“Is this for me?” She strokes me again, her movements blatant enough to be obvious to anyone paying attention. Luckily for me, everyone else is busy arguing over which five-thousand-dollar bottle of red will pair best with the porterhouse or whether to start with the scallop risotto or the langosta tails. “I bet it isn’t...”
Looking up, I aim my gaze across the table to find Millie staring right at me, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She’s uptight but not stupid. There’s no way she doesn’t know what Paige is doing to me under the table. When our eyes meet, she looks away, embarrassment quickly replaced by temper.
I guess someone’s paying attention after all.
“Paige,” I say it softly, pushing her name through clenched teeth, a clear warning that I’m not in the mood to play her games. Not tonight.
Loosening her grip, Paige rolls her eyes. “Relax, Mercer,” she says, easing her hand from under my napkin. “I thought we were having fun.”
“Fun?” I shift in my seat to look at her. There’s no arguing she’s beautiful. Spontaneous. Smart. Confident. The kind of woman most men would kill for. “Is that why I’m here instead ofCurt?”
When I say the name of the guy who was supposed to be her date, Paige looks at Millie before letting out another laugh that tells me she’s managed to put two and two together. That I wasn’t running late, and neither was her cousin. That we were together, doing what we do best—arguing and insulting each other.
“What’s the matter, Mercer,” Paige says, giving me a pretty pout. “Are you jealous?”
Yes.
Yes, I’m jealous.
I’m so jealous I can’t see straight.
So jealous, I want to flip this fucking table over and scream.
“No, Paige,” I lie to her quietly, fighting to keep my tone level because Paige is a shark. If she smells even a hint of weakness, she’ll use it to her advantage. Use it to reel me back in. “I’m not jealous—I’m bored.”
Paige laughs because after two years of whatever you want to call what we’ve been doing, she knows me better than I’d like. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The rest of the evening was a blur.
Food and wine. Toasts and speeches. Millie’s dad got teary-eyed when he spoke about giving his eldest daughter away. Her mother beamed with pride while she listed her accomplishments, proud to have raised someone so perfect and happy and that she found someone worthy to spend the rest of her life with. Millie smiled through it all, next to a puffed-up Allister. Thankfully, Paige behaved and kept her hands to herself.
Several hours later, standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, I spot Millie’s father standing off to the side, alone. Seeing my chance, I pry my arm out of Paige’s grip so I can approach him, a few folded bills concealed in my outstretched hand. “Thank you for tonight, sir,” I say. “I enjoyed myself.”
Taking my hand and feeling the money I’m discretely offering him, Mr. Blackwell starts to shake his head. “You’re our guest, Dean,” he tells me with a slight frown. “There’s no need for youto?—”
“I appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Blackwell, but we both know I’m not the dinner guest you planned on,” I tell him bluntly. “Besides, I pay my own way. I always have.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Millie’s father gives me a nod. “Alright.” Pulling his hand from mine, he pockets the money without bothering to look at it. “I hope the company wasn’t too boring. We can be a stuffy bunch.”
“It beat leftover pizza and baseball,” I say, answering honestly.
“Well, not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take it.” Instead of being insulted, Mr. Blackwell laughs. “Can I at least offer you a ride home?”
Giving him a head shake, I angle myself away from him. Tipping chin down the sidewalk, more than ready to call it a night. “Thank you, but I can take the subway.”
Gripping me by my shoulder, he practically drags me to a waiting fleet of limousines. “It’s the least I can do.” When he sees us approaching the limo, the driver, who’s waiting near the rear door straightens his posture. “Burt, take this young man wherever he needs to go.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver says with a curt nod.
Because it’s either accept the ride or refuse his generosity, I turn away from the limo to offer him my hand for a final time. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Preston,” he says, shaking my hand on a friendly back slap. “And we’ll see you at the church on Sunday.”
“The church?”
“For my Millie’s wedding,” Preston says, his brow furrowing slightly. “Paige added you, last minute, as her plus one.”
The fuck?
