Chapter Four #2
“Okay, so, I found this website, and, I don’t know, it sounded kind of cool, and the pictures were really sexy—”
“There are pictures?” I whisper.
She shrugs as she loads up another oyster with mignonette. “Yeah, but like, super elegant and discreet.” She giggles, then adds, “Well, not all of them, but they didn’t show faces. They’re really big on privacy.”
“And yet… pictures.”
She shushes me. “I saw that there was an event coming up, one of the masked balls they hold for prospective new members… so…”
“So?” I nudge her knee with my own.
“So I applied.”
“What do you mean you applied?”
“Oh, girl, there’s a whole application process. I had to be vetted, have my background checked, the whole kit and caboodle.”
“Who says that?”
She laughs, then tosses back the last of her filthy gin martini.
“Anyway, I honestly didn’t think I got in, because it took so long to hear back.
Apparently, you’re supposed to have a sponsor, and without one it’s just a crazy waiting game.
But then that invitation arrived!” Mo’s face lights up.
“Hand-delivered by courier, though not when I was home.” She pouts at that, clearly disappointed that she didn’t get to see who delivered the sleek envelope.
“So anyway, we’re going shopping tomorrow, for masks and evening gowns, then walking into this party like we own the place. ”
I snort, shaking my head. “Well, I can’t afford an evening gown right now, Mo, but I have something that should work, and why don’t we make the masks?
” We’ve had craft nights before, and we’ve made plenty of our own Halloween costumes over the years.
I can’t imagine it’s very difficult to create a mask.
A little glitter, some feathers… How hard could it be?
“Sutton, no.” Mo shakes her head, clearly repulsed by the mere suggestion. “We’re not DIYing masks for this. It’s fine; I’ll pick some up. What dress do you think you’ll wear? I need to make sure I get the right color.”
I don’t bother arguing because I know my friend.
She’s not going to budge on this—the mask issue or the fact that she’s dragging me along on her journey to expand her experiences.
Just like she knew going into our lunch date that I would agree to go to this exclusive party with her, she knows I’m going to let her plan our outfits, whatever that means.
I think about my closet and the limited options, then settle on the perfect dress. “Do you remember when I attended that party with…” I grimace. Ugh. Stephen.
“Stephen.” She sits up taller before adding in a nasally voice, “With a ph… D”—she chuckles—“because I have a big one.”
“Oh god.” I groan, then shiver dramatically. “Why was that impression of him so good, Imogen?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Sutton, why did you date that guy?”
I snort. “I mean, he was a doctor, but fair point. That was a weird six months. Anyway, Stephen with a ph accompanied me to that awards ceremony gala after that championship game against…”
My words trail off as Mo’s eyes go wide, locked on something directly behind me.
If we were in the forest, I’d be ninety-nine percent sure I was about to be mauled by a bear, but—
I smell him before I see him, that deliciously sinful, citrusy, musky, manly cologne he wears assaulting my senses. Before I can even turn around to confirm what has caught my best friend’s attention, my body just knows.
Oh god. It’s so much worse than a bear.
The muscles in my thighs tense, as if that man has any right to have such an effect on me.
My mouth goes dry.
My pulse does a little jive.
I lick my lips and close my eyes, because, goddammit, it’s not just Max Cruz who can’t take a hint. My own body wants to prove me a liar. Freaking traitor.
I bite back a growl and clench my teeth.
“Forgive me for interrupting, Ms. Hart,” Max says, his deep voice and that hint of southern drawl doing strange things to my belly. (Mostly twisting it up into knots.) “But I thought it might be rude to see you and not say hello.”
I close my eyes on a long blink, take a steadying breath, then spin my barstool around and force a smile that he probably doesn’t deserve.
I’m shocked to see he doesn’t have a matching set of Rams’ cheerleaders draped on either arm. I’m also oddly pleased by this fact, even though I have no business having any sort of feelings at all where this man is concerned.
“Mr. Cruz, hello.”
He inclines his head. “How are you?”
I swallow hard as his gaze travels slowly from my eyes to my mouth, then dips down to the open V of my blouse.
It’s Friday, so I’m dressed a bit more casually than he’s used to, in a sheer black blouse with a lacy black tank beneath, snug black jeans, and low-heeled black boots.
