by Dylan Allen
I feel a shot of confidence that propels me forward. I’ve never done anything like this before. But when I saw him this afternoon, I thought, mine.
Despite my little blip of doubt, I’m excited about the possibility of having a night with him. That’s all I really want.
Since we’ve been in Castigniocello, I’ve felt different—freer, happier. It’s the most beautiful place my admittedly limited travels have ever taken me. The sea’s perpetual whispers and roars lend an air of magic to the cove of neighboring villas we’re staying at this weekend. As soon as we stepped off the dreary shuttle that brought us the forty miles from the airport in Pisa, I knew this would be a trip I’d never forget. Until now, I thought it would be because of the spectacular views, the clean, fragrant air, and being with Cass. Yet, as I approach Mr. Tall Dark and Glorious, I know that this is going to be the experience that defines this trip. Lord knows, I was in desperate need of something glorious and unforgettable right now.
When I’m two tables away, his eyes come into focus. Like my mama would say, Lawd ha’mercy. While I’d been gawking at his body, the shadows in the hallway had been hiding the real treasure. They’re a heart stopping disc of pure hazel ringed in what could be a mossy green or nutty brown … the light doesn’t allow me to see clearly. They’re fringed by a thick tangle of lashes and burning with intelligence and ... wariness.
He stands up just before I reach him.
His tall, broad frame is a little leaner up close. “Hello,” he says and takes my hand. He presses a kiss to it and offers me a seat by pulling the one next to him out.
Holy Father. If this is how they make men in Europe, then I was born in the wrong place. Because this man is straight out of one of those fairy tales that I never believed in because I never saw a girl like me in one of them.
“Thank you,” I say demurely, the flutter in my stomach turning to a vibration as I plant myself in the offered chair.
“You’re welcome,” he says noncommittally and then just watches me. That trace of wariness grows as he observes me.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” I ask.
“I don’t dance,” he says shortly.
“Oh. Okay,” I say with a grimace of shame when he doesn’t speak. I feel a surge of mortification when I realize that I have, in fact, been too presumptuous.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I say. I wish I could snap my fingers and make myself disappear. “I thought … maybe when we saw each other earlier on the elevator … that you seemed interested. I’m sorry. I’ll just ...” I start to stand up and pray I can run in these stupid shoes that I spent too much money on. I want to cry. I scrape my chair back and he grabs my wrist.
“No, don’t go. I’m glad you came.” His voice is deep and smooth like the molasses in my grandmother’s gingerbread cookies. And he’s American, too.
Thank you, God, I mouth down to my lap before I look up and smile.
“My mouth is good for a lot of things … small talk just isn’t one of them,” he says, gaze smoldering and yet so relaxed. I’m so startled by the innuendo that a bubble of laughter escapes me. I cover my mouth with my hand. He reaches over to stroke the back of my hand and then circles my wrist. He tugs my hand away from my mouth. “Your smile is beautiful.”
“Oh, my …” I sigh and my stomach does a summersault. I can’t believe this is happening. He’ s actually into me.
He gives me a small, quick smile that I feel a surge of pride at having pulled it out of him.
“So, you’re in business?”
“That’s cute,” he says quietly and takes a sip of his drink.
“Huh?”
“No, I’m just an ordinary man.” His glass hovers in front of his lips and he watches me out of hooded eyes.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” I say and stick my hand out, “I should introduce myself. I’m Confidence Ryan, and I don’t really know the bride or the groom, but I’m my friend Cass’s plus one,” I say.
“Your name is Confidence?” he asks, perplexed.
“I know, it’s kind of weird at first. But I promise once you get used to it, you’ll see it’s actually a really great name,” I assure him.
“No, not weird at all. Hayes Rivers,” he says without any other detail. Not that I need any more for what I’m hoping is going to happen. But, his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“I love that name. Is it a family name?” I ask.
His smile dims slightly. “No,” he says shortly.
“Well, my parents named my siblings and me after things they hoped we’d grow up to possess. I definitely lucked out. My siblings are named Happiness and Fortune,” I tell him and then wish a hole would open up and put me out of my misery.
Why am I not better at flirting?
It’s his turn to laugh, and he says, “Now, that is a great line.” He shakes his head. “Can you imagine if people actually gave their children names like that?” he asks and I cringe. Hard.
He stops laughing. “Oh …”
“Yeah,” I say slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, real contrition in his eyes
“No, it’s okay. I’m used to it and they grow on you,” I say and change the subject. “So, you friends of the groom?
“No, my aunt is. She couldn’t go, so I came in her stead.”
“Well, you’re a lot nicer than an RSVP and a gift card that most people send when they can’t come to a wedding. It’s nice of you to come. Even though, I bet it wasn’t that hard of a sell. It’s beautiful here,” I say.
“I’m not nice. My aunt raised me. So, when she asks something of me, I do it.” He shrugs and takes a sip of water, and I glance back at our table for a second to see if Cass is back. She’s not.
