Chapter 9
NINE
Well, this is a fucking disaster.
The Blackwells are nice enough people. Honestly, probably some of the nicest rich people I’ve ever met—certainly the most normal.
Aside from a few confused looks thrown my way and a tight-lipped smile from Paige’s mother, no one seems bothered that the help found his way to their dinner table—and make no mistake, the Blackwells, nice or not, know I'm the help.
Since the weekend I spent tending bar at Millie’s little sister’s bachelorette weekend in the Hamptons two years ago, my mobile bar service has become a regular installment at Blackwell social functions.
I say my mobile bar service because Angel sold out to me about six-months after the Hamptons job.
Turns out running a successfully growing business was a little bit more than he signed up for.
These days, I employ seventy-five bartenders and we’re booked solid for the next eighteen months.
On top of private parties and corporate retreats, we hold exclusive accounts with several nightclubs and bars in Manhattan.
If they’re down a bartender or need extra, expert hands to host an event, they call me.
The bartender who made Millie’s martini?
His name is Marcus.
He works for me.
No, it isn’t the Blackwells that turn dinner into an absolute shitshow. It’s one Blackwell in particular.
Soon to be Blackwell-Whittmore.
When she walked into the private dining room after our little run-in at the bar, I’d already dropped a hasty peck on Paige’s cheek, along with a sorry I’m late before taking the empty seat next to her.
I’m pretending to be busy with settling my napkin in my lap but I know exactly when Millie walks in because the conversational buzz that floats around me goes quiet.
Don’t look.
Don’t you fucking look.
I look.
Fuck.
There she is—cool, unflappable Millie—in a dress that isn’t really a dress by any appropriate standard.
Perfect make-up. Not a hair out of place.
Nothing to indicate that the two of us were at each other’s throats only a few minutes ago, or that she slapped the absolute shit out of me when I took it too far.
I can see your nipples through the fabric of your dress, Mills... they went stiff the second you realized who you were sitting next to.
She doesn’t look at me. Just slides into her seat between her mother and the man she’s going to marry with her own murmured sorry.
“You’re late,” Allister whispers plaintively while the table does its best to ignore the fact that the bride-to-be showed up half-naked and a little tipsy. “Where have you been?”
“Traffic,” she says, giving him a one word lie while placing her own napkin in her lap, still not looking at me.
Now Allister frowns at her. “Have you been drinking?”
“I had a glass of champagne at my fitting.” She lies again before giving him a little shoulder shrug. “Maybe two.”
The move draws his attention to her bare arm. “What happened?” he asks, his brow knitting together with concern while he studies the red handprint, wrapped around her bicep.
My red handprint.
Finished with her napkin, Millie reaches for her water. “My heel got stuck in a crack in the sidewalk on my way in. Some nice man grabbed me before I fell.”
She’s good.
Scary good.
But I already knew that.
Still not satisfied, Allister throws a look around the table like he’s hoping someone else is as bothered by his fiancée’s sudden rash of odd behavior as he is.
When no one else seems to care or find it at all odd that not only is Princess Millie half-naked and more than a little tipsy, she’s showing signs of being manhandled, he leans in and hisses in her ear.
“And what the hell are you wearing? This is Davino’s, Millie—not a nightclub. ”
A goddamn pocket square with straps.
“I’m wearing a dress, Allister,” she says, giving him the same cool, collected answer she gave me when I asked her the same thing. “I found it in our closet—I thought you might’ve left it for me as a gift to wear tonight.”
For some reason that shuts him up.
Leaning into him without warning, she presses her lips against his cheek.
“Let’s not fight, darling,” she says quietly while lifting a hand to wipe away the lipstick on his cheek, the enormous diamond on her ring finger flashing in my face.
“I’m here now, so let’s just enjoy the evening, okay?
” Turning away from him, she aims her attention at a hovering waiter who all but trips over himself in his hurry to get to her.
“I’d like a glass of the most expensive white you have,” she tells him in that regal tone of hers before flicking a cool, measured glance in my direction.
“And make sure it’s chilled—I’m very picky. ”
“Of course, madam,” the waiter says, giving her a slight bow before he scurries off to do her bidding.
Giving me another look, Millie arches a slim, perfectly shaped brow in my direction before dismissing me completely.
Without warning, I feel Paige’s hand on my knee. Slowly sliding it up my thigh, she pushes her fingers under the napkin covering my lap to wrap them around the stiff, swollen length of my cock. Tilting her head, shoulder brushing against mine, she whispers in my ear.
“You’re staring, Mercer.”
Paige and I aren’t together and if I can manage to keep my head on straight and remember why, Paige and I are never going to be together again.
It’s time to move on.
Time to let it go.
Let her go.
Saying yes to being her dinner date for Millie’s rehearsal dinner was closure.
Full circle moment and all that shit.
At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
Fighting the urge to push her hand away, I drop my gaze.
Reaching for my own water glass, I take a healthy swallow in hopes of easing the dry, tight ache in my throat.
Setting it down, I lower one of my hands into my lap, pretending to adjust my napkin in hopes of knocking her hand loose.
Instead of letting go, Paige gives me a slow stroke, squeezing the head of my cock through my pants while she practically purrs in my ear.
“Is this for me?” She strokes me again, her movements blatant enough to be obvious to anyone paying attention.
