Chapter 11 #2
“You’ve certainly been… different lately,” Elizabeth said carefully, like she was defusing a bomb.
“Different good or different bad?” I challenged, even as Jason’s thumb traced dangerous circles on my knee.
“Just… different,” Violet supplied, but her eyes were sharp despite the wine. She was studying me like she was seeing her sister for the first time. “Almost like a completely different person.”
Four courses and approximately twelve thousand passive-aggressive comments later, I was seriously regretting not smuggling in Gregory’s spoon.
The portions had been roughly the size of postage stamps, each more architecturally ambitious but less filling than the last. My stomach was staging a quiet protest, and I was mentally calculating how many snacks I could raid from the penthouse kitchen when we got home.
Elizabeth was now on her favorite topic—other people’s fashion failures at last week’s gallery opening—while Richard swirled his fourth (fifth?) scotch and pretended to listen. The only entertainment was watching Violet add increasingly creative commentary whenever our mother paused for breath.
“And her shoes,” Elizabeth shuddered delicately, “with that dress…”
“A crime against humanity,” Violet deadpanned. “Someone should alert the fashion police. Or actual police. Or possibly the FBI.”
I bit back a laugh, which turned into something else entirely as Jason’s fingers traced idle patterns on my knee. How was I supposed to concentrate on proper society daughter behavior when he was doing that? The man was lethal in a suit anyway, but add in those hands…
“Victoria?” Elizabeth’s sharp tone suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d called my name.
“Hmm? Sorry, I was just thinking about… shoes.” And how quickly I could get Jason out of here without causing another society scandal. Though at this point, what was one more viral video?
Violet’s knowing smirk suggested she knew exactly what—or who—I was actually thinking about. She raised her glass in a subtle toast, eyes dancing with mischief and something that looked suspiciously like approval.
When the butler finally appeared with coffee—but notably, no actual dessert—I could have kissed him. Actually, scratch that—the only person I wanted to kiss was sitting next to me, his thumb still doing criminal things to my concentration levels.
“Well, this has been…” I searched for a diplomatic word that wasn’t tortuous or hungry-making.
“Enlightening?” Violet supplied helpfully.
“That’s one word for it,” I muttered, earning another squeeze from Jason’s hand that did nothing to help my ability to form coherent sentences.
The goodbyes took approximately forever, because apparently rich people can’t just say “bye” and leave like normal humans.
By the time we finally escaped, I was ready to eat my own arm.
Or possibly Jason’s. Though that thought led to other thoughts that definitely weren’t appropriate for the elevator ride down.
The second the elevator doors closed on the Hayes’ marble mausoleum, I deflated against the wall like a punctured balloon. Very un-Victoria-like, but after two hours of perfect posture, my spine needed a break.
“Oh my God, I’m starving. Is there a reason rich people hate actual food portions? Is it some sort of tax dodge?” I caught myself. “I mean… that was quite a… refined dining experience.”
Jason’s laugh was unexpected and devastating. Like, seriously unfair levels of devastating. I really needed to start building up an immunity to that sound, because it did dangerous things to my insides. “Not a fan of molecular gastronomy?”
“I’m a fan of actual molecules of actual food,” I said, then remembered I was supposed to be his sophisticated soon-to-be ex-wife. “Though I suppose the presentation was… artistic?”
“Victoria,” he said, his voice doing unfair things to my nervous system, “are you asking for real food?”
“Would that be terribly gauche?” I tried for Victoria’s society voice, but my growling stomach ruined the effect. “Because I’m about ten minutes away from ordering a pizza to the car.”
Twenty minutes later, we were tucked into a corner booth at Rosa’s Taco House, my heels kicked off under the table—decidedly un-Victoria-like—and Jason’s tie loosened in a way that was seriously testing my self-control.
Victoria would probably rather die than eat at a place with plastic tablecloths, but Zoe Mitchell was in heaven.
“You’re staring,” he said, voice low and amused as I demolished my third taco with absolutely zero of Victoria’s usual delicate manners.
