Carefully pushing the empty glass away, I reach for my clutch on the seat between us while Dean stares at me like Ijust sprouted a second head. Snapping it open, I pull out a fifty and tuck it under the foot of my empty glass. Sliding off my stool, I arch a brow at him. “Make sure she uses mouthwash first,” I tell him, tucking my clutch under my arm. “You just never know where my cousin’s mouth has been.”
Dramatic exit secured, I turn on my heel to make my escape. I don’t get more than three steps from the bar before I feel a rough hand close over my upper arm and spin me around.
“What the hell’s gotten into you,” Dean growls down at me, while his gaze travels from my face to my feet. Finding my face again, he gives me a disgusted scoff. “And what thefuckare you wearing?”
Cheeks stung with embarrassment, I feel the center of my palm tingle with the sudden urge to slap him. “I know you’re not used to seeing women wearing actual clothes,” I snipe back while discretely trying to pull myself out of his grip. It’s no use. Unless I want to cause a scene or chew my own arm off, I’m not going anywhere. “But it’s called adress, Dean. We women wear them when we want to look nice.”
“That’s not adress, Mills. That’s agoddamnpocket square with straps.” He makes a low noise in the back of his throat before dragging me even closer. “And you don’t looknice. Matter of fact, you look about as far fromniceas you can possibly get.”
He’s right.
Not only is the dress I’m wearing entirely too short and sheer enough to see through, it’s completely backless and the neckline plunges nearly to my navel.
“Why do you care what I’m wearing,” I hiss in his face while tugging on my arm. He’s still not letting me go. Still looking at me like I’ve offended him somehow, which considering he just admitted that the only reason he’s here is so he can collect the bathroom blowjob my cousin promised him, isbeyond ridiculous. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind what I’m wearing while you were checking out my legs,” I say, staring up at him while desperately trying to regain the upper hand.
“Because I didn’t know who I was looking at,” he says quietly, still glaring down at me. “And since when does Millie Blackwell show up to a family dinner without agoddamnedbra on.”
He’s right again. I’m not wearing a bra. The cut of the dress makes wearing one impossible. “That’s none of your business,” I hiss, giving my arm a not-so-subtle tug.
“Kinda is…” Dean makes that sound again, his grip tightening before he dips his head, bringing his mouth to my ear, so close I can feel the heat of it against the side of my face. “I can see your nipples through the fabric of yourdress, Princess...” he whispers softly. “They went stiff the second you realized who you were sitting next to.”
Jerking back on an indignant gasp, I finally rip my arm out of his grasp, and he lets me, right before I slap him—hard—across the face. So hard my palm instantly goes numb. Stumbling back a few steps before I find my feet, I plant them firmly, determined not to run while I do my best to keep my knees from shaking.
Gaze aimed at the floor, Dean flicks a look at me through his lashes. Reaching up, he grips his own jaw like he’s trying to rub feeling back into it. “Ow.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I seethe up at him, my hand starting to throb.
Raising his head, he gives me a look that makes me wish I’d run when I had the chance.
“Me?” Dropping his hand away from his abused face, I can see my handprint on his cheek. A small bead of blood forming at the corner of his mouth. Licking it away, Dean straightens his tie while letting his gaze rake over me, a mixture of insolenceand amusement settling over his perfect features like a mask. “I’m nobody, remember?” Before I can think of something clever to say in response, he gives me another one of his smirks. “You might want to ask the bartender for some ice. See you inside, Princess,” he says, brushing past me on his way out the door.
NINE
Well, this is a fucking disaster.
The Blackwells are nice enough people. Honestly, probably some of the nicest rich people I’ve ever met—certainly the most normal. Aside from a few confused looks thrown my way and a tight-lipped smile from Paige’s mother, no one seems bothered thatthe helpfound his way to their dinner table—and make no mistake, the Blackwells, nice or not, know I'm the help.
Since the weekend I spent tending bar at Millie’s little sister’s bachelorette weekend in the Hamptons two years ago, my mobile bar service has become a regular installment at Blackwell social functions. I saymymobile bar service because Angel sold out to me about six-months after the Hamptons job.Turns out running a successfully growing business was a little bit more than he signed up for. These days, I employ seventy-five bartenders and we’re booked solid for the next eighteen months. On top of private parties and corporate retreats, we hold exclusive accounts with several nightclubs and bars in Manhattan. If they’re down a bartender or need extra, expert hands to host an event, they call me.
The bartender who made Millie’s martini?
His name is Marcus.
He works for me.
No, it isn’t the Blackwellsthat turn dinner into an absolute shitshow. It’s one Blackwell in particular.
Soon to be Blackwell-Whittmore.
When she walked into the private dining room after our little run-in at the bar, I’d already dropped a hasty peck on Paige’s cheek, along with asorry I’m latebefore taking the empty seat next to her. I’m pretending to be busy with settling my napkin in my lap but I know exactly when Millie walks in because the conversational buzz that floats around me goes quiet.
Don’t look.
Don’t you fucking look.
I look.
Fuck.
