My mouth falls open. “Wait, what?”
“Yes,” he repeats. “I’dloveto go on a date with you.” Then he grins at me, one that shows his perfectly straight, dazzlingly white teeth.
His voice is low and gravelly, sexy as hell. And because he doesn’t already have enough going for him, he has a gorgeous American accent that makes me want to swoon like a damsel in distress in an old movie. And I didn’t miss the way he emphasized the word love either.
All the occupants of the table turn to stare at him. The pitying woman looks like she’s been slapped and that look alone makes this whole ordeal worthwhile.
Behind me, I hear a ripple of sound, laughter coming from a group on the other side of the bar. I glance over nervously, and I’m relieved to see they aren’t looking at me, but I then notice someone filming me on their cell phone, which takes most of my relief away. My cheeks flame as I realize I’m just standing there, mute and awkward.
He digs into his pocket, pulls out his cell phone, and holds it out to me, his green eyes never leaving mine.
“Put your number in.”
It’s not a request. It’s a freaking command. I should be outraged, but a strange thrill runs through me as I wordlessly take his phone. Who would have thought that quiet authority is hot? Even if I would never admit that out loud to anybody. My fingers tremble as I type in my number. When I hand him his cell phone, he glances at the screen, then at me, a slow smile tugging at his lips. His eyes tell me that he knows it’s a prank, a bet, a game, but he’s game.
I feel my whole body begin to burn up, but I force a smile. My entire body is vibrating with adrenaline. I don’t know if I should stay and attempt to chat to him or what, but my forfeit is complete, and no one can say I didn’t do it. That means I can go and get changed, go back to my table, and try to drink away my shame.
As I start to walk away, a group of men standing around near the end of the bar suddenly clap and cheer. One cups his hands around his mouth and shouts in my direction.
“You go, Jessica,” he shouts.
The rest join in, hooting and whistling. Mortification and survival instinct collide inside me. I want to run, but I can’t in these stilettos, so I do the only thing I can think of and join in with the joke. I toss my hair back over one shoulder, plaster on my best sultry smirk, and give them the exaggerated Jessica Rabbit walk, with my hips swaying, and my ass deliberately shaking like I own the place.
The bar erupts. Clapping, laughter, whistles. Someone even bangs a glass against the table like it’s a drum. I reach the center of the room, give a theatrical bow, and then scamper, as gracefully as possible in these ridiculous shoes, back to the safety of the break room, not pausing to ask Peter if it’s ok to go back there again. The moment the door shuts behind me, I lean against it, my chest heaving.
“Holy shit, did I just do that?” I whisper to myself.
My hands are shaking as I peel myself out of the red satin monstrosity and slip gratefully back into my own outfit. Drainpipe blue jeans, a silk Cami top, and a short black leather jacket. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I don’t even care that my hair is a little mussed up and my cheeks are flushed. I look like me again. Thank God.
When I finally emerge back into the bar, the noise has settled into its usual Saturday night roar. I can’t help but glance overto the table my victim and his group are sitting at, but the table is empty. They are all gone, thank heavens. Sandra and Lucy are waiting for me at our table, both grinning like greedy cats who’ve eaten not just the cream but the entire dairy farm. Sandra pushes a shot across the table toward me the second I sit down. I don’t need to be asked twice after that performance. I swallow down the shot, barely tasting it, just feeling the warmth travelling down to my stomach.
“To our very own Jessica Rabbit. You were brilliant,” Sandra declares.
Lucy nods her head in agreement, still chuckling. “The bow, Pippa. The bow killed me.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I can never come back here again.”
“Sure, you can,” Sandra dismisses airily. “You were fabulous. Everyone loved it.”
“Someone filmed it,” I point out, still horrified. “I’m going to end up on the bloody Internet. I can see the caption now. Redhead crashes bar in cosplay disaster.”
Lucy pats my hand, still laughing. “Trust me, you were a hit. Own it.”
I groan again and knock back the next shot Sandra gives me. This time, it’s sickly-sweet Sambuca, but it almost immediately dulls the edge of my humiliation.
“Fine,” I say, slamming the glass down. “But I swear, if I ever see that man again, I’m blaming both of you.”
Sandra wiggles her eyebrows. “You gave him your number, remember. You might be seeing him sooner than you think.”
Guiltily, I suddenly realize that for a while there I forgot all about George. I roll my eyes and reach for my drink. “He won’t call, so don’t start.”
They giggle, and just like that, the night rolls on, filled with music, laughter, and of course, more drinks. And even thoughthe memory of those green eyes still burns in my head, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Because those eyes and the expensive suit are gone. And that’s just fine by me.
Chapter Five
Pippa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqFLXayD6e8
