“It looks like you’re wearing a tube sock.”
“Help me out of it, then!”
We get to work trying to peel three feet of bubblegum pink polyester off my body.
“I don’t know,” she says as she strains against the material. “I just think he should put a ring on it. You know, since he already put a baby in it.”
I grab another dress. “Yeah, well, that’s not really possible right now.”
I frown at how frumpy the next one looks. It’s black. Black never looks frumpy. Are there no good dresses in this place?
I tug it off and grab the last one.
“Not with that attitude,” she says as she helps me zip the back of the dress. Then she smiles into the mirror. “You know what I think? Fuck the rules. Even if he doesn’t treat you like you’re his date, be his date. Make him want you. Make him so hot for you that it’s obvious how he feels about you, whether he likes it or not.”
“And how do I do that?” I ask as I flatten down the silver sequins on the dress. Honestly, the whole thing looks like it’s made of them. I’m surprised it’s not itchier. I’m also surprised at how well it fits, considering it’s not even a maternity dress.
Electra’s face tells me she sees it too. “Well, you can start by wearing that dress. You look like a million bucks.”
“Yeah?” I turn side to side. The light catches on every sequin.
“Ohhellyeah,” she says. “It’s very Tiffany. Very Cartier. Very Marilyn Monroe. You can’t go wrong there.”
I stare at myself in the mirror. Electra’s right: this dress does make me look like a million bucks. A billion, even. Like the kind of woman worth enough to be on Ransome Rozanov’s arm.
And why shouldn’t I?
Maybe Electra’s got a point. Maybe I should toy with him a little. Make him see what he’s missing.
“No, you cannot,” I agree with a smile.
33
RANSOME
“What’s it like?” Maverick asks.
I take a sip of whiskey. It’s my first drink of the night and will probably be the most expensive. We are at the Royal, a rooftop lounge above the event room of the Beaumont where the party will later take place.
It’s only a handful of us here, including Maverick and Baron who showed up for “pre-game moral support,” as Mav calls it. Unfortunately, they know my schedule and knew that I was going to a party tonight with both my wife and my assistant, who is also the mother of my unborn child.
“What’s what like?” I ask, even though I know I shouldn’t.
“You’re going to a party with the woman you married because we live in a modern day Romeo and Juliet where people can still be betrothed if it means everyone plays nice. And even though you don’t love it, she’s definitely a looker. But so is the woman you actually want to be with, who happens to be carrying your heir in that tight little body of hers.”
I set my glass down harder than I should. Several people look in our direction, including the aforementioned wife, who’s smiling at me while her eyes saywhat kind of scene are you causing now, honey?
“I would pop you in the mouth for the words you just said,” I growl. “But that would mean picking just one thing you said.”
“Or you could deck him once for every stupid thing he just said,” Baron snorts as he sips his drink.
“Unfortunately, I need my hand intact.” I force a tight smirk in Jenica’s direction to get her off my back, all the while picking my glass back up again.
She goes back to her conversation, her fluttery laugh filling the air, her eye lashes batting and every strand of her blonde hair perfectly in place. If she were my type, I could see what men are ogling over. Of course, she’s too superficial to be my type. Too bitchy. Too shallow. Too focused on status and dollar signs.
TooBratva.
Most men are into all that, though. Most men would give their left nut to be with a woman like Jenica. But all that said, most men haven’t had Amara. Haven’t felt her skin against theirs. Haven’t smelled her after she takes a shower or watched her drag her bottom lip through her teeth. Haven’t kissed her. Haven’t tasted her.
