Chapter One #2
Peter admitted something very similar last night when he broke up with me, which made it clear that his initial ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech was a lie. I look into my glass and swirl the Cosmo around gloomily. I don’t want to think about that asshole.
“What’s your name?”
I look at Caesar and tap my mask. “I thought this was all about disguising our identity?”
“Well, yeah, but it seems unfair when you know who I am.”
“I don’t, as it happens. Why, are you famous?”
He studies me, apparently trying to decide whether I’m lying. “Are you here as part of the children’s auction? A schoolteacher, maybe?”
I snort. “God, no. I’m terrible with kids. I wouldn’t know which way up to hold a baby.”
His lips curve up. “Are you someone’s plus one?”
“Nope. Totally here on my own merit. Mainly because nobody will have me.”
“I don’t believe that,” he scoffs.
“Believe what you like. My boyfriend dumped me last night, so…” I glower at my glass, then have another big mouthful of the drink.
“His loss, my gain,” he says softly. “I’m very sorry.”
I shrug. “He was an opinionated wanker, and I’m glad to be rid of him.” Except I’m not. I miss him terribly, which makes his rejection and abandonment even harder to handle.
Feeling morose, I study the plates of complimentary appetizers and cakes on the bar, choose one of the tiny cupcakes, and bite into it. Ooh, the frosting is soft and creamy. Yummy.
Caesar watches me eat it. Then he says, “You’ve got some frosting…” He taps his upper lip.
I run my tongue across my top lip to try and remove it. “Is that better?”
“No…” He studies my mouth. “May I?”
My heart leaps into action, crashing against my ribs as if it’s playing a glockenspiel. I nod, and he lifts a hand. Gently, he cups my chin, his fingers resting on my neck, and brushes his thumb above my top lip.
His touch brings goose bumps out all over my skin, and my nipples tighten in the bodice of the dress.
He removes his hand and looks at the small blob of frosting on his thumb. Then he inserts it into his mouth and sucks it off.
His gaze lifts to mine. I’m speechless, and I can only stare at him with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“No… it’s okay… I’m just fighting the urge to pick up the other cupcakes and smear the frosting all over my face.”
That makes him laugh. “Come on,” he persists, “tell me your name. I have to be able to call you something.”
“Then call me Cupcake.”
He grins. “All right, Cupcake.”
“What shall I call you?”
“Sir?”
My lips twitch. “I’m not calling you sir.”
“Then… Commander? Captain?”
I giggle. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
We both laugh and help ourselves to another cake.
“So come on,” he says, biting into his, “tell me something about yourself. Why are you here tonight?”
“I had an invite.”
“In what capacity?”
Despite having around a thousand employees, the Rutherford Group was sent only two invitations, which happens to be the same received by small Auckland businesses.
The rest of my family refused to attend, and when my grandfather suggested Brielle and I represent them, my brothers sniggered at the thought of me attending such a fancy event.
Part of the reason I agreed to go was to prove to them I’m not completely hopeless.
“I work for an Auckland business,” I say.
“In an office?”
He’s implying I’m a secretary. There’s nothing wrong with admin work, but it took eight years of study to get where I am, and I have a doctorate.
“No…” Then I think about it. “Well, yes, I work in an office sometimes, but not, like, in admin.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend you. In what field, then?”
“I’m an inventor.” I wave my hands as if I’m conjuring up something amazing. Then, gradually, I lower my hands and scowl at him. “You can laugh now.”
He studies me with interest. “Why would I laugh? That’s amazing.”
“Oh. Well. I’m used to being mocked. My nickname at work is Einstein.”
“Einstein was a genius.”
“Yeah… the nickname’s more because my hair goes frizzy when it’s humid and it ends up looking like a mad scientist’s.”
He laughs, his gaze skimming my black bob. “It doesn’t look frizzy at all.”
“Well, not right now…” I decide not to tell him I’m wearing a wig.
“So what field are you a mad-scientist-stroke-inventor in?” As he asks, someone approaches the bar behind him. He moves forward to make space… which means he moves closer to me.
Now we’re only inches apart. I can smell his cologne again, something deep, sensual, and sweet, with notes of rum and sugar, as if he’s fresh off a pirate ship.
His hand where he’s holding his glass is large and tanned, with long fingers and neat nails.
He has a signet ring on his little finger that glints as he tips up the glass and sips his whisky.
There’s something magnetic about this guy, sexy, irresistible… and dangerous. The weird thing is that he seems into me, which is clearly only because he doesn’t know my identity.
“Nature,” I opt for, which is vague enough to keep suspicion at bay.
“Oh, like… makeup products? Something like that?”
“Yeah, let’s go with that.” I finish off my Cosmopolitan and brush my top lip to make sure I don’t have a cream mustache. His eyes follow my fingers, and I shiver at the memory of his touch.
His gaze rises to meet mine behind the mask. “You have the most amazing eyes. They’re violet. Are you wearing lenses?”
I shake my head.
“You’re stunning,” he says.
I blink a few times, taken aback by his compliment. I guess my disguise is better than I thought.
“Another drink?” he asks.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your dignitaries?”
He snorts. “Aurelia can entertain them. They only come to see her anyway.” He gestures at the bartender and asks for another round.
Aurelia is his sibling, along with Marcus Ashford, his younger brother.
I’ve never met them, but they’re often splashed over the internet, all three of them matched with various famous actors or models.
Of course, she was the young woman in the emerald dress with the red hair who was talking to the group by the paintings who Caesar was trying to avoid.
In real life we’re poles apart… and yet here, tonight, I can be whoever I want to be. The thought fills me with a strange excitement.
My argument with Peter last night began as an irritable exchange after I arrived late at the cinema for a movie.
That led to an uncomfortable ninety-minute silence that didn’t improve after I dropped my popcorn all over the floor.
When we eventually returned home, it developed, like a weather system, into a full-blown tornado.
Resentment had clearly been building inside him for months, and once it erupted, there was no stopping it.
“I’m sick and tired of you being late to everything,” he yelled.
“I’m really sorry, I was busy at work—”
“Enough with your fucking job! Fucking farming science is all you talk about!”
“I distinctly remember talking to you about knitting patterns yesterday, but you weren’t interested,” I pointed out. I was being sarcastic, trying not to cry, but he seemed to take it as evidence.
“Exactly! Fucking knitting! Jesus, Maddie! You’re vanilla to the core.”
The insult stung then, and it still stings now. I don’t feel vanilla. Not deep down. But then sometimes I don’t think Peter ever got the real me.
My anguish is soothed a little by the look in Caesar Ashford’s eyes.
Tonight, I’m not boring old farming scientist Maddie Rutherford.
I’m Cupcake, who has dark hair and a fuchsia dress, and the thought that this gorgeous man thinks I’m stunning fills me with a warmth and a feeling of adventure that I can’t ignore.