“Can we talk later?” I say to Brooke.
Without breaking eye contact with my latest nemesis, I set down my phone next to my purse. “Are you stopping me from being served?”
“I think you might have better luck elsewhere, Ma’am,” he says, his voice vibrating deep enough to be felt through my puffed-out chest.
“Better luck getting a drink? Than here?” I repeat, tipping my head towards the fully stocked bar.
“We’re not talking about drinks,” he says, his features impassive. “Are we?”
“Aren’t we?” I challenge and it’s a genuine question. What else could he mean? This man knows nothing about me except that I can’t get a fucking drink.
Unless he was listening to my conversation with Brooke. Has he figured out I work for a competing interior designer? Did he take offense to my scathing review of the hotel décor? But even if that was his problem, we were sent an official invitation.
Why else could this jerk think I didn’t belong here? I mentioned clients. Oh, and selling myself for the price of a cocktail. My jaw would drop, but I’m too tense with anger.
“You think I’m a…” I can’t say the word and instead reach for my purse. “I have an invitation. You can’t throw me out.”
“Invitations can be forged. Or stolen.”
“One of the other security guards checked my name at the door.”
“And did you give himyourname?” he asks. He presses his finger to his earpiece, making it clear he’s being fed information. “Could I see some ID proving that you are…” He nods at whoever’s talking to him. “Brooke Winstanley.”
Great. Some tech busy-body is busily reviewing footage of my arrival. “Brooke is my boss and she was personally invited byyourboss. I’m here as her representative.”
He tilts his head to one side as he checks me over. “To pick up men?”
I clench my jaw. “I’m an interior designer.”
When he quirks an eyebrow, I’m surprised his granite features don’t crack with the effort. “And yet you called this place astonishingly ugly and soulless.”
“I guess that’s why you fit in so well.”
The guard’s cheek tics, or was that a flinch? I shouldn’t care that my comment hit harder than it should. He’s about to throw me out anyway.
“I didn’t mean…” I begin, resisting the urge to glance at the scars on his head. “I’m in no way suggesting you’re ugly.” I let my gaze travel slowly up and down his body. It’s a bad move because he has the most amazing body. Tall. Muscular. Powerful. Heat scorches my cheeks. “You’re…” My voice trails off. I need a damn drink.
“I’m what?” he asks, forcing me to continue.
His fellow security guard leans forward to get a better view of my humiliation. He fights a smirk.
“Oh, please,” I snap, blocking out our audience. “You know you’re good-looking.” I pause, searching for some hintthat he’s softening. Is he seriously going to make me leave? “And excuse me, but do I look like a hooker?”
It’s his turn to let his eyes roam over my body. The forest green satin of my full-length halter neck dress clings to my body. With my legs crossed, the high split on one side shows off my smooth legs, making them look longer and more slender thanks to my heels. It’s revealing, yes, but classic.
“I was thinking more of a high-class escort,” he replies.
“Wow. I should take that as a compliment.” I rest my elbow on my knee and prop my chin on my hand. My neck’s aching from looking up at him. “Clearly, you’re enjoying this little power trip, but if you want me to leave, you’re going to have to make me.”
We hold each other’s stare and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t do something to my insides. When I hear my phone buzz, I should ignore it, but Brooke will be impatient for another update and she’s going to love this. I return my security guard’s scowl as I take the call.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I say. “They think I’m a whore.”
“Grace? What the hell?” Cameron demands. “Where are you?”
I cover my face with my hand, wishing my hair was still long enough to hide my mortification. My life truly is a shitshow but what the hell? I might as well embrace it. And if I’m going down in flames, I’m taking my asshole husband with me.
Straightening up, I give my new acquaintance a shrug to let him know I’m past caring what he thinks.
