What you need is more alcohol.
This is a party, after all.
It’s probably one of the few chances that I have left to enjoy myself without having to pretend to play Grigoryan’s doting wife.
My stomach rolls, and even the thought of having to fuck that man makes it hard not to vomit.
Glancing around, I search for a server.
I’m going to need so much alcohol to forget that this is what my life has come to.
Moretti climbs over the rope that closes off the stairs to the second floor. His white T-shirt stretches over his chest as he moves, and I find myself licking my lips.
Shit.
That second glass of wine on an empty stomach might have been a bit too much because I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.
Everyone else is in party attire, but he’s in a black leather jacket, combat boots, and jeans. It makes me hate him a little as my Spanx dig in anytime I breathe too deeply. The misery that comes from walking in the sky-high gold heels that I’ll never wear again is an entirely different kind of hell.
Moretti’s cold blue eyes meet mine, and my breathing picks up.
He strides across the room…directly toward me.
Something about the intensity in his gaze makes me take a step back, and I bump the wall behind me.
He makes it to me, but rather than stopping, he grabs my bicep and drags me around the corner into the hallway that leads to the bathrooms.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, barely keeping up with his pace.
“Good evening, Vanessa,” he purrs. “You and I need to have a conversation.”
Moretti guides me into one of the dressing rooms, and the door closes with a heavy thud. A soft click fills the air as he locks the door and sidesteps, caging me in against the wall.
My eyes fly to his, and his lips tip up at the edges. His electric, stormy scent hits my nose, and it frazzles my brain.
My body aches to melt into him, but I still have no idea what this is about.
“Speak,” I say, giving him an expectant look.
“You seem to have mistaken me for a dog,” he says, chuckling. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost the attitude, despite your dire circumstances.”
“Did you drag me away to purposely torment me about how much my life sucks?”
“I did not.” He leans even closer, tucking an errant wave behind my ear with his tattooed fingers. “You’re going to be twenty-five in a few short hours. Happy birthday.”
“T-Thank you,” I whisper as my stomach flutters.
He’s the first and only person I’ve talked to tonight who has brought up that my birthday is tomorrow, and it leaves me feeling some type of way.
Moretti is tan despite the abysmal weather in Boston, and it makes his blue eyes and the blond hair on the top of his head stick out with even more contrast. He stands to his full height, rolling his shoulders back and reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He pulls out a small box and offers it to me. I must hesitate for too long because he says, “Take it. It’s not a bomb, I swear.”
“If you could fit a bomb in a box this size, I’d be impressed,” I say, taking the gift.
What the hell is happening?
I’m an adult.
No one has bought me birthday gifts in years.
