Page 14 of Bastard In A Suit

I shrug. “We could put the tracker on it—see where that little fish egg ends up.”

Annoyance pinches his features tight. Every time I bring up the Microtracker, Duke pulls back. Like talking about the product—or anything business-related—is the last thing on his mind.

He sets down his fork and pushes the appetizer aside. “What did you think of the caviar?”

My nose involuntarily scrunches up. “I’m afraid my palette isn’t very sophisticated.”

Dad’s more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, and when Mom does venture outside of his comfort box, she loads up on creams and crusts to make the “healthy” go down easier—beer battered fish, clam chowder, and deep-fried escargot are staples at the Locke home. That and a hearty beer.

“We’ll have to do something about that,” Duke says.

The unspoken promise sends a thrill up my spine. I’m mid-crafting an appropriate response when our second course arrives. Some kind of salad served in an irregular-shaped pewter dish. Pieces of arugula have been twisted to form rose buds. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I tamp back the urge to take out my cell and snap a picture—no one will ever believe me. From inside my purse, I hear my text messages vibrate. Forrest and Jake, for sure. Guilt threads under my skin.

I sit taller, aware the motion has thrust my chest further into the spotlight. Instead of shrinking under his gaze, I embrace it. Try to use his fascination with my breasts to my advantage. If you’ve got it…

My palm closes around the MicroTracker and I slide it across the table toward Duke. His fingers stay wrapped around the stem of his wine glass, unflinching even when our skin touches. A bolt of electricity hits me right in the gut. Jesus.

I shift, lean forward, give Duke the full scope of my cleavage. “Why don’t you have another look?”

“Gladly,” he says.

My breath hitches. This is the exact opposite of professional, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that if I want Duke’s attention, my partners’ advice might not be far off the mark.

A little harmless flirtation can’t hurt.

But then again, I know this is anything but harmless. I feel like I’m playing with fire. And worst of all, I think I might actually want to get burned…

I tap my chipped fingernail on the table to draw Duke’s gaze back to the MicroTracker.

“I don’t need another look at that,” he says. “My attention is on…other things.”

My teeth slowly scrape along my lower lip. I don’t need a mirror to know that desire is written all over my face.

“I have an idea for marketing,” I say, voice hoarse. I’m grasping at straws here, and he knows it. “If you could consider—”

Duke holds his finger up against his lips. “Not now.”

My skin hums with the need to be touched. My nerves are stretched tight like an elastic band. Any further and I really might snap and just beg him to take me and have his way with me.

Silence descends and neither of us speaks.

Suddenly, my throat is closing and my heart is pounding. I’m beginning to panic.

I clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies room.”

He stands as I do, and I’m terrified he’ll see that I’m freaking out. He’ll see that everything I’m doing and pretending to be is completely fake—a pathetic charade.

Get out of here. Quick, before you pass out or start screaming like a lunatic.

I turn on shaky legs and hobble my way to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with anyone, convinced my inexperience is graffitied across my forehead in pulsing neon. I am transparent. Pathetic.

My skin burns like it’s on fire. And my heart is still pounding so rapidly that I wonder if I’m not about to have a heart attack.

A young waitress sashays by carrying a bouquet of helium balloons. I know from reading the reviews what’s inside them—a rhubarb, anise, strawberry, and sugar-dusted fennel desert rumored to bring critics to their knees. Odds are good this night won’t last long enough for dessert. I’m fucking up again. Bad.

Inside the restroom, I lean up against the counter and stare at my reflection. So surreal. Like looking at a mirage, the perfectly made-up image of myself juxtaposed against the chaos churning in my stomach.