CHAPTER SIX #3
“Whatever you recommend,” Holly says, slapping Ray’s black card onto the bar like she owns the place.
Joel grins. “Champagne it is.”
He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle.
“Oh, I don’t think we need a whole bottle—” I begin, but Holly claps her hands in delight just as he pops the cork, and a second later she’s taking the bottle while I’m left grabbing the glasses before they topple.
Another suited man joins Ray, and I’m so relieved he still seems distracted that I don’t even argue when Holly steers us towards a corner booth.
I slide in as far as I can, half hidden by the high back, like a woman evading capture.
“I don’t think he saw us,” I whisper.
Holly laughs as she pours the Champagne. “He definitely saw us, Wynter. Ray notices everything.”
“Oh god.” I bury my face in my hands.
She nudges one of the glasses towards me. “Relax. He told Joel to make sure we had a good night on him, and that is exactly what we’re doing.”
I blink at her. “He did?”
She nods, then glances across the room. “Did you see the man who went over to him just now?”
I cautiously peek over the top of the booth.
The man standing with Ray is broad, dark-haired, and dressed like money.
“No.”
“That’s Vinn Romano,” Holly says. “Another powerful hotshot around here.”
I stare at her.
“How do you know all these people?”
She shrugs. “I work here. I listen. It’s basically research.” I laugh. “His wife, Sofia, is adorable,” she goes on. “Tiny. Sweet. Gorgeous. And she has that man absolutely wrapped around her little finger.”
There’s a dreamy note in her voice that makes me smile.
“I want that,” she says. “A powerful man on his knees, begging me to marry him.”
I scoff and lift my glass. “Powerful men scare the shit out of me. Give me a quiet, shy man any day.”
Holly gives me a look over the rim of her Champagne. “You’ve clearly never been with a man like Dale.”
I nearly choke on my drink. She shudders dramatically. “It’s been months and I still think about it. Nothing compares.”
I burst out laughing. “But he hasn’t even acknowledged you since,” I point out. “What exactly is attractive about that?”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “The memory.”
I shake my head. “No. Men like that are dangerous. They’d ruin your life and leave you crying into a cocktail.”
She grins. “For one night like that? Worth it.”
I stare at her. Then laugh even harder. “When you put it like that . . .” We both dissolve into giggles.
Before long, we’re joined by a group of men in expensive suits, they’re all polished shoes and shiny watches, owning the kind of confidence that comes from getting whatever they want.
They flash their platinum cards at the bar as if that alone should impress us. It doesn’t impress me. It mostly makes me want to shrink further into the corner of the booth.
Holly, on the other hand, is in her element.
Within minutes, she has them laughing, buying more Champagne, and hanging on her every word. I don’t know how she does it, but she has the whole table wrapped around her little finger before I’ve even finished my glass.
I end up trapped between two of them—Guy and Price.
Both are lawyers at the same firm. Both claim they’re single. Both seem very impressed with themselves.
Guy loses interest in me pretty quickly when he spots a pair of blondes by the bar and turns his attention elsewhere.
Price stays. Unfortunately.
He talks at me for the next ten minutes about criminal law, court cases, and some high-profile client he apparently can’t name but very much wants me to know exists.
I try to listen. I really do. But the Champagne is making everything in my head feel a little floaty, and his voice has started to blur into meaningless noise.
Then he smiles at me like he thinks he’s charming. “You’re so beautiful,” he drawls.
I give him an awkward smile back. It’s not that I’m against dating. Maybe I should date. Maybe I should actually stop hiding away and try to meet people.
But not this one. Definitely not this one.
Before I can gently steer the conversation elsewhere, he leans in. I lean back but he keeps coming. I lean back farther still, trying to avoid making a scene, but he follows, one hand braced on the back of the booth. Suddenly, he’s far too close, his body half over mine.
Then, just as his mouth is about to land on mine, his weight vanishes.
I blink in confusion.
Price is yanked backwards so fast it takes my fuzzy brain a second to catch up.
Dale has him by the collar, dragging him away from the booth like a misbehaving dog.
I sit upright, dazed, my heart pounding, and I look up . . .
Straight into Ray’s face.
Oh fuck.
His expression is like stone. Hard. Cold. Furious.
“It’s not that kind of establishment,” he says through gritted teeth, “where you can fuck in the booths.”
For a second, I can’t even breathe. Heat floods my face so fast I think I might actually burst into flames.
“I—” My voice catches. “I wasn’t . . . I mean, he . . .”
I look helplessly at Holly, but she’s staring back wide-eyed, just as stunned as I am.
The two men she’d been talking to slide out of the booth slowly, trying not to be noticed. Ray doesn’t even look at them.
“When you return to work,” he says, each word clipped and sharp, “you’ll come and see me so we can go over appropriate staff conduct.”
Then he turns and walks away. Just like that.
I stare after him, humiliated.
“What the fuck just happened?” Holly whispers.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my stomach. “But I feel really sick.”
And I do. Mortifyingly, horribly sick. The room tilts. The Champagne churns. I shove out of the booth and stumble away, one hand clamped over my mouth. I head past the bar. Past Ray.
Someone says my name, but I can’t stop.
I spin in panic, desperate to find the bathroom, and Joel points frantically towards a sign at the far end of the room. The toilets are too far away. I know it before I even try. Still, I make a run for it, and I nearly reach them.
And then my heel catches.
I lurch sideways and grab the nearest solid thing to steady myself, which turns out to be a roulette table. The wheel is spinning. The little white ball is bouncing loudly around the track.
And then I’m sick.
Everywhere.
A spray of vomit splatters across the felt, the wheel, the chips, the metal rim.
The croupier freezes.
The two women playing stare at me in horror as the ball lands with a wet little click on a number now partially hidden beneath chunks of salmon.
For one awful second, the whole room seems to go silent.
Not actually silent, but muffled. Like I’m underwater.
Then my knees buckle.
I’m vaguely aware of someone gasping. Of Holly saying, “Oh my god.” Of the croupier still standing there in stunned disbelief.
Then strong arms wrap around my waist and lift me clean off my feet.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t need to look to know it’s Ray. I know from the woody scent of his aftershave. From the sheer force of him.
A door swings open. Then shuts. My feet hit the tiled floor of the women’s bathroom. That’s when I open my eyes.
Ray stands in front of me, his expression completely unreadable. No anger. No disgust. Nothing. Which somehow feels even worse.
“I am so sorry,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Freshen up,” he says in a clipped tone.
Then he turns and walks out, leaving me alone with the taste of vomit in my mouth and the very real possibility that I may never recover from this humiliation for as long as I live.