He let her go. She wobbled in place. His dimples were no longer out, and his lips were drawn into a thin line. She felt she'd hurt him and that knowledge hurt her.
"They're gone now,” she said.
He nodded. He hadn’t looked behind him. He had taken his gaze off her. It was trained on the ground, and he worried his bottom lip. She wasn’t sure why, but her strong rescuer looked vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
His gaze lifted to hers, eyes searching. She had no idea what he was looking for. But something deep inside her was rising to the surface, eager to give it to him.
“Would you mind?" She pointed back to the ground, down at the predicament she was still trapped in.
The soldier sank back to his haunches. With deft and sure fingers, he tugged the strap loose and freed her.
Honey stepped out of her shoe. She felt exposed with him being so close to her bare foot.
"All better?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
He wiggled the shoe. "It looks like you got it good and wedged in here." He wrapped both hands around the shoe and was ready to pull when she stopped him.
"Don't hurt the shoe."
"Don't hurt the contraption that had you trapped?" The soldier let out a low chuckle. The dimples were back as he looked up at her.
"They're hand made." Honey gave a helpless shrug. She knew men didn’t understand women’s obsession with shoes. But she also knew that when the right shoe was present, they couldn’t take their eyes off a woman’s leg.
"So, we'll just leave it there?" he asked.
"I don't know?” She looked down at the shoe that completed her outfit. She couldn’t go into the brunch without it. “This is a disaster."
Honey took a step. When her bare toe met with warm concrete, she hopped. He caught her in his arms before she could topple.
The feel of being in this man’s arms felt right. She’d been right about the size of him being perfect for hugging. She was only in his loose embrace, and it was better than the hugs her mom used to give. But this was not the man she was supposed to be with. She took a step away from him, but something tugged her back.
"Sorry, it's my watch,” he said. “It’s got a chink in the band.”
The fissure in his timepiece had caught in the side of her dress. First her shoe. Now her dress. Could this day get any worse?
"Hold still,” he said.
But she was already tugging away. It was at the same time that he was trying to tug in the opposite direction. The sound of expensive, custom made fabric ripping was the sound of all her hopes and dreams turning back into pumpkin seeds at the stroke of midnight. The delicate fabric tore at her hip, exposing her thigh with a peek at her backside.
His eyes went wide, as did hers. They both stood frozen in place. But there was no way they could turn back time. This was a reality, and it wasn’t done.
"Honey, are you out here?" Her father’s voice boomed, overtaking the light afternoon breeze.
The soldier grabbed him to her again. He gathered the ruined fabric and put her back to his front. But it was already too late.
Henry Dumasse rounded the corner. The older man blocked out the sun. But even in the shadows he cast, it was clear something was afoot in the garden.
"What's going on here?" her father demanded.
Honey might’ve been able to explain this away to her father. She might’ve been able to sneak off and climb into the town car that had brought her here, get home, change into another dress, and arrive a little more than fashionably late to the brunch and still keep up appearances. Unfortunately, her father wasn’t alone.
Honey’s future flashed before her eyes as she saw another man in uniform walk up beside her father. Beau Bryant came to stand at attention next to her dad. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Coming up behind Beau was Quinn Ford. There was triumph in her nemesis’ gaze. There would be no need for innuendo or allusions when the reality was too good to be true. Honey was ruined.
Chapter Seven
It went beyond getting her dress dirty with his unkempt hands. He'd now divested her of her shoe and ruined the fabric of the dress. Mark's hands continued to fumble as he tried to hold the material to her body while also shielding her from prying eyes. The only way he could win this particular battle was to turn her around, her back to his front, and keep her exposed body from the gathered crowd
But things went from bad to worse when he looked up at the onlookers to see the Sugar Daddy, Henry Dumasse, gaping at them. The older man’s mouth moved like a fish out of water. His lips flopped around, gasping in the open air as though the air were choking him. His eyes were big, bugging out of his head as though he were straining like a cartoon character. His huge meat-grinder hands balled and curled into fists, also opening with the tips curled as though he wanted to reach out and dig his nails into Mark's neck.
Mark knew the situation looked bad. It looked as though he'd assaulted this poor, young woman. Not that she was poor. He’d seen the bottom of her shoe. It was blood red. He’d caught enough Sex in the City episodes to know what a red bottom shoe meant. It meant money. She was from money, and he had his lower-class hands all over her.
This could be explained. Surely, she’d tell the man he’d meant her no harm, that he was, in fact, helping her out of a jam. Luckily, things couldn’t get any worse.
"Daddy?" his damsel said.
Now, Mark was the fish out of water. But instead of bugging out of his head, his eyes felt as though they had sunk down into his sockets. His lips puckered as though he tasted the salty brine of seaweed. This could not be happening.
"Take your hands off my daughter,” growled Mr. Dumasse.
Mark obliged. His hands went up in the air, as though he were under arrest. Unfortunately, they hadn’t completed the job of unsnapping his watch. So, the moment he put his hands up was the same moment that more fabric tore.
