by G. K. Brady
“Hi,” he replied stupidly, captured in her quicksilver gaze. She took his breath away. He could feel beads of sweat popping beneath his hairline, even though it was thirty fucking degrees outside. In that moment, every “option” was ejected from his brain until she was the only woman he saw. He had tunnel vision for her alone. Without even trying, she had all his attention, all his interest—and a few other parts of him he wasn’t prepared to consider.
He was in deep, deep shit with little idea how to extricate himself.
Just get through this dinner. That’s all you need to do. After that, you can pretend you don’t know her and avoid her until her time is up and she moves out in March or whenever the hell she said she was leaving.
He plugged the address she gave him into the nav system and pulled out of the garage. As he drove through the darkness to her boss’s house in Cherry Hills Village, she filled him in on the major players attending tonight. He listened with half a brain; the other half was busy helping him concoct more delusions that would create a life preserver to keep him afloat.
“So what do I call you at the dinner party?” he asked.
She shot him a curious look.
“I mean, should I stick to Michaela, or is it okay if I call you M in front of the muckity-mucks?” Since the night of the Millers’ party, she’d transformed in his mind from Michaela the attorney to simply M, and he liked her that way. Somehow it made her more approachable and, if he were honest, made her a little bit of his with the special nickname.
Her impish grin was back. “You can call me whatever you like. M is fine. In fact, it’ll sound more authentic … you know, like we’re a real couple.”
A real couple. That sounded nice. No, wait! It doesn’t sound nice. At. All.
They turned into a private drive flanked by two enormous metal scrollwork gates that stood open. As Blake followed the curving drive, a mansion blazing with light came into view.
“Oh my God!” she breathed. “We’re having dinner at a castle!”
“Hang on to your slippers, Cinderella,” he teased. He’d been in houses like this before, and while it seemed like no big deal to him, he was getting a kick out of the rapt expression on her pretty face. She reminded him of those fairy-tale characters she loved who were arriving at the prince’s ball.
He pulled up to one of two valets and exchanged his keys for a “Good evening, sir.” The other valet had M’s door open and her hand in his before Blake could get there. Blake took over, tucking her hand in his arm, and looked down at her. “You ready, Curly?”
She inhaled a deep breath and beamed up at him. “I’m a little nervous. Do you have some trivia you can share? It might relax me.”
His heart soared. She wanted trivia? That was something he could deliver. “Did you know that seventy-eight percent of valets are male? And did you know their average age is thirty-nine?”
“No! I had no idea.”
“Yep. And did you know that some valets don’t have licenses to drive?”
Her head jerked to the side as she peered over her shoulder.
“Your boss being an attorney, I’m pretty sure he hired qualified, licensed valets.”
She glanced up at him. “They look like they’re twenty years old.”
“They balance out the octogenarian valets to get to the average age.”
She laughed out loud, a delightful, musical sound that pulled at something in his chest.
As they approached two massive iron doors, he leaned down and whispered, “Ready now?”
“Yes,” she whispered back. “Let’s do this.”
Foreign emotions overtook him as he stood at the front door with her on his arm. His chest ballooned, and he felt as though he’d grown a few inches taller, like he was some kind of big shot, a force to be reckoned with. She made him feel that way, and by God, he vowed to himself he would move the world for her tonight if she needed him to. Nowhere in his thoughts was Ferguson … because he wasn’t doing this for Ferguson. He was doing it for her and, truth be told, for himself.
They were let inside by a small, crisp man in tails and led to a formal living room, where a handful of guests stood, crystal wineglasses in hand.
A white-haired man of surprisingly large stature broke away and came toward them, a smile on his face and his hands extended. His eyes took in Blake for a nanosecond before zeroing in on M. “Ah,” he exclaimed. She slid her hand from Blake’s arm, and the man took it between his weathered ones. “There you are, my dear. I am delighted you came.” A gleam shone in his eyes as they slid over her with masculine appreciation. It was subtle, but the move stirred a green beast Blake hadn’t known existed deep in his gut. Boss or not, he didn’t like the way the man’s eyes moved over her.
