashes like I’m in some ridiculous perfume advert. Something flashes in his eyes. God, this is so bone-crushingly embarrassing. I start to speak. My voice wobbles, but I force it out.
“Uh, I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me?” I croon, cringing internally at my voice and my choice of words. God, Pippa, could you be any lamer?
His companions are stunned into silence.
The pitying woman gives a soft, scoffing laugh, tilting her head at me as though silently saying, oh, sweetie, you don’t stand a chance.
But then, to everyone’s shock, my own more than anyone’s, he leans back in his chair, studies me for a beat too long, and says one single word.
“Yes.”
My mouth falls open. “Wait, what?”
“Yes,” he repeats. “I’d love to go on a date with you.” Then he grins at me, one that shows his perfectly straight, dazzlingly white teeth.
His voice is low and gravelly, sexy as hell. And because he doesn’t already have enough going for him, he has a gorgeous American accent that makes me want to swoon like a damsel in distress in an old movie. And I didn’t miss the way he emphasized the word love either.
All the occupants of the table turn to stare at him. The pitying woman looks like she’s been slapped and that look alone makes this whole ordeal worthwhile.
Behind me, I hear a ripple of sound, laughter coming from a group on the other side of the bar.
I glance over nervously, and I’m relieved to see they aren’t looking at me, but I then notice someone filming me on their cell phone, which takes most of my relief away.
My cheeks flame as I realize I’m just standing there, mute and awkward.
He digs into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, and holds it out to me, his green eyes never leaving mine.
“Put your number in.”
It’s not a request. It’s a freaking command.
I should be outraged, but a strange thrill runs through me as I wordlessly take his phone.
Who would have thought that quiet authority is hot?
Even if I would never admit that out loud to anybody.
My fingers tremble as I type in my number.
When I hand him his cell phone, he glances at the screen, then at me, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
His eyes tell me that he knows it’s a prank, a bet, a game, but he’s game.
I feel my whole body begin to burn up, but I force a smile.
My entire body is vibrating with adrenaline.
I don’t know if I should stay and attempt to chat to him or what, but my forfeit is complete, and no one can say I didn’t do it.
That means I can go and get changed, go back to my table, and try to drink away my shame.
As I start to walk away, a group of men standing around near the end of the bar suddenly clap and cheer. One cups his hands around his mouth and shouts in my direction.
“You go, Jessica,” he shouts.
The rest join in, hooting and whistling.
Mortification and survival instinct collide inside me.
I want to run, but I can’t in these stilettos, so I do the only thing I can think of and join in with the joke.
I toss my hair back over one shoulder, plaster on my best sultry smirk, and give them the exaggerated Jessica Rabbit walk, with my hips swaying, and my ass deliberately shaking like I own the place.
The bar erupts. Clapping, laughter, whistles.
Someone even bangs a glass against the table like it’s a drum.
I reach the center of the room, give a theatrical bow, and then scamper, as gracefully as possible in these ridiculous shoes, back to the safety of the break room, not pausing to ask Peter if it’s ok to go back there again.
The moment the door shuts behind me, I lean against it, my chest heaving.
“Holy shit, did I just do that?” I whisper to myself.
My hands are shaking as I peel myself out of the red satin monstrosity and slip gratefully back into my own outfit.
Drainpipe blue jeans, a silk Cami top, and a short black leather jacket.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I don’t even care that my hair is a little mussed up and my cheeks are flushed. I look like me again. Thank God.
When I finally emerge back into the bar, the noise has settled into its usual Saturday night roar.
I can’t help but glance over to the table my victim and his group are sitting at, but the table is empty.
They are all gone, thank heavens. Sandra and Lucy are waiting for me at our table, both grinning like greedy cats who’ve eaten not just the cream but the entire dairy farm.
Sandra pushes a shot across the table toward me the second I sit down.
I don’t need to be asked twice after that performance.
I swallow down the shot, barely tasting it, just feeling the warmth travelling down to my stomach.
“To our very own Jessica Rabbit. You were brilliant,” Sandra declares.
Lucy nods her head in agreement, still chuckling. “The bow, Pippa. The bow killed me.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I can never come back here again.”
“Sure, you can,” Sandra dismisses airily. “You were fabulous. Everyone loved it.”
“Someone filmed it,” I point out, still horrified. “I’m going to end up on the bloody Internet. I can see the caption now. Redhead crashes bar in cosplay disaster.”
Lucy pats my hand, still laughing. “Trust me, you were a hit. Own it.”
I groan again and knock back the next shot Sandra gives me. This time, it’s sickly-sweet Sambuca, but it almost immediately dulls the edge of my humiliation.
“Fine,” I say, slamming the glass down. “But I swear, if I ever see that man again, I’m blaming both of you.”
Sandra wiggles her eyebrows. “You gave him your number, remember. You might be seeing him sooner than you think.”
Guiltily, I suddenly realize that for a while there I forgot all about George. I roll my eyes and reach for my drink. “He won’t call, so don’t start.”
They giggle, and just like that, the night rolls on, filled with music, laughter, and of course, more drinks. And even though the memory of those green eyes still burns in my head, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Because those eyes and the expensive suit are gone. And that’s just fine by me.