Mark immediately pulled her back to him, using his arms to cover her modesty. She was trembling now. Her small form shaking like a leaf in a storm in his hold. Mark's instinct was to pull her closer. But each time he touched her, it turned into an even bigger disaster.
"I was helping," Mark began. "Her shoe was caught. And I lifted her dress to-"
Not the best choice of words.
"I wasn't trying to undress her,” he corrected. “I was only after her foot.”
And there went another wrong turn.
“I don't mean I have a foot fetish or anything like that. I don’t even like feet.”
Why was he still talking? When he opened his mouth, he made it worse. When he moved his hands, he made it worse. The best course of action was probably to keep perfectly still.
By now, a crowd was gathering. There was the young officer Dumasse had ditched them for earlier. The man lifted a brow at Mark, looking between him and the girl. The young man’s jaw tensed, revealing an aristocratic cleft in his chin.
Mark felt the woman in his arms stiffen under the young officer’s perusal. In response to her discomfort, Mark pulled her even closer to him to get her out of the line of inquisitive eyes. For the first time in their encounter, she struggled in his hold.
"It's true what he said.” Her voice trembled when she spoke. Defeat colored her soft-spoken words, as though she didn’t believe anyone gathered would see the truth. “My shoe got stuck, and he was trying to help and …”
Her words trailed off at the sound of someone giggling. No, that wasn’t giggling. It was snickering. A better word would be cackling.
The girl standing behind the toy soldier threw her head back as though she were a witch and just needed her broom. She turned on her heel without the flying device. Once inside the doors, she stopped the first person she saw, another girl in an expensive dress. The cackler pointed at the woman in Mark’s arms. Then she stopped another, and then another.
Mark felt the body of the woman in his arms deflating like she was a balloon whose ends ha
d just been untied. He was certain that if he didn’t hold onto her, she would float away on the soft breeze. He wrapped his arms even more tightly around her. Though she didn’t seem to notice him anymore, she did sink into his hold.
Henry Dumasse’s gaze was locked on the young women behind the glass pointing and jeering at his daughter. Then he turned to the young man in uniform. The toy soldier at least had the decency to avert his gaze. Finally, Dumasse turned to face his child. The glare etched into his features made Mark, a man who had faced down the Taliban, want to take a step back for his own protection.
“If you want to go off cavorting in gardens,” said Dumasse, “then you're no daughter of mine. You're just like your mother."
Mark felt her sharp inhale of breath. She had been so deflated a moment ago that when her shoulders went back and they struck him right in the chest. Again, his hold tightened. He wanted her to know that she had his support.
For his part, Mark couldn’t understand what he was hearing. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Why wasn’t her father coming to him and taking his daughter from his arms, putting her care and comfort into his own arms where it belonged. Instead, he left the matter to a stranger.
"I disown you," Dumasse said to his daughter. Then he turned to face Mark. "And you, you want to toy with what's mine to try and force my hand?”
“No,” said Mark. “That is not what happened here. I didn’t even know that she—”
“You won't get that property,” said Dumasse. “I won't have trash like you turning the good young men in this town into scoundrels.”
Mark wanted to correct the man, to let him know that the military was open to both men and women. But he felt now was not the time. Especially not since Dumasse was marching out of the garden and around the path.
When Mark turned back, the crowd had grown larger. People pointed and snickered from behind the glass door. The toy soldier was making his way through them, not looking back at the scene he’d walked up upon.
The woman in his arms collapsed into him. A protective instinct came over him, and he swept her off her feet. She weighed next to nothing.
Mark cradled her in his arms so that she wasn't exposed to the leering crowd behind the glass. She turned her face into his chest. As he carried her away, the wetness he felt soaking into his uniform nearly broke him.
Chapter Eight
Dark blue was the color of devastation. That was all Honey could see as the tears leaked out of her eyes. She wasn't a crier. She had been given too much in life to feel sorry for herself. Her father had given her the finest foods, the most coveted wardrobe, and a sprawling shelter. But he never failed to remind her that they were all his belongings that he gifted to her. Because all those items were gifts and not her earnings, he could always take them away.
"It's all right,” soothed a deep voice. “I’ve got you."
She wasn’t hearing the baritone notes with her ears. She felt them vibrate across her forehead and touch her eyelids. The words bypassed her ears entirely and sank into her heart.
"It's not the end of the world."
Blue was the color of deception. It was a cool balm against the tear that had ripped her life in half. One moment, she was on top of the world, at the cusp of her destiny. The next, her entire future was slashed from her hand like tattered lace.
"He'll cool down in a bit."
Blue was the color of desolation. Without her father’s protection, without the hand of a man and his ring, she was alone and unequipped for the world. She had no place to go. No one to turn to.
Even now, she could still hear the echoes of the snickers and whispers of her peers. Upper-class society was not a community of caring individuals. It was a dog eat dog world, and Honey had just been stripped of her pedigree.
“You can stay right here with me until he comes for you.”
Honey blinked her eyes once, twice, until the blue of her soldier’s uniform came into stark focus. Seeing it clearly now, it looked far more black than blue. Looking up to meet his gaze, she saw that the center of his eyes was more hazel than coffee, as though there was a splash of cream to stave off any bitterness.
