“I’m sick and tired of you being late to everything,” he yelled.
“I’m really sorry, I was busy at work—”
“Enough with your fucking job! Fucking farming science is all you talk about!”
“I distinctly remember talking to you about knitting patterns yesterday, but you weren’t interested,” I pointed out. I was being sarcastic, trying not to cry, but he seemed to take it as evidence.
“Exactly! Fucking knitting! Jesus, Maddie! You’re vanilla to the core.”
The insult stung then, and it still stings now. I don’t feel vanilla. Not deep down. But then sometimes I don’t think Peter ever got the real me.
My anguish is soothed a little by the look in Caesar Ashford’s eyes. Tonight, I’m not boring old farming scientist Maddie Rutherford. I’m Cupcake, who has dark hair and a fuchsia dress, and the thought that this gorgeous man thinks I’m stunning fills me with a warmth and a feeling of adventure that I can’t ignore.
Chapter Two
Caesar
I glance toward the ballroom, conscious that Aurelia is on the warpath. I think the mayor’s arrived, and she wants me to go and entertain him. Well, she can shove that where the sun don’t shine. If she had her way, I’d be performing like a Musical Jolly Chimp toy that wears a hat and bangs cymbals together to amuse everyone. I like being the patron of our foundation, and I accept making small talk is part of the job. But I draw the line at spending time with anyone who wants to talk about road developments.
No, I’d much rather talk to the beautiful Cupcake. This girl fascinates me. I’m sure it’s mainly because I can’t puzzle out who she really is. I don’t think we’ve met before—I’m sure I would have remembered those eyes—but I’ve perused the guest list, and I know pretty much everyone here tonight.
She could be a gatecrasher; it is the social event of the season, after all, we made sure of that. Maybe someone else gave her their e-ticket. But if her purpose was to infiltrate the party, she’s not doing a very good job of it. She’s clearly uncomfortable with people. I think if I left her alone, she’d spend the rest of the evening trying to blend in with the furniture, which is frankly impossible in the dress she’s wearing.
She moves toward me, and for a moment I think she’s going to kiss me. But she walks past me, and when I turn I see that an older woman standing behind me has dropped her shawl. My mystery girl bends, retrieves it, and hands it to the older woman with a smile before returning to me. My lips curve up at the kind gesture. I like her already.
Ellis brings over another round of drinks, and I nod my thanks and slide Cupcake’s Cosmopolitan over to her. She’s inthe process of climbing onto a bar stool, a little inelegantly, which makes me hide a smile. Once she’s perched atop it, though, she crosses her legs, and the slit in the skirt of her pink gown parts to reveal an exceptionally pretty pair of pale legs.
“Dammit,” she says, trying to bring the sides together. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a safety pin?”
I pat down my pockets theatrically, then chuckle. “No need to hide your legs on my account.”
She looks down at herself, then lifts her chin, as if she’s telling herself to be brave. Why did she wear such a distinctive color if she didn’t want to be noticed?
“So what do you do?” she asks, sipping her drink. Her dark lashes, which I think are fake, lower for a moment, revealing her glittery eyeshadow. Then they lift again, and her unusual violet eyes study me.
I’m kind of surprised she doesn’t recognize me, even with the mask, as most people here don’t seem to have trouble, probably because Aurelia makes sure I’m visible on social media. “I’m a gardener,” I say. Well, it’s roughly the same field of work.
She snorts. “I don’t think so. Those pretty hands of yours have never done any manual labor.”
“I happen to be very good with my hands.”
She sips her Cosmo, her eyes dancing over the rim of the glass. “I bet you are.”
Our eyes lock, and my heartbeat picks up speed. She’s a woman of contrasts: shy, but flirty; quiet, but talkative; elegant, but clumsy. She’s wearing a designer dress and sandals, and carrying a Christian Louboutin clutch, so she has money, but something tells me she doesn’t go often to events like this.
She lowers her gaze, picks up another cupcake, and peels off the wrapper. She has exceptionally pale skin, which is unusual for Kiwi women, who usually grow up outdoors, swimming and playing netball. I can’t help but think how thatpale skin would look next to my tanned body if we were both naked.
“Tell me about the opinionated wanker,” I say. “Why on earth would he let a gorgeous creature like you go?”
She bites into the cupcake and removes the frosting from her top lip with the tip of her tongue, which makes my cock twitch. She has a tiny mole just above her lip on her left side. If she were mine, I’d make a point of kissing it frequently.
“He said I was too vanilla,” she says.
That makes me laugh out loud. “You? Vanilla?” I snort.
Her lips curve up. “You don’t know anything about me. I might be a starfish in bed, as far as you know.”
I’ve already had a few whiskies tonight to make the event passable. Unfortunately, alcohol has the side effect of making me reckless and horny. I move a few inches closer to her so when I lower my head and murmur to her, nobody else can hear. “There’s no way that you are anything but electrifying in the sack.”