Now they landed on Blake with hawkeyed interest. Michaela disentangled her hand and laid it on Blake’s forearm. “Mr. Steadman, I’d like you to meet my … special friend, Blake Barrett.” They hadn’t practiced this part—how she would introduce him—but Blake was okay with “special friend,” and it seemed to satisfy the old geezer.
As they exchanged pleasantries, Blake felt eyes drilling into him, and he raised his gaze. A dark-haired dude with a soft, round face glowered at him from across the room. Beside him, an unremarkable young woman was talking, though the guy seemed unfazed by her presence. Moments later, they stood in front of the guy, and M was introducing them—Brad Hewitt, a colleague of M’s—and while Brad’s eyes softened noticeably when he looked at her, they hardened just as obviously when he stared at Blake.
A waiter appeared carrying a tray of wineglasses—some filled with red, some with white wine—and Blake leaned down, tucking his hand under Michaela’s elbow while he pulled in the fresh fragrance floating from her hair. “Wine, M?”
“Oh yes, please.”
“Red or white, sweetheart?” Shit! Where had that come from? He’d never called anyone “sweetheart” in his entire life, but it sure as hell rolled off his tongue easily—and sounded convincing to those observing them.
She gave him a sly little smirk, and the twinkle in her eyes said, “You’ve slipped into character nicely.”
Reminding himself that’s exactly what this night was about—him playing a character to help her out—he handed her a glass of white, and in another uncharacteristic move, he took a glass of red for himself. The first sip tasted good, the second one better. M’s gaze moved from the glass to his face but otherwise telegraphed nothing beyond mild interest.
Conversation centered around M’s law firm, and while Blake enjoyed learning more about her, he wound up learning way more about the windbags who commandeered the discussion. He didn’t want to be “that” date—the one who couldn’t function on his own—so he left her with her cohorts and drifted into a family room where a few older attorneys watched a basketball game flickering on a muted, wall-mounted big-screen TV. He ducked back and forth, checking that she had whatever she needed. Her eyes strayed to him frequently, as if she were checking on him—probably to be sure he didn’t do anything to embarrass her. This was a foreign dynamic for him, so different from his world, but he was proud M had pulled him in and let him have a peek around her world. It felt intimate somehow, as though she was letting him into a private place few outsiders saw.
He also kept an eye on Steadman, and he couldn’t decide if the guy was a dirty old man wanting in M’s panties or if he was a patriarch with a soft spot for her. Could have gone either way, and Blake could understand both scenarios, though he found himself bristling at the first one.
The dark-haired guy with the soft features and softer body, Brad, was a different story altogether. No doubt the dude was crushing on M. Big-time. The eye-daggers he hurled Blake’s way were only one slice of the proof pie. Other sure signs were the way he followed her around like a lost puppy, the way he hung on her every word and laughed louder than anyone else when something funny—or not so funny—tumbled from her lips, and the way his hands sort of fluttered around her when she was
n’t looking. The guy looked as though he was dying to touch her but knew he couldn’t. Or shouldn’t. And Blake vowed to make sure he wouldn’t.
At one point, he was so engrossed in watching Brad and Michaela that he didn’t notice Brad’s date sidle up next to him. He flinched involuntarily, nearly dumping his red wine on his white shirt. “Hey, hi,” he laughed nervously. “Didn’t see you there. I’m Blake.”
She looked up at him. “I’m stealthy like that, and my name’s Minerva.” Her attention turned to Brad and Michaela. “Kinda pathetic, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?” Blake darted his gaze the same direction hers was pointed.
“The two people you’re eyeing. Your date and mine.” She lifted her chin toward them.
“What makes you say it’s pathetic?” Thank fuck I didn’t ask if by pathetic she meant her old-timey name.
She crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. “Because he’s so obviously in love with her, and she’s so obviously … not.” Her eyes swept Blake’s body heatedly, uncomfortably, as if she were inspecting a juicy T-bone she planned on having for dinner. “And honestly, why would she be interested in him when she’s got such an attractive alternative?” Her smirk transformed into a knowing smile that made Blake’s skin crawl, but he felt sorry for the woman, so he suppressed his urge to sprint and decided instead to talk to her for a few minutes. Her date had completely abandoned her after all.
“Uh, how long have you and Brad known each other?”
She shrugged. “Our whole lives.”
“Really? What, are you guys like childhood sweethearts or something?”
“Oh hell no! He’s my cousin.” Minerva pulled a face that had Blake concerned she might hurl.
“Sorry. Didn’t know. I just assumed … I mean, he’s your date … or you’re his date.”
She nodded. “Yeah, we help each other out from time to time when one of us needs a plus-one since we’re both single.” Her sizable eyebrows bounced suggestively. Blake’s face remained a blank mask, and she sighed. “He said he needed a date in order to wrangle an invitation to this swanky dinner.”
Whoa! Had Brad wormed his way in? Why? Now it was Blake’s turn to get in some eyebrow action. “No kidding. He really wanted to be here, huh?”
“No kidding, and Brad doesn’t like being left out of anything. I’m sure he would have preferred bringing her, but the firm is pretty strict about office romances.”
“Huh. But didn’t Mr. Steadman know … I mean, Brad isn’t married and doesn’t have a girlfriend, does he?” Yeah, he was fishing, but sometimes you got lucky when you dropped bait in the water.
“No, but when my clever cousin got wind of the dinner, he weaseled his way in. I swear, he’s got something on the boss.”
Minerva suddenly had all of Blake’s attention. “You sound like you don’t like him very much. Your cousin, not the boss.”
Another shrug. “Brad? He’s family.” Her unsaid “but” hung heavy in the air. “Let’s just say he found his calling as a slimy attorney. He was a sneaky little kid. You never knew until it was too late that he’d set himself up for the extra piece of cake or the shiny new toy the rest of us were clamoring for. Or worse, that he’d set you up to take the fall for something you didn’t do. Not much has changed, except the stakes are higher. Your Michaela would be smart to watch out for him.”
Your Michaela. Blake got so distracted by Minerva’s words he nearly missed the giant red-flag warning she had just planted in the sand.
At that moment, M turned and flashed him a dazzling smile. She pulled away from Brad and started toward Blake and Minerva.
“I’ll let you get back to Michaela. Nice chatting with you.” Minerva turned on her heel and gave Blake a little finger wave at the same time Brad shot him another glare. Blake tucked away the interesting tidbit, his focus shifting to the breathtaking woman sashaying toward him. He grinned to himself. Yes, indeed, M is killing it in the sashaying department. He promptly reminded himself—again—tonight was only playacting.
Fortunately, he was seated beside M at dinner so he wasn’t bored the entire time. They sat toward the end of a table large enough to seat sixteen, opposite the head, where Steadman and his wife held court. After dinner, as a server handed Blake another glass of red wine, M looked at him, her lips quirking. Despite the sexy smart-girl glasses, the mischievous gleam in her eyes was easy to spot. She dropped her voice and leaned into him, and he filled his nose with the scent of fresh flowers. “How many have you had?”
He lowered his head to hers and whispered back, “Me? About a third of one. I didn’t finish the first glass. I think I lost it in the TV room. And just so you know, I’m a total lightweight, a really cheap date. In fact, after I knock this one back, you’ll be able to take me home and do whatever you want with me.”
Her mouth dropped open, and he grinned at her, gauging her reaction. It wasn’t good. So much for flirting. He’d never been very adept at that particular art anyway.
“You’re my DD!” she hissed.
“I agreed to be your date, not your DD. That requires a whole different kind of payment.”
She swiveled her head, obviously checking to see if anyone was paying attention before leaning back into him. “Payment? I’m not paying you!”
“Of course not. Not in money.” He waggled his eyebrows, and she gave him an astonished look.
He patted her arm. “Calm down. I’m just entertaining myself at your expense. I may be a cheap date, but not that cheap. And I am perfectly capable of driving you home.” Or of calling an Uber. Since he rarely drank, alcohol had a way of rocketing straight to his brain, but he didn’t plan to have that much.
