Chapter 8
EIGHT
I had it all planned to a T.
Perfect.
The dress I’m wearing is definitely not demure.
It’s entirely too short.
And black.
And basically see-through.
Nothing but a single layer of silk, held together by a few strategically placed, entirely too thin straps, between me and the elements.
Losing my nerve as soon as I walk through the door at Davino’s, I veer immediately to the right, heading for the cocktail lounge instead of the main dining room. I’m already late, so what’s a few more minutes?
Twelve hours ago, just the thought of being late to anything would’ve given me a stroke. Now look at me—not only am I ten minutes behind schedule, I’m also dressed like I plan on hitting the clubs after dinner. Nevermind that I’ve never seen the inside of a nightclub in my entire life.
Drink.
I need a drink.
Approaching the bar, I note that it’s empty, save for the bartender and a single man, sitting at the bar in a nicely tailored suit hunched over his drink.
Sliding onto a stool, careful to keep my gaze straight ahead, I set my beaded, black clutch on the empty seat between the two of us.
The way I’m dressed, he’ll take one look at me and think I’m for hire.
Ignoring him, I discreetly check my watch. I’m creeping up on fifteen minutes late and fighting a case of the hives while the man sitting next to me takes notice that he has company and blatantly stares at my legs. Giving my hemline a discrete tug, I pretend not to notice.
When the bartender sees me, he walks the length of the bar, in my direction. Setting a cocktail napkin in front of me, he gives me a flirty smile. “What can I get you, Doll face?”
Doll face?
“She’ll take a glass of the most expensive white you have,” the man says, still staring at me. “She’s picky. Make sure it’s chilled.”
I know that voice.
Better yet—I know that tone.
Breath caught in my throat, I turn to find Dean Mercer looking at me, that asshole smirk of his, tugging at the corner of his perfectly shaped mouth. Insolence sparking in the impossible blue of his eyes. “Hey, Milton—how’s it hangin’?”
That’s it.
I’m absolutely going to have a stroke.
Tearing my gaze away from his, I focus on the bartender. “Don’t listen to him—as usual, he has no idea what he’s talking about. I’ll have a martini. Extra dry—two olives.”
“Anything you say, Doll face,” the bartender says, shooting Dean a smirk of his own before he starts making my drink.
As soon as he’s occupied, I turn on my stool to look at the man sitting next to me, gaze narrowed into a glare. “What are you doing here?”
Something darker than insolence flashes behind Dean’s gaze, there and gone before I can catch it, replaced by a lackadaisical amusement that I remember.
“Nice to see you too, Princess.” When all I do is keep glaring at him, Dean gives me a quiet laugh while lifting a bottled domestic to his mouth.
Taking a long pull, he sets it down before giving me an eye roll.
“What do you think I’m doing here? I’ve been conscripted into service. ”
Which means he’s Paige’s date.
Not only is she screwing my fiancé, Paige also had the audacity to invite this egotistical manchild to my rehearsal dinner.
“I thought Paige was bringing Curt.” Curt is Curtis Horne, my brother-in-law’s older brother. He’s who she drags to family functions when she doesn’t want to listen to lectures on propriety and decorum from her mother on the limo ride home.
“Is that his name?” Dean gives me another laugh, this one coupled with a shrug. “All I know is she texted me an hour ago and told me her date cancelled. Asked me to meet her here in a suit and I was bored and hungry enough to say yes.”
Grasping at straws, I shake my head. “Last I heard, the two of you broke up.” From the corner of my eye, I watch while the bartender sets my martini on the napkin in front of me before making himself scarce.
“It never seems to stick with us,” Dean tells me, that asshole smirk of his—the one that haunts my nightmares—tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “Besides, she promised me a bathroom blowjob if I showed.”
Down the bar, the bartender chokes on what sounds like a laugh.
I can’t.
I cannot sit through the next three hours. Not when it means having to deal with Paige, Allister, and this insufferable asshole.
And suddenly, it becomes obvious that was her plan.
Curt didn’t back out on her. Paige cancelled on him—I’d bet my life on it—so she could bring Dean instead because she knows that having to sit through a dinner, one I’ve been planning, down to the last detail, for months, while having to stare at his irritatingly smug face would drive me crazy.
