“Thank you.”
“I’m Damien. Damien Snow.”
The little girl inside me is squealing that he just told me hisfullname, but I keep her on the down-low and respond confidently. “It’s a pleasure, Damien.”
His lips press into each other, and I imagine him pressing his lips to my skin. “It certainly is a pleasure, Blair. A very exciting pleasure.”
I smile again. And I take another drink from my glass of champagne. The bubbles pop and fizz in my throat, and I play the role of being interested but not too interested. Men like Damien can smell desperation from a hundred miles away. My mother taught me that. She told me they can sense insecurity and doubt, and they know when a woman isn’t confident.
They don’t want to choose a girl with poor self-esteem, she’d say.They want beauty and elegance and poise.
I let the silence linger between Damien and me. Occasionally making eyes at him over my glass of champagne. I relish the moments when he rakes his eyes over me, taking in my hair and my face and the curve of my breasts.
And I give him the space to do it, sometimes letting my eyes move over the room as I take sips from my champagne.
Some of the girls here I don’t recognize at all, but some I’ve known since childhood, and we grew up in the same inner circles.
I’m surprised that a few of the girls look outwardly nervous.Amateurs. You never let them smell nerves.Did their moms not tell them confidence is currency like mine did?
I honestly don’t know, but I only see it as an advantage. Sure, I can’t deny I feel tiny swarms of butterflies flitting about my belly, but I willnotlet anyone see it.
Damien doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t try to engage me in small talk or ask me a lot of questions about myself. But so far, I’m finding that none of the men really do. That probably comes later, you know?
Eventually, when he excuses himself with a promise of seeing each other again, I move toward the base of the staircase, silently reminding myself to keep my chin lifted and my shoulders relaxed.
Be calm. Be confident. Be worth the attention.
Someone laughs abruptly near my shoulder, damn near startling me off my game, but I quickly pull myself together.
But when I let myself observe the room, my attention is straight up held hostage by a man wearing a black tuxedo. His green eyes sit beneath a black mask like the others, his hair is a gorgeous shade of blond, and his jaw is as sharp as chiseled stone. He’s not older, like the silver-haired elites. He’s younger, maybe a few years older than me, and incredibly tall, with muscular, broad shoulders and long, strong legs.
He’s Adonis-level handsome.
And he’s looking directly at me.
Instantly, the air feels heavy between us, and the room narrows as the strangest sensation washes over my body.
My stomach tightens, and I get the sense that I should know him. I feel like I’ve seen him or met him before, but at the same time, I can’t find a single memory in my brain to match.
But then, for one irrational flicker of time, I feel nine years old again, sitting cross-legged on my bed, holding a blond-hairedvampire doll in my hands, tilting it toward the window so his eyes looked almost violet in the light.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, and the green-eyed stranger keeps staring at me.
Who is he? And why does he feel so…familiar?
I’m tempted to walk over to him. I’m tempted to go introduce myself and ask him who he is, but that’s not how it goes. The women do not seek out the men; it doesn’t work like that.
If he wants to talk to me, he has to come to me.
I take a quick swig of champagne and work to regain my composure.
And when Damien returns, asking me if I’d like to meet some of his friends, I follow.
I glide. I flutter my lashes and smile. But I can’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder once more.
Green eyes are still on me.
And I really don’t want him to look away.
