I tighten my hold on her hip, registering the dark way she’s looking at me, wondering if now might be a good time tospecify that although this arrangement is not about sex for me, that could be something on the table. I could make it worth her time. An added bonus to whatever else she wants from this arrangement.
But before I can say any of that, I hear a familiar deep voice calling my name.
“Russell!”
I turn to find Orie making his way through the crowd, holding his glass of champagne with the care of a man who doesn’t want his drink spilled down the front of his suit. Like Jules, Orie didn’t come from a background like mine—he’s not as used to the wealth. He treats each of his possessions with a certain care, like he expects them to last his lifetime.
The suit he’s wearing is the same one he wore under his gown at our graduation. At this point, being a celebrated cardiologist in his own right, he could certainly afford another high-end piece. But it’s just like Orie to avoid anything superfluous.
“Orie,” I say, taking his hand when he gets close enough and carefully pulling him into that particular bro-hug, the one where you pat your friends back in an excuse to embrace. He thumps his fist into my back and when he pulls away, he’s grinning at me.
“And who isthis?” he asks, immediately zeroing in on the gorgeous woman with me. Of course he would. I had my fair share of fun while we were in med school, before Margot, and Orie loved to pick apart the different women I’d bring back to our apartment, trying to coalesce them into a “type.”
It never worked, though—I didn’t have a type. At least, I didn’t have a type before that party years ago, and since then, Orie has made sure to comment on my more recent preference for dark hair and brown eyes.
“Jules, nice to meet you,” Jules says, holding out her hand before I can introduce her myself. Her eyes flick between Orie and I, her smile widening. “How do you two know each other?”
“Med school,” I say, at the same time Orie says, “This asshole hit me with his car.”
Jules coughs, nearly spitting out a sip of champagne, and Orie thumps her on the back good-naturedly. I shoot him a look, and he gives me anaw-shucksgrin that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Her eyes are wide when she recovers, and she turns to me, “You hit him with yourcar?”
“Well, not the car I have now,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I was barely rolling—like a mile an hour—and he wasn’t looking where he was going.”
“Pedestrians always have the right-of-way,” Jules says, pointing at me with her champagne glass.
“She’s right,” Orie says, flashing me a bright grin. “I like her. How long have the two of you been together?”
Jules gives me a careful, quick, questioning glance at this. One that saysshould we lie to him? Orie would keep the secret. He always understood the weight of my father’s expectations, would get an arrangement like this. But for some reason, I don’t want him to know that this is fake.
So, I snake my arm around her waist, pull her in closer to me, and say, “About a month.”
The movement shifts our position ever so slightly, and in the next moment, there’s a warm, golden spotlight dropping down on us from the ceiling. Orie takes a step back, like he doesn’t want the light to touch him.
“Oh, look at that!” someone says, and I raise my hand up to shield my eyes, spotting a DJ in the corner of the room, staring right at us. It seems like everyone in the ballroom turns to look in our direction.
The DJ switches the music to a soft, instrumental version ofI Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clauseand Jules laughs, patting my chest and pointing up above us just as the DJ says, “We’ve got a lucky couple who’s stepped under the mistletoe! As of right now we’ve got…” he takes a moment, glancing at a paper, “fifty thousand in mistletoe donations! If we get a kiss, our generous donors will double that money!”
Jules’ eyes go wide, and she glances around, a bit of nervousness creeping onto her face for the first time.
“Kiss her!” someone calls, while another person whistles.
I have three simultaneous thoughts—first, that a stunt like this is pretty tacky, for what’s supposed to be a prestigious charity fundraiser. Second, that a fifty-thousand-dollar kiss might break some sort of world record. And third, that rich people really do look for the most pointless ways to spend their time.
A chant starts up around us, “Kiss her!Kiss her!”
The DJ adds to it, “No pressure, but youareunder the mistletoe!”
I find Jules’ eyes, trying to read her expression. Of course I want to kiss her—fuck, I’ve wanted to do a lot more than that from the first moment I saw her in the hospital. But I told her this wasn’t about sex, and the last thing I want is to make her feel like that was a lie.
It’s impossible for me to read the expression on her face, especially in this light.
“Come on, man, kiss her!” Orie says, raising up his glass of champagne and looking between me and Jules expectantly.
I search her face, waiting for that hard look. One that saysabsolutely do not kiss me.
But instead, her chin is tipped up to me, her lips slightly parted, something in her gaze almost open and wanting. So, Istep closer to her, and a soft cheer goes up in the crowd, urging us together.
