by Kara Hart
Presenting the dress to us, the clerk asks, “Have we decided on anything else?”
Sandra’s jaw catches as she grinds her teeth to the side.
I point to my dress of choice. “I’ll take the McQueen,” I say, tossing my card onto the counter. Behind the glass is a very intricate lingerie set. Fuck it. Let’s go the extra mile. “I want that lingerie set, too. Charge it all on my card.”
And bring me my pumpkin spiced latte while you’re at it, bitch.
I see the tag. It’s over three thousand dollars. The overdraft fees are going to kill me. That’s okay. Marc can make it up to me later.
Sandra grimaces. “I’ll get the driver.”
Damn straight.
Ali
Being rich is an attitude. It’s not about what you wear, how you talk, or what car you drive. It’s knowing how to manage those valuable expectations. But ultimately, it’s about rubbing it in the face of your opponent. If you can’t handle that, stay out of the way.
Sitting in the limousine while wearing my spite purchase and feeling extra fabulous, I glance in the driver’s rearview mirror. Containing my excitement is hard, even around Sandra. I’m not accustomed to looking this pretty, and I’m suddenly glad to have brought my makeup kit with me.
“You look very beautiful,” she says. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Just be careful you don’t get your expectations up too high,” she says.
I take a deep breath, choosing to look the other way instead of reacting. She’s just trying to get under my skin. I don’t have to be rich to know Sandra is a micromanaging bitch.
Tomorrow might be about winning over Marc’s shareholders. However, he invited me on his own accord. Despite what Sandra suggests, I think he wanted me there with him to keep him company and maybe even show me off to his friends. Nevertheless, I’m going to win those shareholders over faster than I won Marc over. We’ll see what she says then.
The limousine pulls up to a tall building downtown. Sandra gets out without a word. As I pop open a new bottle of champagne, I see Marc’s warm smile behind the tinted glass. He tries to say hello to his team leader, but she darts right through him.
Ducking inside the limo, he stops like he just hit a wall. “Holy shit,” he says. “You look breathtaking.”
I smile, but I feel a little off.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
He’s wearing a really nice European suit, probably something hand-stitched by someone local. Not only did he get a new haircut, but he’s wearing a new fragrance of cologne. It’s even better than the last one.
When I look back at Sandra entering the building, it’s hard not to roll my eyes. “Your team leader is a real class act,” I say.
I hate to start things off this way. Hours ago, I was in a good mood, but she really put a damper on my expectations.
He gets into the limousine, face overcome with annoyance. “Fucking Sandra,” he whispers, glancing at the street, flinching like he might run back out and grab her.
“She’s just so controlling,” I say.
The driver closes the door and walks to the other side.
“What happened?” Marc asks.
Recalling throwing a rack of dresses to the side of the store, I cringe. “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful for everything you’ve done,” I say.
Marc squints. “Come on, you know I don’t care about that shit. Take whatever you want. Leave me high and dry. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“You say that, but...”
His mouth hangs open. “But what?”
Time to rip off the small bandaid. “But when we got to Saks, Sandra already had a dress picked out for me by the company. I sort’ve figured you were behind the move.”
He turns sour as this all starts to set in. It looks like an honest reaction. “Dammit,” he says, leaning against the seat, stiff. “I told her to send you a driver because I didn’t want us to be late to the function. I didn’t think she’d tag along.”
“Late for the what?” I ask.
“For our reservation,” he says. “But I never once told her to pick out a dress for you.”
“She was very concerned about the shareholders,” I add. “I guess she wanted a dress that would work for an office party. I was thinking more about tonight.”
“Okay, now I’m mad,” he says. “If you needed a specific dress, I would’ve given you my card and told you.”
“There’s one more thing,” I add. “I might’ve bought it with my own money.”
He pulls his arm away from mine and grabs his cell, furiously dialing a number. “We’re not going to the party.”
“Marc,” I say. “It’s fine. I want to go. “
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says.
He says it like he never wanted to go in the first place.
However, before he makes a scene and destroys tomorrow’s party, I lean forward and hit the end button. At first, he’s a little confused, but when his eyes meet mine, he puts it in his pocket.
And before he can speak, I thrust my lips upon him. It’s a long moment of breathless anticipation, him finally forming his hands around my waist, and me staring into his eyes. I push my body up to meet his in the kiss, savoring his perfect mouth, relishing the feel of his firm, powerful tongue, his lips molding to my own. He pulls away slightly and cups the back of my head with one hand.
