Chapter Five
BEA
I still feel a little raw. Stripped bare—and more than just to my legs. But I’m not going home. Because what’s waiting there? Hours of sleeplessness. Hours of self-reproach because I was too pigheaded to realise I was in a relationship going nowhere.
So I won’t go home—I’ll force myself to stay and drink and be merry even if I don't feel like it. I’ll do what any self-respecting rejected girlfriend would do and get a little drunk. Though nottoodrunk; just to that optimal stage where I can block it all out. The stage at the point just beforeIblack out. It’s a tricky business, and a fine line, I know. But I’m nothing if not an overachiever, and after the day I’ve had, I’m more than up for the job.
I’m usually the responsible one—happy to be the designated driver—and not really a big drinker. I like sharing a bottle of wine with Fin, drinking a cocktail after dinner, or enjoying a beer or two on a hot day, but it usually stops there.
Fuck that noise today.
I’ll drink, and I’ll dance and leave the thinking and dissection to another day. I’m going to lose myself in the music and dance myself into some kind of trance like a Moroccan dervish. A trance sounds preferable because I’m so done thinking today.
I smile, catching Fin’s gaze.Fake happiness. Fake okay. Don’t let your gaze slide left to Kit.Because, yes, he came dancing with us, though he’s yet to do much more than sit at this table looking broodily delicious while Fin, Rory, and I have danced. At one point, I even fooled myself into thinking he was watching me.
Because I’m that ridiculous.
Before we left the restaurant, I’d excused myself to strip off my jeans and slick on a little of Fin’s lipstick. It wasn’t a bad call about the jeans. I’d fit into a club better like this. And Fin was right; I do like to keep my legs shaved.Waxed, actually.I run a lot. And wear a lot of shorts or running tights. Stubble isn’t a good look or feel in either of those.
So I’d shoved my jeans in my bag—a bag which is large enough to carry a small child in—thinking I’d probably have to show the contents before being allowed inside the club. With a last glance in the mirror, I decided I looked okay. I’ve looked better, but at least I wasn’t all swollen eyes from crying over Jon. Quite the opposite. Turning from the mirror, I’d swung open the bathroom door and almost walked straight into a wall Kit.
‘Oh, excuse me.’ My response was almost automatic as I’d almost bounced from his solid chest, inhaling a deep lungful of his scent.Wow.
‘Dr Honey Bea.’ His hands caught my elbows to steady me, his voice, as always, rich and seductive with that ever-present teasing hint.What was it about him that liked goading me?Confident I would no longer fall, he slid the black AmEx card balanced between his fingers into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Looks like I’m not the only one not quite dressed for a club.’ I don’t know what made me say it because he wears a suit like a whore wears underwear.For the business of temptation.And just like that, my gaze followed his as he looked down at his body.
‘You don’t like how I’m dressed?’
As my head came up, I realised I’d been busted staring. While imagining—Rumlr imagining—what he looked like beneath the suit.
‘I—no, you look very nice.’ Nice? He looked hot—hot as fuck—and he knew it.
‘Was that a compliment?’ I could feel my cheeks heat again at his tone.
‘You’re just a little overdressed.’
He cocked a brow, a look so suggestive it made me mentally backtrack.Had I suggested he undress—a Freudian slip? Oh, hell, I had!But I instantly forgot any rebuttal or apology as his eyes began a slow perusal of my body, lingering over my glossed lips and my one bared shoulder. My tanned legs. Here’s a man who takes his time, the look said, and I suddenly ached between my legs.
I wondered if he could tell as he leaned closer, his hand drifting up towards my hair.
‘About this boyfriend...’ His breath brushed across my face, and I found myself stuttering.
‘We-we’ve broken up. Please don’t tell Fin. Not tonight.’
He nodded almost imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t register any emotion until my hair fell around my shoulder and he smiled. It took me a beat to realise he was holding a pen in his hand. I’d been sitting all night with my hair tied up with a pen. And he’d loosened it—as if he had the right to do as he pleased, the right to do as he pleasedto me.
God, that’s so hot.
‘That’s better,’ he murmured.Did he mean my hair or my relationship status?Then he’d slid the pen in the same pocket as his credit card and turned to walk away.
‘That’s my pen,’ I called after him.
He stopped and turned slowly. He fed his hand into his pocket, pulling out my pen.
‘Yes, that’s mine.’ I held out my hand for the stupid ballpoint pen, wondering what had come over me. It was hardly a Mont Blanc but probably something I’d picked up from one of the nurses’ stations. It was probably even chewed at one end. ‘I’d like you to give it to me.’
‘You’d like me to give it to you?’ His expression was benign, but his tone was not. Like an idiot, I could only respond with a breathy, ‘Yes.’
