Chapter 15
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The world is full of losers, but they shouldn’t be giving my wife liquor.
Damion
I am not having the worst time, actually.
Mirabelle is a little drunk, and I hate half the people here, but the other half aren’t that bad.
Specifically, Samuel, Micheal, and Richard aren’t that bad.
Nate, Quinnon, and Jeffry are dead to me.
When Mirabelle steps away to the restroom down the hall, the atmosphere turns suffocating. The upbeat music of the game can’t chase the tension, but I keep my gaze fixed on the screen and pretend it can regardless.
Up until the moment Jeffry says, “So. Damion.”
Unbidden, a sigh leaves me, and I cut my attention to the wavy-haired twit.
“What exactly are your intentions with Mira?”
“Hey, man,” Micheal cuts in, “we don’t have to do that.”
“I think we do,” Quinnon mutters.
Even drunk, Samuel rolls his eyes and lifts another beer bottle to his mouth.
“So that’s settled then.” Jeffry’s lip curls, disgust rampant. “What are your intentions with Mira?”
“Couldn’t I ask you the same thing? I’m not the one giving her vodka.”
The small man snarls, “And I’m not the one going home with her tonight.”
Nate’s wide gaze flies to me.
Since Nate’s been the most decent thus far, I find myself obliging to explain. “We live in different buildings on the same property, and she lives in her separate building with Fawn.”
“A lot of things can happen in the car,” Jeffry counters, teeth practically bared.
I snort. “Not in that car.”
Unwisely, Jeffry stands, stomps across the room, and grips the collar of my shirt. “Listen here, if you’re after Mira, you need to get in line.”
My brows creep up my forehead, and I glance down at Jeffry’s hand in my shirt before I rise to my feet and tower over him.
“I’m not sure that when a man fancies a woman he particularly queues up for it, Jeffry.
If that’s been your method thus far, it’s no wonder she’s still single.
” Grasping his hand, I pluck it from my clothes, then I catch his fist when he sloppily throws it toward my face.
Twisting his wrist, I mutter, “You sure you want to do this?”
He cusses. “Mira deserves better than some old creep who’s her boss.”
Mira deserves better than some whiny louse with nothing but a crappy apartment and the maturity of an egg sack.
I get it. I do. Of course half her guy friends want her.
She’s perfect. The perfect woman. The perfect wife.
She’s soft, and beautiful, and innocent.
Quiet, demure, careful, polite, agreeable.
Everything about her exudes feminine allure so potent it’s physically painful to deny the urge to pull her close and protect her.
Simply put, she’s shoved herself into the most socially-acceptable mold she could find.
But I’d gamble that not a single guy here knows who she really is.
Including me.
If I could confidently say that I did, I’d have already proposed. I’d have said something idiotic about how I know she doesn’t like me, but since I’m completely gone for her, I’d do anything to be worthy. I’d treat her to flowers and chocolates and poetry every single day. I’d beg.
I’d certainly not mill about with a group of my buddies and see who she shows interest in first. I’d take the initiative, seal the deal, then devote the rest of my life to adoring her.
“What’s going on?” Mira’s soft voice trickles from the back hall, but I don’t let Jeffry go when he makes to jerk away from me.
Tugging futilely, he stammers, “N-nothing, Mira.”
“Are you two fighting?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No!” he blurts.
My eyes roll.
Snarling, Jeffry says, “We were just having a chat.”
“Oh. My mistake, then.” I finally release him, and he stumbles back into the coffee table, catching himself before he can flip back over the cheap wood.
Pity.
Scanning, Mirabelle worries her apron, then steadies herself.
“I think it’s time to go home.” She marches across the space, toward the kitchen.
She retrieves her empty brownie dish, then she marches up to me, hooks her finger in the hem of my shirt, and sends a shock of ecstasy through my chest. “Thank you for having us, Jeffry.”
“Mira—”
I can’t subdue my smile as Mirabelle ignores him to pull me out the front door.
The crisp evening air hits me, and I obediently follow the woman I love across the pavement, toward her car in the guest parking lot.
Something about her steps isn’t entirely steady, and I find myself hoping that the driver’s seat goes back farther than the passenger seat, because I think I will absolutely be driving us home.
She seems to understand that fact since she opens her passenger side door and drops her brownie dish in the seat before whirling on me.
“What was—” Her eyes lock on my face, and her words stumble.
I tilt my head. “What was?”
Her gaze flicks from my eyes, to my mouth, then a tiny whimper escapes her. Her fingers in the fabric of my shirt constrict before loosening and freeing me. “You’re smiling. Again.”
Lifting my hand, I swipe my palm over my smile. “Yes?” I take a step toward her. “And?”