“You’re stare-worthy,” I shot back before I could stop myself, then nearly choked on my guacamole. Victoria would never say something so direct. “I mean… the lighting is quite… flattering?”
But the look he gave me over his carne asada could have melted steel. “Am I?”
“You know you are.” I reached for the salsa, mostly to have something to do with my hands that didn’t involve grabbing his shirt collar. Victoria would never. But Zoe really, really wanted to.
His fingers brushed mine as he handed it over, and suddenly I couldn’t remember what I wanted it for. Or my own name. Or possibly how to breathe. Victoria’s memories suggested they hadn’t touched like this in years, which seemed criminal given how his smallest touch felt like electricity.
“How’s the food?” he asked, his voice doing that low rumbly thing that made me want to climb into his lap, public decency be damned. Victoria would be mortified. Zoe was beyond caring.
“Better than foam and quail eggs,” I managed, then tried to recover some Victoria-esque sophistication. “Though the, um, culinary aesthetic is quite… unique?”
His laugh did something molten to my insides. Or maybe that was the habanero sauce. Either way, I was in trouble.
“You surprised me tonight,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. The casual touch felt more intimate than any of Victoria’s memories of their marriage. I tried to think how she would react, then gave up because my brain had short-circuited.
“Good surprised or bad surprised?” I asked, forgetting to add any society polish to my voice.
“Definitely good.” His fingers lingered near my cheek, and I barely suppressed a very un-Victoria-like shiver. “Though I think you gave your mother heart palpitations at least twice.”
“Only twice? I must be losing my touch.” Victoria would never joke about such things. But Victoria also wouldn’t be sitting in a taco shop at midnight in evening wear, so clearly some rules were meant to be broken.
Rosa, the diner owner herself, had to come by twice to ask if we wanted dessert, probably because we were too busy eye-fucking each other to look at the menu. The way Jason’s throat moved when he swallowed his horchata should have been illegal.
I tried to remember how Victoria would handle this situation, but I was pretty sure “wanting to jump her husband in a taco shop” wasn’t in her social handbook.
The way Jason licked salsa from his thumb should have come with a warning label. I pressed my thighs together, trying to remember how Victoria would handle this situation. Probably with an icy comment about table manners. But all I could think about was grabbing his tie and…
“Ready to go?” His voice had dropped an octave lower, and the look in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Victoria would say something elegant about the evening drawing to a close.
Instead, I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Especially when he stood and I got the full effect of him in that suit again.
The top buttons of his shirt were undone, his tie hanging loose in a way that made my fingers itch to grab it.
He helped me with my coat, his hands lingering on my shoulders. Victoria’s memories suggested he hadn’t been this tactile in years. The heat of his touch burned through the silk of my dress, making it hard to remember how to walk in these heels.
The ride home was torture of the best kind. Every red light was an exercise in restraint. The way his hands gripped the steering wheel made me imagine those hands doing other things. Victoria would be horrified at my thoughts. But Victoria had clearly been an idiot.
When we finally reached the penthouse, the elevator ride up was charged with enough electricity to power Manhattan. I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t dare turn my head. If I looked at him now, with the way he’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves…
The doors opened to the darkened foyer, the only light coming from the city beyond the windows. I managed two steps before Jason’s hand caught my wrist, spinning me to face him.
“Victoria,” he breathed, and something in his voice made my knees weak.
Before I could remember why this was a terrible idea, his mouth was on mine. The kiss was nothing like this morning’s careful exploration. This was hunger and heat and need, and I melted into it like I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment.
His hands tangled in my hair, destroying Victoria’s perfect style, and I couldn’t have cared less.
I pressed closer, desperate for more contact, and he backed me against the wall.
The cool marble was a shock against my heated skin, but then his tongue swept into my mouth and I forgot about everything except the taste of him.
A soft moan escaped me as his tongue stroked against mine, the sound swallowed by his kiss. He tasted like horchata and desire, and I was drunk on it. My fingers found their way up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, before wrapping around his neck to pull him even closer.