“I’m going to come out and you’re going to go all Benedict on me, all at once.”
“All Benedict? What does that mean? Be charming? Sexy? Manly?”
“No. None of that.” I snort. He huffs but I can hear he’s smiling in the hallway. “I mean you’re going to get all your stupid overreacting and complimenting out of the way right now.”
“You really think you look that fantastic, eh? No concern you might be overselling—” He stops as I step out.
This is not a big deal, but I know he’ll make it a big deal. I’m in a simple, black dress. Super thin spaghetti straps attach to a high neck before the stretchy yet thick fabric hugs my figure down to just above the knee. It is modest but it is skin-tight. I have my hair up and dark sunglasses on, as discussed. Black pumps.
“Well?” I say, smirking at his apparent inability to speak.
“I’m allowed to make a fuss?”
“Yes, get it all out.”
He lifts two fingers to his mouth and does an actual cat-call whistle thing. Loudly.
“Benedict!” I scold, my ears ringing in the tiny hallway.
“Blood-y-hell woman! Where do you find these dresses made for you? You look gorgeous. Sexy and classy too. Just fantastic. Honestly.”
“Are you done?”
“Not hardly, spin ‘round.” He makes a motion with his finger. I glare at him. He glares back and crosses his arms and I can’t help but notice them.
Either he’s buying smaller shirts or he’s been working out more. Has to be the shirts, it’s only been a few days since he was passed out on the couch. Still, whatever he did the last few days, it’s working for him. He’s in a white button up with black pants, also snug on bulging thighs, and a black weighted workout vest that’s meant to look like Kevlar. His top buttons are undone to expose tanned skin beneath black and gold aviators tucked there, like mine. “Would you like me to spin as well?” He gloats, catching me ogling.
“Ugh, stop it.” I say, turning around quickly.
“There it is. The world’s sexiest ass. Have I told you I love your ass? And your legs. I must’ve.”
“You may have mentioned it.” I deadpan when I complete my turn. “Can we go now?”
“Am I allowed to touch you?”
I frown, “Aren’t we contractually obligated to hold hands?”
He sighs, “Ever the romantic. I meant more like, if I was married to you in real life I would grab that ass at every opportunity, am I allowed?”
“No.” I say quickly.
“Damn. Had to ask.” He pauses dramatically like a fool then extends his long fingers to me. “I suppose your hand will do.”
“What happened to you? Like, as a child?” I tease.
“Neglect, nannies, the suffocating pressure of my mother’s joy and my father’s expectations,” he replies easily.
I stop walking, “Really?”
“No,” he laughs, “My childhood was grand. Let’s get going.”
He squeezes my fingers and hurries me out to the town car in the driveway where a driver and Nigel wait. He starts in on the night’s festivities, explaining who will be there and what I can expect. He is back to his animated, unaffected self but I can’t help but wonder if there was some truth to what he said earlier.
I doubt his childhood was “grand.” I mean, his own father just threatened to blackmail him. I don’t ask further, though.
He seems genuinely excited about tonight’s party. I might be a bit of a grump but I’m not going to spoil his fun. Parties are his jam. This is kind ofhisparty and everyone will be dressed up and buzzed. Plus, it’s in the city that never sleeps. This night has Benedict Clark written all over it. I just hope I can keep up.
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