“Of course she did.” Turning away from him, I reach for my martini.
Swirling the skewered olives through the shallow pool of almost straight vodka, I pull them from the glass before tapping them on the rim.
Placing them on the napkin, I lift the glass to my mouth, swallowing its icy cold vodka in a few hard gulps.
Setting it down, I fight the sudden tip and sway of the stool I’m sitting on—a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since Alice shoved half a bagel in my hand over twelve hours ago on my way past her desk this morning.
Carefully pushing the empty glass away, I reach for my clutch on the seat between us while Dean stares at me like I just sprouted a second head.
Snapping it open, I pull out a fifty and tuck it under the foot of my empty glass.
Sliding off my stool, I arch a brow at him.
“Make sure she uses mouthwash first,” I tell him, tucking my clutch under my arm.
“You just never know where my cousin’s mouth has been. ”
Dramatic exit secured, I turn on my heel to make my escape. I don’t get more than three steps from the bar before I feel a rough hand close over my upper arm and spin me around.
“What the hell’s gotten into you,” Dean growls down at me, while his gaze travels from my face to my feet. Finding my face again, he gives me a disgusted scoff. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”
Cheeks stung with embarrassment, I feel the center of my palm tingle with the sudden urge to slap him.
“I know you’re not used to seeing women wearing actual clothes,” I snipe back while discretely trying to pull myself out of his grip.
It’s no use. Unless I want to cause a scene or chew my own arm off, I’m not going anywhere.
“But it’s called a dress, Dean. We women wear them when we want to look nice. ”
“That’s not a dress, Mills. That’s a goddamn pocket square with straps.” He makes a low noise in the back of his throat before dragging me even closer. “And you don’t look nice. Matter of fact, you look about as far from nice as you can possibly get.”
He’s right.
Not only is the dress I’m wearing entirely too short and sheer enough to see through, it’s completely backless and the neckline plunges nearly to my navel.
“Why do you care what I’m wearing,” I hiss in his face while tugging on my arm.
He’s still not letting me go. Still looking at me like I’ve offended him somehow, which considering he just admitted that the only reason he’s here is so he can collect the bathroom blowjob my cousin promised him, is beyond ridiculous.
“Besides, you didn’t seem to mind what I’m wearing while you were checking out my legs,” I say, staring up at him while desperately trying to regain the upper hand.
“Because I didn’t know who I was looking at,” he says quietly, still glaring down at me. “And since when does Millie Blackwell show up to a family dinner without a goddamned bra on.”
He’s right again. I’m not wearing a bra. The cut of the dress makes wearing one impossible. “That’s none of your business,” I hiss, giving my arm a not-so-subtle tug.
“Kinda is…” Dean makes that sound again, his grip tightening before he dips his head, bringing his mouth to my ear, so close I can feel the heat of it against the side of my face.
“I can see your nipples through the fabric of your dress, Princess...” he whispers softly.
“They went stiff the second you realized who you were sitting next to.”
Jerking back on an indignant gasp, I finally rip my arm out of his grasp, and he lets me, right before I slap him—hard—across the face.
So hard my palm instantly goes numb. Stumbling back a few steps before I find my feet, I plant them firmly, determined not to run while I do my best to keep my knees from shaking.
Gaze aimed at the floor, Dean flicks a look at me through his lashes. Reaching up, he grips his own jaw like he’s trying to rub feeling back into it. “Ow.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I seethe up at him, my hand starting to throb.
Raising his head, he gives me a look that makes me wish I’d run when I had the chance.
“Me?” Dropping his hand away from his abused face, I can see my handprint on his cheek.
A small bead of blood forming at the corner of his mouth.
Licking it away, Dean straightens his tie while letting his gaze rake over me, a mixture of insolence and amusement settling over his perfect features like a mask.
“I’m nobody, remember?” Before I can think of something clever to say in response, he gives me another one of his smirks.
“You might want to ask the bartender for some ice. See you inside, Princess,” he says, brushing past me on his way out the door.