She gave him something completely unexpected: a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. This has gone on longer than I expected, and it has to be boring you to tears. Maybe we should scoot as soon as everyone finishes dessert?”
Dessert had been served fifteen minutes ago. God, yes, please! He nodded politely, reining in the desire to leave that instant and drag her behind him. It struck him that if tonight wasn’t fake and he had a real relationship with this woman, it would never work … not if she expected him at these sorts of suffocating social events. He’d always heard attorneys cut loose, but maybe this crowd hadn’t gotten the memo. Then again, wasn’t this whole dinner sort of an elaborate interview for a special account? He lifted his eyes to Brad, seated across the table a few chairs down.
The guy had been glaring at him all night, and now was no different. He met Blake’s gaze in a near-challenge. “What do you do, um … Drake, is it?”
Before Blake could answer, Minerva—who was a fan, apparently—piped up from beside him, “He plays for the Blizzard.”
Brad looked between his cousin and Blake. “What’s a blizzard? Besides a snowstorm, that is?”
“Seriously?” Minerva chuffed. “Denver’s NHL team. You know, big-league hockey? The pros? Sports?”
Brad sat back dramatically as if he’d been shoved. “Really,” he exclaimed. “Well, that explains it. Michaela!” he snapped like he was fucking royalty. His haughty tone set Blake’s teeth on edge.
M, who had been talking to the woman seated next to her, jerked her head up and narrowed her eyes. “What is it, Brad?”
The edge in her voice seemed to take Brad down a few needed notches. Way to drop some sass on him, M! Pride surged in Blake. A strange reaction, and one he decided not to deliberate.
Brad’s takedown didn’t last long, though. He waved a dismissive hand Blake’s way while aiming a question at Michaela. “So. Your special date.” The last two words grated, like he’d chewed glass when he spat them out. “Since when are you into jocks? Thought you liked mature men, men smart enough to hold up their end of a conversation.” He hadn’t said it very loud, but loud enough that a few people around him seemed to inhale and hold their collective breath. A snide look slid across his face, like he’d won some fucking ribbon at a state fair and no one was going to take it away
from him. Minerva’s descriptor “sneaky” popped into Blake’s consciousness. Yeah, he could totally see it now, along with a few other choice adjectives, but for M’s sake, he kept his temper in check and swallowed his tongue.
Though he hated to admit it, two things Brad said had touched a nerve: mature and smart. That yappy little voice inside Blake’s head reminded him he didn’t have enough of either trait to win someone like M.
When no one within earshot laughed or otherwise uttered a peep, Brad turned his attention back to M and raised a pointed eyebrow. M shot Blake a worried glance before opening her mouth to—Blake assumed—defend him. He didn’t need defending—not by T.J. or Grimson on the ice, and certainly not by her here. He’d been playing placid and polite, and while he didn’t care what people said about him, he did care that this guy had crossed the line where M was concerned. Brad was begging to have a whole new asshole ripped for him, and Blake nominated himself for the job.
Placing a calming hand on her forearm, he murmured for her ears only, “I got this.” Then he rose from his chair—not entirely, just enough to turn his body toward Brad and plant his fists on the fine linen tablecloth, lending his already broad frame a little more girth. He drilled a look he normally reserved for opponents into Brad’s face.
“Yes, she’s into jocks now. One in particular.” He kept his voice low, even. “If you’ve got a problem with that, I’d be happy to step outside and do some parsing with you.”
A few jaws dropped, and eyes went round. Beside him, the faintest of gasps escaped M’s mouth. But the reaction he most cared about was the one that had replaced the smug look on Brad’s face only seconds before. To Blake’s great satisfaction, the guy looked like he was about to shit his pants. Message delivered. Eyes still fastened on the toad’s face, Blake slowly lowered himself back into his chair, cracking first his neck and then his knuckles for effect. “Not interested? Let me know if you change your mind,” he tossed out for good measure before taking another sip of wine.