Chapter 22 #2
I don’t mean any more to him than any of his hookups. This woman here—I wonder if she’s slept with him before, or if she will in the future, once our arrangement is over.
Once we’re done pretending that I’m important to him.
Instantly, despite the expensive dress and the crystals hanging above my head, I feel cheap, like something designed to be used up and discarded. I wrap my arms around my torso, self-conscious.
Reed is a playboy, I remind myself firmly. You knew that going in. Reed is not the type of guy anyone should ever trust with their heart—and you knew that, too.
So why does this make me feel so shitty?
Is it because I was fooled by my own act? Reed is trying to trick any onlookers into thinking I’m special—that he cares about me. Maybe he managed to convince me, too.
He’s so good at what he does.
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth as I turn away from the table, unable to watch Reed and this strange woman any longer. I continue across the ballroom toward the open bar.
The bartender looks at me questioningly as I set my empty champagne glass on the counter. “Refill?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “Can I get a tequila, neat?”
I’m a little worried that it’s an obviously low-class request, but the bartender doesn’t bat an eye. “You want salt and lime?”
“Yes, please.”
I drum my fingers on the bar counter as he pours a top-shelf, silver tequila over a cube of ice, then hands me the drink. The rim of the glass is encrusted with salt, which offsets the bitterness slightly.
I make my way back to my table, which is luckily still unoccupied, and nurse my drink. I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way, but I can’t help it—I’m hurt. I feel abandoned, like Reed left me to drift at this party while he went back to his old ways.
I can’t watch the dancers anymore. I don’t have the heart for it. I drop my gaze down to the table as the band strikes up a new song.
My sulking is interrupted by a friendly voice. “Hello? Miss?”
I look up and meet the gaze of a young man in a tailored tuxedo. He has short-cropped, sandy hair, and he wears a warm smile as he reaches out a hand.
“Would you care to dance?”
For a second, I hesitate, my gaze shooting across the room. I can’t see Reed from where I’m standing, which is probably for the best—who knows what he’s up to.
After a moment’s deliberation, I nod, smiling at him. It’s just one dance—and it’s just a waltz, at that. Harmless enough.
I let him guide me out onto the dance floor. One of his hands finds my waist, and I hold the other as we fall in step with each other.
“What’s your name?” I ask him as we twirl around, surrounded by other pairs.
“Justin,” he says. It’s difficult to hear him over the music. “How about you?”
“Olivia.”
He smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Olivia.”
I don’t reply, mostly because I would have to raise my voice over the music, but also because I don’t want to give him the wrong idea about this dance.
We turn in slow circles, doing our best not to step on each other’s feet. I’m a halfway decent dancer, and so is he, but my six-inch Stilettos are making both of our jobs difficult. We’re starting to get the hang of it, though, when a hand falls on my shoulder.
I jump, startled, and turn to see Reed. He stares coolly at Justin, not meeting my gaze.
“Apologies,” he says smoothly. “But I think I’ll be cutting in, now.”
I expect Justin to shrug and let it go, but he scowls at Reed. He doesn’t let go of my hand. “The song’s not over.”
“I’m aware of that,” Reed says, his voice no longer polite. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like you to get your hands off of my fiancé.”
I catch my breath, surprised. A shadow flits across Justin’s face, and he drops my hand, taking a step away from us.
“I didn’t realize,” he says. For a moment, the two men exchange a cold, unfriendly glare. Uncomfortable with the open hostility, I shift behind Reed slightly.
Then he turns away from the dance floor. I follow him as he stalks to the ballroom’s exit, my heart fluttering. He seems upset, and angry, but I don’t want to ask him what’s wrong until we’re alone.
Besides, I have a theory. The way he cut in to interrupt that dance… if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect he was jealous.
Reed leads me out into the hallway, a little ways away from the grand, open doors of the ballroom. He steps into a small alcove near a window, where we’re sheltered enough to have a private conversation.
Even here, in this forgotten corner of the building, the view of the city’s skyline is incredible. For a few seconds, I’m drawn in by the glittering lights of New York at night.
After a second or two, though, I manage to pull my attention back to him. His jaw is tight, like he’s restraining his anger.
“What was that?” he demands.
I fold my arms. “What was what?” I reply, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Who was that guy? Did you even know him?”
I raise an eyebrow. “No. Did you?”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “You were dancing with another man. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I shoot back. “Maybe that I was alone at a party surrounded by strangers. Maybe that there was a live band and a dance floor and he asked and it was harmless—”
“He had his hand on your waist,” he snaps. His voice lowers, and he says, “I don’t like seeing another man touch you.”
My heart skips a beat; he sounds jealous. It makes me feel almost guilty, but I can’t deny that a part of me likes it—likes the idea that he’s rattled just from seeing me so close to another man.
“Why?” I ask him. “Why don’t you? Why does it matter to you?”
I hold my breath as he hesitates. It could be because of our arrangement, or… or it could be for another reason. A reason neither of us are willing to say out loud. But if he admits it—if it’s out in the open, at last…
“We signed a contract,” he says finally, stiffly. “To all of these people, we’re supposed to be engaged. My family is here. We have high-powered friends here. I don’t want there to be a scandal.”
Disappointment courses through me. “There wouldn’t be a scandal.”
“You can’t be sure of that. If any rumors start to spread, they could grow out of control before we have the chance to deal with the situation. What if someone saw you dancing with another man, and decided to gossip? What if they thought you were cheating on me?”
For a few moments, I’m silent, unsure how to respond.
The fact that this is just about business for him—that there are no feelings involved, something I can’t honestly relate to—hurts, and it’s hard to pretend that it doesn’t.
But I shove those feelings down. I have to. I signed a contract.
Instead of letting myself wallow in the hurt, I lift my chin, looking him in the eye. “Okay,” I say evenly. “I won’t dance with another man again. But if that’s the case, and we’re always under scrutiny, you might want to avoid flirting with other women.”
He blinks at me, frowning. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” I scoff. “I saw you with that woman—the blonde in the red dress.”
“I wasn’t flirting with her. She was—”
“I saw her hitting on you,” I interrupt, making no effort to keep the accusation out of my tone. “What is she, another ex?”
“No, no—nothing like that,” he protests, holding up his hands. “She’s just someone I saw around in my circle before. I’ve never hooked up with her, or anything. I was just greeting her.”
“Just greeting her? Then why did she touch your arm?”
“I don’t know, but it’s really not like that, I swear. I wasn’t flirting with her, even if she was flirting with me. I don’t want her, Olivia. I want…”
He pauses, and for a moment, the space between us seems to close. He leans in, almost imperceptibly, as if pulled toward me by a physical force. Then he freezes, conflicting emotions in his eyes that I can’t read, no matter how hard I try.
“I want this to succeed,” he mutters after a few seconds. He draws back, and suddenly, just like that, there’s a thousand miles between us once more. “I want to make our arrangement work.”
I do my best to stop my disappointment from showing on my face. Stiffly, I nod. “So do I.”
“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
“Right. Of course,” I agree—even though I’m starting to think that we’re really, really not.
He glances over his shoulder, back toward the party. “We should get back—before anyone notices we’re gone.”
I don’t feel much better after that conversation, but I fall in step beside Reed as we return to the ballroom, ready to play the part.