“May I?” he asks, and I turn back to face him. He’s watching me expectantly.
“May you what?” He nods to the table. His hand is hovering right above my wrist.
“Oh, you want to …” I ask in surprise, but smile and nod. “Feel free to put those big hands wherever you’d like,” I say and groan internally at how thirsty I sound.
He smirks a little before his thumb swipes once on the tender skin on the inside of my wrist. I shiver and bite back a moan at the tremor that runs down the center of my body. I’m shouting YES in my head.
He lifts my hand to his face. His breath tickles me before he draws in a deep breath, his eyes closed as he rubs his nose back and forth across my wrist. My insides liquify.
“You smell like roses,” he whispers so softly, his breath floats over the inside of my forearm and a tingle dances all the way up my arm.
If I’m dreaming, please don’t ever wake me.
I lean into him and put on my sauciest smile. “It’s this body lotion I bought in duty free—”
“It smells cheap.” His voice is no longer soft and seductive. Heat rises up my neck and spreads on my cheeks as his words sink in.
I yank my hand out of his grasp and lean away, “Excuse me?” I ask in affront.
“Didn’t anyone tell you before you came over that I only entertain heiresses and above?”
“‘Entertain?’” I put the words in air quotes while I gawk at the man who just turned from a prince to a toad in less than three minutes.
“I’m not interested in being your next payday,” he announces.
My jaw drops.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says without looking at me. “Go try it on one of the drunker, more persuadable men here. I’m sure you’ll leave with enough money to at least cover your expenses,” he says and my head snaps back so hard, I’m surprised it’s still attached to my body.
His gaze flits over me. “No question. You’re a knockout. But, if you’re looking for something more than a weekend, I’d suggest you invest in your look. Off-the-rack dresses aren’t going to cut it with this crowd. Dress for the job you want, and all that,” he says and falls back in his chair.
Each insult and insinuation is barbed with c
ontempt. They flay old wounds wide open.
“You jerk,” I spit and lean forward so I can look him in the eye when I tell him to fuck off.
They’re cold, dark, and shuttered. He looks like a completely different person than the one I met on the elevator. I wonder who put that look in his eye. I know it’s not me. The disillusionment I see is deep-seated. Despite the warm May sea breeze passing through the tent, goose bumps replace my tingles.
“Do better research on your next target. Approaching me at an event like this was a dead giveaway about your motives. You should have bumped into me at the airport or something less obvious.” His voice is devoid of any emotion, his gaze moved to the dance floor. His gaze is observant but detached. “Hmm … it’s a shame, I think we would’ve had a great time together,” he says while he looks at me like I’m a car he’s thinking about buying.
I wonder for a minute if I’m being punked. I glance around the room. The music, the tinkle of silverware scraping plates, people shouting to be heard over the noise are still there. No camera crew is rolling in to surprise me.
Nothing changed. No one’s watching us. I look back at him.
“Are you serious?” I ask him. I look closely at him for a sign that maybe he’s kidding.
Nope, that disdain is real. He frowns and adjusts the cuffs of his jacket before he leans forward. “Let me spell it out.” His eyes skim over me again. “Based on your lack of … polish,” his eyes roam my body, from head to toe and my flush burns over my skin in their wake. “I’m assuming you’re new to this scene. All the regulars know better than to try a trick like this. This place is littered with rich men. I’m sure you’ll find one. You can thank me by calling out my name when you pretend he made you come,” he says without a hint of humor and adjusts his cuff links.
I clasp my purse to my chest in shock.
He looks back at me with complete disinterest.
“You’re the one who claimed to be the expert at landing rich men. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t look like a fool in front of your friends.” He leans his head in close like he’s sharing a secret. “Just a heads-up, they don’t seem to really like you very much,” he says.
My heart plummets to my toes.
“Were you listening to us?” I gasp in horror. We thought we heard a phone ring, but one of Cass’s debutante friends said it came from the terrace.
“It was hard not to when you were speaking at the top of your lungs,” he says.
I stare unseeingly at the room full of revelers who have no clue that this man is taking a pickaxe to my pride. I shake my head. He’s taken my words, spoken in a moment of pure self-preservation, out of context. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to explain myself to him.
“Don’t look so down in the mouth. You’ve been spared a night of pretending that you’re turned on by anything more than the diamonds in my watch.”
And just like that, he turns away and faces the front of the room again.
I don’t know whether to be angry, offended, sad, or ashamed. I settle on all of the above and they move through me like lava pushes its way past the earth’s crust. I stand up, step right in front of his face, and let them spill.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarl.
He has the nerve to look surprised that I’m still there.
“What?” I widen my eyes in an exaggeration of his own expression. “Did you think I was just going to slink away in shame?” I glare down at him. “I’m not the one who should feel ashamed. You are a pig.” I spit the word at him. He looks back at the dance floor.