Luckily for me, everyone else is busy arguing over which five-thousand-dollar bottle of red will pair best with the porterhouse or whether to start with the scallop risotto or the langosta tails. “I bet it isn’t...”
Looking up, I aim my gaze across the table to find Millie staring right at me, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She’s uptight but not stupid. There’s no way she doesn’t know what Paige is doing to me under the table. When our eyes meet, she looks away, embarrassment quickly replaced by temper.
I guess someone’s paying attention after all.
“Paige,” I say it softly, pushing her name through clenched teeth, a clear warning that I’m not in the mood to play her games. Not tonight.
Loosening her grip, Paige rolls her eyes. “Relax, Mercer,” she says, easing her hand from under my napkin. “I thought we were having fun.”
“Fun?” I shift in my seat to look at her. There’s no arguing she’s beautiful. Spontaneous. Smart. Confident. The kind of woman most men would kill for. “Is that why I’m here instead of Curt?”
When I say the name of the guy who was supposed to be her date, Paige looks at Millie before letting out another laugh that tells me she’s managed to put two and two together.
That I wasn’t running late, and neither was her cousin.
That we were together, doing what we do best—arguing and insulting each other.
“What’s the matter, Mercer,” Paige says, giving me a pretty pout. “Are you jealous?”
Yes.
Yes, I’m jealous.
I’m so jealous I can’t see straight.
So jealous, I want to flip this fucking table over and scream.
“No, Paige,” I lie to her quietly, fighting to keep my tone level because Paige is a shark. If she smells even a hint of weakness, she’ll use it to her advantage. Use it to reel me back in. “I’m not jealous—I’m bored.”
Paige laughs because after two years of whatever you want to call what we’ve been doing, she knows me better than I’d like. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The rest of the evening was a blur.
Food and wine. Toasts and speeches. Millie’s dad got teary-eyed when he spoke about giving his eldest daughter away.
Her mother beamed with pride while she listed her accomplishments, proud to have raised someone so perfect and happy and that she found someone worthy to spend the rest of her life with.
Millie smiled through it all, next to a puffed-up Allister.
Thankfully, Paige behaved and kept her hands to herself.
Several hours later, standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, I spot Millie’s father standing off to the side, alone.
Seeing my chance, I pry my arm out of Paige’s grip so I can approach him, a few folded bills concealed in my outstretched hand.
“Thank you for tonight, sir,” I say. “I enjoyed myself.”
Taking my hand and feeling the money I’m discretely offering him, Mr. Blackwell starts to shake his head. “You’re our guest, Dean,” he tells me with a slight frown. “There’s no need for you to—”
“I appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Blackwell, but we both know I’m not the dinner guest you planned on,” I tell him bluntly. “Besides, I pay my own way. I always have.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Millie’s father gives me a nod. “Alright.” Pulling his hand from mine, he pockets the money without bothering to look at it. “I hope the company wasn’t too boring. We can be a stuffy bunch.”
“It beat leftover pizza and baseball,” I say, answering honestly.
“Well, not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take it.” Instead of being insulted, Mr. Blackwell laughs. “Can I at least offer you a ride home?”
Giving him a head shake, I angle myself away from him. Tipping chin down the sidewalk, more than ready to call it a night. “Thank you, but I can take the subway.”
Gripping me by my shoulder, he practically drags me to a waiting fleet of limousines. “It’s the least I can do.” When he sees us approaching the limo, the driver, who’s waiting near the rear door straightens his posture. “Burt, take this young man wherever he needs to go.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver says with a curt nod.
Because it’s either accept the ride or refuse his generosity, I turn away from the limo to offer him my hand for a final time. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Preston,” he says, shaking my hand on a friendly back slap. “And we’ll see you at the church on Sunday.”
“The church?”
“For my Millie’s wedding,” Preston says, his brow furrowing slightly. “Paige added you, last minute, as her plus one.”
The fuck?
Flicking a quick look over his shoulder, I find Paige on the sidewalk, embroiled in a tense conversation with her mother, of which I’m sure I’m the subject.
You brought a bartender to your cousin’s rehearsal dinner, Paige? Really?
“I’m not sure how that would work, considering I’m working the reception,” I remind him. My company is contracted to provide ten bartenders for Millie’s reception. “If something goes wrong, I’ll have to—”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Blackwell chuckles. “Leandra and I expect to see you there—we won’t take no for an answer.”
Again, since it’s either accept his generosity or refuse it, I err on the side of caution.
Preston Blackwell has been on the cover of Forbes no less than a dozen times over the past decade.
Even if he hadn’t single-handedly helped me build my business by recommending me to all of his wealthy friends, I’d rather eat a bag of hairy dicks than tell him no.
“See you Sunday, sir.”
Flashing me a quick grin, Millie’s father gives me another back slap while his driver opens the limo door behind me, effectively managing to shove me into it before I can change my mind.
Door slammed shut in my face, I slump into the seat in defeat.
Letting my head fall back, I close my eyes before letting out a tired sigh because my full circle moment just turned into my worst fucking nightmare. “Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Hearing her voice, my eyes fly open and my head jerks up so fast a cramp shoots down the side of my neck.
Millie.
Sitting on the bench seat opposite of mine and staring straight at me.