She knew there was no bitterness in this man. His insides were likely more sweet cream. He smelled sweet, earthy with a hint of something, well, sweet. Honey couldn’t help but stare for a long moment as she drank him in.
He brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear, and she shuddered. It was more touch, more tenderness than she’d felt in years. And like a caffeine addict, she instantly wanted more.
“Your father was upset,” the soldier said. “He couldn’t have possibly meant what he said.”
Yes, he could. Yes, he did. He’d meant every word and would enact everything he’d said.
Her father had divorced her mother, cut her off, and made her life unbearable for defying him. Even now, he barely tolerated his eldest daughter for choosing to live with her mother instead of him in the custody battle. He’d never forgiven Ginger for that embarrassing act, and he never would.
And now Honey had caused a scene in front of people he felt should be impressed by him. Henry Dumasse did not countenance embarrassment, whether accidental or not. He meant what he said when he'd disowned her.
Honey was ruined.
"I'll talk to him later,” her soldier was saying. “I’ll let him know it was all my fault. I'll let everyone know it was all my fault."
He was trying to come to her rescue again. She didn’t want to tell him she was already doomed. What she wanted was to stay there on his lap while he stroked her back, crooned comforting delusions, and brushed her hair from her face.
But she couldn’t. It was still entirely improper. She didn't even know his name.
"What's your name?"
"Ortega. Private Mark Ortega."
"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Honey. Honey Dumasse.”
"Pleasure to meet you, too. In light of the circumstances."
The light of the circumstances? There was no light. Things were dark. Private Ortega clearly wasn't from this world. He didn't know how it operated.
It was the twenty-first century, but a girl's reputation was worth its weight in gold in her circles. Literally. Now that she was found with a stain on her person, thanks to the rip in her dress, she no longer held a place at the big table. Luckily, her soldier’s lap was comfortable.
"I'm afraid you're mistaken about my father, Private Ortega."
"Please, call me Mark. I feel we know each other intimately now."
Heat rose to her cheeks. Honey stood, wobbly as she was still in only one heel. Then she clutched at the ruined fabric to cover herself.
"I'm sorry," he said, standing as well. "That was crass of me. I have a tendency to joke when things are serious."
"Things are serious. I've been humiliated in front of all of society. I've been disowned. I have nowhere to go."
Now that she was out of Mark’s lap, the panic was starting to set in. Her fingers flew to her chest as her heart began to pound. She turned away from him, in the direction her father went. Then turned back when she realized she was still indecently exposed. She became breathless with indecision and lightheadedness threatened.
"Okay. Okay." Mark held up his hands like a tamer approaching a wild lioness. "I'm sure you're exaggerating."
Honey flashed her eyes at him like a cat at night.
"My bad.” He stepped back, hands now raised in self-defense. “Did I mention that when things are serious, I say things that would make a woman cut me?"
"Duly noted."
Mark lowered his hands. “I just mean, your father couldn't really mean what he just said. Family doesn't cut each other off. They're, well, family."
"Not my family. Either you're perfect, and you abide by Sugar Daddy’s rules, or you're out. I’ve embarrassed my father and made a spectacle, which makes me no longer perfect."
"I think you're perfect." His deep voice was soft, just barely above a whisper, as though he hadn’
t meant to say the words out loud. He turned away, his features contorted in a sheepish grimace.
Honey stood in a ruined dress, with one shoe on, black streaks streaming down her face, and her hair disheveled. He couldn't be serious. Yet he looked at her as though she were nectar, and he was a bee.
"Oh, Honey, my dear girl. There you are.”
Honey looked up to find Mrs. Patel coming toward her with open arms. Honey let go of her dress and allowed the woman to enclose her in an embrace. She didn’t feel the same safety as she’d felt inside of Mark’s arms, but the hug was soothing nonetheless.
"Are you all right, my dear?" Mrs. Patel ran a hand down her face and then brought her into a second hug.
Belatedly, Honey realized that her backside was exposed to Mark. Before she could reach for the ruined fabric to shield herself, she felt cloth being draped around her shoulders.
Private Ortega had taken off his blue jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She was drowned in the coat and drowned in his dark roast smell. The weight of the coat and the masculine smell lessened her anxiety like a weighted blanket used for dogs during a thunderstorm.
"Mrs. Patel," said Mark. "I'm glad you're here. Can you sit with Ms. Dumasse while I go and find her father? I can let him know this is all my fault and his daughter is blameless.”
Mrs. Patel squeezed Honey’s shoulder. She participated in this world, but she was not immersed in it. She knew the score.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Mrs. Patel. “I’m afraid Mr. Dumasse is an impulsive man. He doesn't cool off quickly."
"So, he's just going to turn his child out in the meantime?” Mark's brows were raised in a mix of incredulity and disgust. Disgust won out and colored his handsome features. "What kind of man would do such a thing?”
Honey knew she should defend her father and his character, but she was too caught up in someone defending her. Besides, Mrs. Patel had the right of it. What she’d described was exactly the man that her father was.
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