“You don’t get to accuse me of being some sort of gold digger and then turn back to your entertainment like it’s not a completely unwarranted insult,” I say and nudge his shoulder with one of my fingers when he doesn’t look up. He glances up at me and sighs as if I’m tedious.
“Actually, I do get to do that. I just did. And, seriously,” his eyes flit over me from head to toe again. “Think about investing in your look. At least if you want to be someone to take out in public,” he says and turns his stony expression back to the dance floor. Those words spoken so casually, hit their target with the precision of fast flying bullets.
I imagine what it would feel like to slap that smug look off his face. But imagining is as close to satisfaction as I’ll ever get. I have enough problems without adding an arrest in Italy to it.
“And you should invest in fixing your terrible personality,” I snap, completely enraged by him.
“Sure. I’ll take your advice if you’ll take mine,” he says.
I bend down so I can put my face in his. I see a flare of heat in his eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s ire or desire. Because even as I face off with him and burn with real dislike, I can feel a tug between us. His mouth is inches from mine and I can’t keep my eyes off it. Before he shutters his expression again, he looks at my mouth the same way.
That bored, blank expression is back, and I pull back from him. “I don’t know what kind of upbringing you had that you feel like you can talk to someone the way you just talked to me. Your money doesn’t make you better than me or anyone,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says and stands up and takes a step toward me. The heated expression in his eyes makes me take a reflexive step backward.
“Hmm, what?” I ask
His hand darts out and he grips my hip before I can take a second step.
He trails a finger down my arm and wraps his fingers around my wrist. He presses the pads of his fingers to my pulse point.
“It’s a shame … you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and I can hear real regret in his voice. It offends me at the same time as it thrills me.
Damn him for being an asshole while looking the way he does.
“Let go of me,” I say, but I make no effort to free myself.
“I don’t want to,” he says quietly. “You don’t want me to, either.” His thumb strokes my pulse point and I shudder. I tug my arm free. No way will l give him the satisfaction of knowing that his touch is the most exciting thing I’ve felt in a long time.
“Tesoro dolce,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know what that means, but you better cut it out,” I warn him.
Because when he does, I want to stop and listen, even though I have no idea what he’s saying.
“Why? Don’t you like it?” he asks silkily.
“No, that’s probably the word for streetwalker or cum dumpster or something,” I grumble.
His hand skims my hip and the rest of my body quivers, throbs, tingles, and yearns for the same treatment.
“I can teach you. While I fuck you. I think you’d still let me,” he says and that wakes me up. I pull out of his grasp.
I cross my arms over my chest and glower down at him. “Right, you called me cheap, and now, you’re calling me easy? ” I say in my best offended Southern woman voice.
“I wasn’t calling you easy, but if you are …” He raises he eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll overlook the cheap and even take you back to my room,” he drawls with an amused smirk on his face.
I have never itched to slap someone more than I do right now.
“Fuck you!” I spit.
“See? We want the same thing,” he quips with a grin that’s cold as ice.
“You must be in a world of pain to act like that. You’re a total asshole and you should be ashamed that you take joy in trying to make people feel small. You failed, by the way. Goodnight.” I spin on my stupid heels and walk with as much ass shaking as I can back to my table.
“Ugh, who cares?” I mumble as I arrive back at my table full of strangers and no Cass.
“No luck?” my doggedly gossipy neighbor asks when I sit down. “Don’t worry, he looks like he would break you in half,” she says with a conspiratorial wink.
That’s exactly what I’d been hoping.
I drop down in my seat and grab one of the sesame rolls from the breadbasket and slather it with the fancy butter that’s served with every
meal here. I’m about to take another huge bite when I remember the little joint I dropped in my purse, and I decide that I’ll just do another one of the things on the Confidence Gone Wild list.
I grab my purse and head toward the back of the tent. When I get to his table near the rear exit, I give him as wide a berth as I can when I walk past him and push the flap of the tent open.
“Where are you going?” His hand is around my wrist and it brings me to a jerking halt that nearly sends me tumbling into his lap. I brace myself with a hand on his shoulder.
“None of your business, you rude man. And if you’re thinking about apologizing, you can save it. I’ll never forgive you.” I yank hard.
He doesn’t let go.
“It’s not safe out there. The path is uneven and the steps are slick,” he says.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure to break my neck,” I say with as much asperity as I can muster, and he has the grace to wince.
“What? I thought you’d like the thought of that,” I grit out and pull my arm again—in vain. “Let go. You can’t manhandle me like this,” I say when his grip only gets tighter.
“I’m not manhandling you,” he says, but his grip on my arm loosens, “and I’m not letting you go until you turn around and head back into the party. Think of all the potential benefactors you’ll miss out on if you plunge to your death,” he says sarcastically.
“Are you actually making fun of me?” My anger is reaching a boiling point. I need to get out of here. I narrow my eyes at him. “If you don’t let me go, I’m going to scream,” I threaten.
He lets go immediately, and I see a flash of worry in his eyes. I recall my gossipy table-mate’s comments about him and his wife and immediately feel guilty.