Page 60

“You’ll be fine, Dean.” He crouches down, meeting my eyes. “Since you said you’re confused when I’m nice, let me make it clear. We belong together and we always have. I’m done avoiding it. There’s no point, and it hurts us both when you do.” He nods to the cage.

I’m trying to think of a good comeback when he gets up and leaves.

My thoughts swirl as I take a hard look at the metal surrounding my manhood. There’s a strange thrill, the feeling of belonging to Mike on this level. I’m also freaking out, because I really do have a date tonight.

I wait for the sound of the front door. Then I throw myself back on the bed and quietly lose my shit.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dean

“You look more nervous than I do, Dean. That won’t do.”

Vivica Ardent is a former model turned makeup mogul, or whatever the word for running a company that makes boatloads of money would be. She came to Belle Argo a few years ago because she wanted to capture the tourist market here with one of her brick-and-mortar stores. Ended up liking the place enough to stay.

She’s gorgeous—six feet tall, with light brown skin and dark hair that always looks perfectly glossy. She’s also curvy as hell and doesn’t have any qualms about taking up space. As someone who was always aware of not wanting to loom over people, it’s kind of inspiring. I love how she carries herself tall and proud even though she’s taller than many of the men in the room.

Everyone in this stuffy crowded room is jealous of her, I’d guess. They inherited money, she manufactures it.

Not that I’ve asked, but I suspect she likes to be seen in public with me because few men are taller than her when she wears heels.

“I’m not nervous,” I insist. I take a minuscule sip of complimentary champagne as I try not to jiggle my leg under the table. Partly because then she’ll know I’m lying, and also? This damn cage.

Thank heavens I’ve lost weight since I played basketball. Most of my suits are from back then, and the pants are loose enough to hide the intensely mortifying bulge this thing creates. He had to get a metal one, too. It’s heavy and cold against my skin.

Vivica places a manicured hand on my arm. “Try to sit still, then, please? I know that can be challenging for you, but I don’t have the patience to deal with the vultures tonight.”

For this reason alone, dates with Vivica are uncomfortable. She’s mostly kind, but she clearly expects to get what she’s asked for when she pays for something, and Like Ella, sitting still is challenging for me on a good day. Tonight my nerves have me ready to jump out of my skin.

Then there’s the wealthy crowd in Belle Argo. Always seems to be some weird turf war between the old money and the new. It’s over my head, but I see how the crusty old men here look down their noses, probably wanting her and feeling threatened by her at the same time.

By association, they look down on me. Fine. I’m not here to impress anyone. But it’s draining trying to play defense when your date is getting triple-teamed.

“Why do you come to these fundraisers if they’re all rude to you? Couldn’t you write a check and go home?”

Can’t even remember what this one is for. Cancer, maybe? Kidneys? Some illness or cause these folks pretend to care about when they probably helped cause the problem.

Vivica lifts her chin, subtly straightening her spine. “That’s what they want me to do. They want my money, they have to deal with me. They have to look me in the eye.”

She gives me a look that tells me she’s maybe talking about something else, but I can’t tell for sure. Then she puts her hand on my upper thigh, letting me know it’s been bouncing again.

My brain glitches. For a moment I’m back at brunch, with Mike’s steady palm grounding me.

“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I’m just, uh, worried about my kid. Had a fever when I dropped her off at the sitter. You mind if I call and check in?”

I’m not lying, exactly; that’s just not what I’m nervous about. Not yet, anyway. When Ella was in preschool, she got a temperature of a hundred and five and I almost lost my mind. Tonight it was barely a hundred. Thank goodness the nice neighbor lady was still willing to watch her.

The ever-present weight between my legs won’t let me forget, either. I’ve got other issues.

Finding a quiet alcove, I scan the room to find a quiet place where I can make a call. Not the sitter’s number. To her, I send a text:

Dean: Checking in. How’s she doing?

Mrs. H: Everything’s fine. Tummy’s a little upset. Gave her some ginger ale and she’s sleeping now.

Relief rushes through me. Every time I have to leave Ella it hurts me, but most of all when she’s not feeling well.

Dean: Thank you. Not sure when I’ll be home.