Not that it hasn’t been good so far.
Actually, it’s been a little trip down teenage memory lane if I ignore the smell of leather and expensive cologne... and the hands that seem to know exactly what they’re doing. Endorphins still raging, I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist... only for him to disentangle them just as quick as he sits up straight.
‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, his tone as smooth as silk. Not so smooth is the way he jerkily straightens the cuffs of his shirt.
‘Thank you?’ I repeat but not in the same tone as I push up on one elbow, falling back again as it slips off the leather seat. My legs are in an undignified tangle as I try to right myself—my dress and my stance at odds with his very proper form as he straightens his jacket, pulling sharply on the lapels.
‘Yes, thank you for an enjoyable evening.’
For an enjoyable...whatthefuck!
I manage to sit, my movements stiff and erratic, partly because of the space issues and partly because I. Just. Don’t. Get. It.
Or maybe I do, I think, my heart sinking along with my gaze. Maybe he’s the kind of man who’s all froth and no substance. The kind of man who arrives at the destination far too prematurely, if you know what I mean. But as my gaze sinks south, I see from the bulge in his pants and know that isnotthe case. It’s like he still has something stolen from the produce aisle shoved down there. And there’s no telltale wet patch, excuse my indelicacy.
So, again. I. Don’t. Get. It.
And it looks like I’m notgetting it, either.
‘Dobson will take you home.’
I think I’m making a face like a guppy as I manage, ‘H-home?’
‘Yes. It’s late, and you no doubt have lots to do tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is Saturday,’ I answer automatically. But it doesn’t make one bit of difference as I’m not sure he even heard because the door is already closing at almost the same time as the driver’s one opens.
‘Where to, miss?’
Chapter 7
OLIVIA
‘He said thank you.’
‘He said what?’
‘Thank you,’ I repeat. ‘For services not quite rendered.’ And hell, yeah, I felt cheap. ‘Then he climbed out of the car.’
‘And where was the driver while this was going on?’ Reggie asks, her tone no less incredulous and almost squeaking down the phone line. I’m not sure if she’s enthralled or disgusted; it’s hard to tell because of the volume. But she’s definitely invested. And yes, I know. I know I said I wasn’t going to be able to speak to her this weekend, but it’s not like I could spend two whole days without getting this stuff out of my head.
She knows. She gets it. I’m available for her emergencies, too.
‘The driver was standing outside. It was dark, and the windows were tinted so I don’t think he saw anything.’ Though I’m sure he heard my muttering as I cursed complaints all the way home.
‘Did it not strike you as a little weird? That the guy’s chauffeur was standing outside while you and the nutjob were getting freaky on the back seat? He could’ve had a camera or something.’
‘I doubt that,’ I reply, worrying a thread hanging from the seam of my denim shorts.
‘Not to mention that the car was parked outside his perfectly habitable house.’
‘I know, it was all weird. The only thing I can say is that I was really into him, which is just weirdness on top of more weirdness because he isn’t even my type!’
‘He was rich. Rich is everyone’s type. And rich people get a pass for being weird. They even have a different label for it. Eccentric,’ she adds expressively. ‘I’m pretty sure eccentric covers ugly rich asses, too.’
Her words make me think of the (definitely) elderly (possible) coke fiend in the restaurant bathroom.
‘But is he?’