I don’t believe the man has ever seen me out of a suit, though my floral blazer hangs over the back of my seat.
“I’m well, thank you.”
Mo clears her throat behind me so I motion toward her and reluctantly make the obligatory introductions. “Mr. Cruz, this is Imogen Kelly. Imogen, this is Max Cruz, CEO of Apex Athletics.”
I don’t have to add that last bit in; my best friend is well-versed in all things Maxwell Cruz and Apex, having spent the last few years listening to me whine about him.
From the disastrous one-night stand only one of us has the displeasure of remembering to the countless NFL hopefuls he’s scooped up right out from under me, I have a laundry list of complaints about this man.
And Mo, true best friend that she is, has fielded them all.
“The infamous Maxwell Cruz,” she teases as I shrink in my chair.
Did I say best friend?
“Just Max is fine.” His eyebrows creep up slowly as he shakes her hand and looks at me, then mouths, “Infamous?”
I roll my eyes. “Well, it’s been nice to bump into you, but I’m sure you have someone waiting for you…” I make a show of craning my neck to look around him, scanning the tables and the few people lingering near the entrance. No one watches us expectantly, waiting for Max to return to them.
“Actually,” he says, pausing until my eyes return to his. “The timing couldn’t be better. I’ve just finished my meeting.”
The older couple sitting beside me takes notice—probably because Max’s overbearing presence is impossible to miss—and the woman smiles apologetically, then hurries to get up from her barstool.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, looking back and forth between Max and me.
“We’ve already paid our bill and here we are just chatting away, taking up space. ”
“No, no, it’s okay—”
Ignoring me completely, she looks at Max and motions toward her chair. “Please, sit.” She searches his face like she’s trying to figure out how she knows him.
That’s the thing about Max Cruz; even if you don’t follow sports, you know he’s someone. He just looks famous.
It’s probably all that arrogance he wears like a custom-tailored Armani suit. Which he also happens to be wearing, because the man apparently hasn’t heard of casual Friday.
The Universe is cruel, always showing me how well Max Cruz wears a suit.
Giving up her game of guess the celebrity, the woman finally looks at me. “Your boyfriend can have my seat, honey.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva, quickly shaking my head.
“Oh no, he’s not my boyfriend. We aren’t…
” Shaking my head again just to be sure there’s no confusion, I implore the woman with my eyes to stay, save me, help, but she doesn’t catch on, smiling kindly as she leaves the bar with her husband, leaving me to fend for myself against a formidable opponent.
He could be a serial killer for all she knows!
My best friend giggles, clearly getting a kick out of my obvious discomfort.
A lot of help she is.
Max grins as he motions toward the open seat. “What luck, huh?”
“Yeah,” I agree, “super lucky.”
As he settles in beside me, I spin slowly to face Mo, glaring at her because she did absolutely nothing to stop this invasion.
She responds to my obvious annoyance with a slow, calculating smile—
And my heart drops.
Something nefarious this way comes.
“No,” I mouth.
She bites down into her bottom lip as her eyes narrow. Oh no. I know that look.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper.
“Well! Would you look at the time? I forgot I have a… a meeting.”
“A meeting,” I repeat, deadpan.
“Yep!”
“Imogen.”
Ignoring the obvious warning in my tone—and the death glare!—she climbs out of her chair, quickly stepping around me to speak directly to Max. “It was nice to finally meet you, Max. I’m sorry to leave when you only just got here, but”—she holds up her iPhone—“duty calls.”
A food runner arrives with our plates, setting my smoked mac and cheese down in front of me, and Mo’s fried chicken sandwich down in front of her now-empty chair.
“You should stay, Mo, eat your lunch.”
“Don’t be silly, box it up and take it back for Andy.” Her eyes light up with what will probably be another idea I hate. “Actually, I have a better idea. Max, are you hungry?”
“Positively famished.”
I bite back a growl.
Mo leans in, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and whispers, “Girl, those dimples, oh my god.”
Dying a little bit because he had to have heard that, I swat at my former best friend’s arm, but Mo’s quick. She hurries off before I can strangle her in front of all these witnesses.
Pressing my lips together, I take a deep breath, then meet Max’s amused gaze. His smile widens and I scowl, then focus on my meal, stabbing at the pasta like it’s my best friend’s traitorous face.