I step forward, turn us around so she’s the only thing I can see. The guy in the gray suit wandered away a long time ago, and if I wasn’t so wrapped up in Ruby, I might have followed after him to make sure his drunk ass didn’t wander into traffic.
But Iamwrapped up in her, and now I have her against the wall, her deep brown hair fanning out where she lets her head drop back against it. This close, I can make out the golden honey highlights glinting, slightly yellow from the candlelight around us.
“Since you know so much about me,” I say, just barely managing to keep my voice from a growl. “I think I should probably know your name.”
“Oh, really?” she laughs, tilting her head. “Tell me yours, first.”
I open my mouth to do just that—all I want is her name, her number, hell, the coordinates to her fucking hotel room—but I snap it shut when I realize revealing my name will only lead to questions about being a Burch. It will lead to her realizing I’m the son of the poor cancer man up at the front of the ballroom, still fielding well wishes, and this competition will fall away to pity.
And there’s no way I’m letting that happen.
“You first,” I prod, and she laughs, sliding away from me smoothly and walking backward into the fray of the party. Effortless, how she doesn’t trip on her dress, how she snatches a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Not a chance,” she mouths, turning back into the crowd. I’m already moving to follow her, a bright, churning feeling in my chest. Competitive, coveting, interested and intense. I’ve felt it at the hospital, going up against other interns for the same surgery. Fighting for top spot. Taking what I want and proving my worth again and again.
What Ruby doesn’t understand is that most of this shit may be an act, but there is something about my facade thatistrue. I always get what I want, always earn the spot I occupy.
If she wants a game of cat and mouse, that’s what she’ll get.
Chapter 2
Jules
I’ve never been the kind of woman who noticed the color of a man’s eyes, but here I am, catching and keeping in my mind a startling shade of sterling gray I wasn’t even sure a person’s irises could hold.
As I disappear into the crowd, taking a sip of the champagne and letting the flavor roll around on my tongue, I tell myself that I didn’t just challenge Gray Eyes over there to pursue me.
But I know, deep down, that I did.
In my defense, I hadn’t expected to run into someone so…intoxicating. I hadn’t expected to run into a man who could make being caged against the wall feel like a fucking treat. His voice was deep, but tinged with a flat, Midwestern cadence that surprised me. For some reason, given his height, the well-groomed, dark beard showing beneath his sparkling onyx black mask, I’d almost thought he was foreign.
Now, I glance over my shoulder and see him just a few feet away from me, in conversation with someone else but looking straight in my direction. It sends another trill of anticipation racing along my skin.
Though I can’t make out his full expression—only the steel gray of his eyes behind the mask—I get the sense that his eyebrows are drawn down, concentrating.
Onme.
Around us, the ballroom is dim, candles winking in the gentle light, a jazz band up on the stage playing soft, luxe Christmas music as champagne flutes twinkle and clink. The party is a mix between Christmas luxury and masquerade, faces covered by sparkling red, green, white, and black masks. Most have opted for the kind that only cover your eyes, but the more dedicated—and the staff—are concealed down to their chins.
Mine is a sparkling ruby mask with a feather sprouting up on the side of my face, and I thought it might look ridiculous. Then I arrived and realized this one is pretty tame compared to some of the spiraling, intricate designs here. I think I even saw a mask in Tiffany blue—not festive, but a clear show of wealth, if every gem was actually a diamond.
Why did I tell him that I was here to network? That’s why Dax invited me originally, and even though I thought it might be kind of tacky, he’d convinced me that fundraising was just a front for the party. For the drinking and schmoozing.
I’m not so sure that’s true—not after Franklin Burch’s speech—but Dax isn’t here now, for me to curse him out. In fact, I already did that, and decided to come to the party on my own.
But I’m not thinking about Dax, or the fact that he turned out to be married. I’m not thinking about the fact that this isexactlythe kind of thing my parents worried would happen when I made the decision to move to New York City.
Instead, I’m thinking about Gray as he moves ever closer to me, closing the distance and whittling down the number of people between us. I can practically smell his cologne. Something warm and almost sweet—amber?
Slowly, we make our way through the ballroom, and each time I glance over my shoulder, he’s there, gaze on me, making my heart pick up. The back of my neck is hot, and I can’t deny how much I like the way his eyes travel over me, drinking me in all at once, rather than breaking me down into pieces as men so often do.
To many of them, I’m a quick equation of parts—ass, tits, hips—and a hasty deduction about whether or not I’m thick or fat. Desirable or not.
I have no problem with either word. I’m comfortable in my body, and I know what I have. Ozempic might be in right now, but I have no qualms with my curves. Strong, capable, and fucking gorgeous.
Growing up, my mom often said I was just like Marilyn Monroe—she didn’t love the way I filled out, often made comments about my swimsuits being provocative, even though they were just like what all the other girls wore—but when I search for Monroe online, I didn’t see the resemblance.
Marilyn Monroe was fat in the way that the un-skinniest Disney star is. That’s to say, not at all. She wasn’t even mid-size, curvy like me, but instead just a woman with a body that wasn’t emaciated like the models and hungry wives around her.