Fragile air shakes her chest as she teeters, leaning against the side of her car for stability.
Here she is, in the moonlight, blushing, once again. For me.
I am blessed.
Doing her best to collect herself, she says, “What was that, in there?”
I hum. Then I dare to reach for her soft skin. Touching her cheek, I take a moment to relish in the way her body responds as I coast my thumb over her cheekbone. “Jeffry felt threatened.”
Her lashes flutter. “Why? What did you do?”
“Nothing. I’m simply another male presence in your vicinity.”
Confusion muddles her brows.
I state, “Jeffry likes you.”
Disgust riots across her face.
It is beautiful.
“So do Quinnon, and Nate.”
She shudders, shoulders bunching. “How do you—”
“It’s obvious.”
“Oh.”
I let my index finger run the length of her jaw, to her chin, and push her face up so she must focus on me. “You’re a bit oblivious to these sorts of things, I think.”
“Am I?”
I peer at her pressed to her car, blushing, perched on my finger. “Yes.”
Her lashes lower with her eyes. “Jeffry, Quinnon, and Nate…” she muses, then she sags. “I don’t like any of them like that.”
“You sound…very disappointed.”
“I am.”
I bristle. “Why?”
Half-drunk and clearly tired, she murmurs, “I want to get married.”
My brows shoot up.
“I’d like to find a husband. I just…haven’t fallen in love yet.
No one I’ve met has felt quite right.” A sad smile touches her pretty pink lips.
“I don’t want to settle. I’ve worked so hard to learn how to be a good wife.
I want someone to sweep me off my feet and show me that they deserve all the effort I’d like to give them.
” Her smile fades. “The guys…are good enough friends, but none of them are right.”
“How would you know who’s right?” I ask.
Slow, her eyes lift, glassy and distant.
“I’ll know. He’ll be warm. Comfortable. Someone I don’t need to think around.
Someone whose presence alone chases away the worry in my head.
He’ll be right, because he’ll make me feel right.
And I won’t have to question everything I say or do around him. He won’t be offended by who I am.”
That is…an impressively low bar. “You are the least offensive person I have ever met,” I whisper.
She smiles. “Thank you. I try very hard to be.”
“No…” I’m leaning in, again, drawn near by her gravity, helpless against the cosmic power of her. “You’re flawlessly thoughtful, Mirabelle. I’ve never met someone as kind and considerate as you.”
“I’ve said a grand number of inconsiderate, unkind, and offensive things to you over the past week, Mr. Anders.”
“You are allowed to dislike me. It’s not inconsiderate or unkind to honestly and respectfully admit to it.”
“Huh.” Eyes fixed on mine, she lifts a hand, fingertips grazing my shirt hem again.
I find myself pinching her chin as my free hand works its way around her apron, bunching the fabric in my grip.
She’s drunk, I remind myself.
Drunk on vodka some guy gave her, probably with this exact picture in his skull.
With a sigh, I lean in and touch my lips to her cheek. “You are precious,” I say, voice raw and desperate. “It’s not your fault if people are too stupid to see that.”
Her lashes fall. “You’re a liar.”
“I think everyone is, at some point. Even if they don’t realize it.”
“You wouldn’t like me if you knew me.”
“Wanna bet?”
Her nose wrinkles. “I hate bets. Gambling is wrong.”
“It’s not gambling if there are no losers.”
She sighs. “What are the terms if there’s no way to lose? How do you win?”
“Let me get to know you. If I continue to like you, I win. If I don’t, I’ll still respect you and your work ethic, so no one loses.”
“Continue?” she whispers.
My thumb finds a home against her bottom lip, and she doesn’t move as I relish in the softness, the way her lips part to accommodate my motions, the—
A flash breaks the night, and Mirabelle flinches.
I growl, releasing her apron and bracing my body around hers to block it from the camera.
A curse hisses from between my teeth as I see a dark outline on the edge of the development, tucked in the bushes.
Pulling Mirabelle away from the vehicle, I open the door and usher her inside.
Shoving myself in the driver’s seat, I open my hand toward her and battle with the mechanisms that might afford me just an inch more room. “Keys, Mirabelle.”
Pale, she retrieves them for me, and I shove them in the ignition.
“They’re gonna tell more lies about us,” she whispers beneath the chug of the engine.
I throw my hand behind her head rest, peer back, and peel out of the parking space. “Yup.”
She buries her face in her hands. “What are they even doing here?”
“They must have followed us from my property and been waiting.”
“People do that?”
I cut my eyes toward her and wince, because yeah. In my world, they do.
And if I want my world to be hers, she needs to not look quite this mortified upon learning as much.
My chest aches.
Fighting for air, I mutter, “Let’s just get you home.”