He brings his hand around my back, sliding over my ass. It feels so good to be touched and held, I’m not sure why I ever denied him. “My staffers need to be disciplined, Ali,” he says.
I tap his nose with mine. “Maybe I’d rather the discipline come my way.”
With those words, he scoops me up, pushing me higher into his lap. We’re kissing and breathing so fast and hard, I wonder if he has plans to skip out on dinner. “Ali. You didn’t tell me you were such a dirty girl.”
His fingers move up and down the zipper of my dress, teasing me. “Yeah? Who did you think I was?”
He lowers the zipper an inch. “A sweet girl.”
I close my eyes and taste his lips. Then his tongue. I breathe him in and feel a warmth swelling between my legs, a pleasure that seeks to be released.
I shake my head. “I’m as bad as they come.”
One more inch of zipper comes down. He’s enjoying this. I am too.
“I want to get to know you, Ali,” he says. “All of you.”
When the limousine stops, and I see a massive line leading to the other side of the parking lot, it’s a cue we should get to the reservation instead of fucking like bunnies in the limousine.
I’m both pleased and sad we have special plans tonight, all at once.
Tapping his chest with my palm, I lean back and take a deep breath. “Whatever you have planned tonight, I’m sure will be incredible,” I say.
With eyes half-closed, he stares longingly. “Yeah. Right.”
I’m laughing a little at our situation, but when my heels hit the pavement, and Marc runs to help me stand, it’s clear this isn’t the old run of the mill date night. We’re at Arpège, a high class french restaurant that’s been the talk of the town for years. It’s one of those places you see on the travel channel, but I never thought I’d actually get a reservation.
Marc zips me back up a couple of inches before taking my hand. “You know of this place?” he asks.
I both shake and nod my head at once. “Arpège,” I whisper.
He looks pretty damn pleased with himself. “That’s right.”
I point to the endless line that loops around the side of the building, ending in a zig-zag through the parking lot. “Do we get to skip the line?”
Without another word, he leads me to the entrance of the restaurant. “Wylan. Two,” he shouts over heavy, raucous laughter.
The hostess doesn’t flinch. She appears ready for us. “Right this way, Mr. Wylan.”
I look up at him like he’s some kind of celebrity
, like an actor or something. This is the ultimate privilege. “Not too bad, right?” he asks.
“This is… incredible,” I mutter.
He leads me through a maze of seating options and pushes open the entrance doors. The interior is a blast from the past. Through a heavy glass door, and down a corridor. After some time, I start to wonder where the heck we’re even going. This building is bigger than I thought.
“Just wait,” he says. “There’s more.”
More? How on Earth is that possible?
The hostess rounds a corner, leading us right into the kitchen. Stopping to open the freezer, she doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to us anymore. “Marc, what’s going on?”
The waitress motions toward the inside of the freezer. “Your table awaits,” she says.
I squint among the bright lights and heavy chill. “She can’t be serious,” I say.
Marc steps inside the freezer, offering me his hand. “In the mood for something different?” he asks.
Um, well, I didn’t think we’d be eating inside a freezer. This is… new.
The hostess closes the freezer door.
“Let’s hope you know what you’re doing,” I mutter.
“I thought you’d trust me by now,” he says.
I take his hand. “You haven’t let me down, yet.”
He blows hot air between our hands, but I’m surprised when the cold disappears entirely. At the other end of the freezer, the light shifts. That’s when I realize it’s not a freezer at all, but a narrow corridor leading to a secret section of the restaurant. It’s a secret path to an even more secret area!
Resembling a French courtyard, the center is open to the night sky’s seductive moon. There are a variety of flowers, plants in large pots, and vines that wrap around every inch of scaffolding. A rather large oven sits in the corner, metal rods blazing and creating a tall tower of smoke as its chef governs over it.
Last, but not least, a man comes out and sits in the corner, lightly playing a mandolin. Without even sitting down, this is the most romantic setting I’ve ever been in.
The hostess waves us to our seats, where a bottle of wine rests next to two full glasses. It’s not a standard table. Rather, it’s cut in half between the chef and the guests.
“Please, sit down. Our chef has been instructed to serve you with the utmost care,” the hostess says.
“Is that so, Maestro?” Marc asks.
The chef bows and throws a slab of meat onto a burner of butter. He tosses a carrot into the air, catching it onto the blade. Then, tossing the knife behind his back, he grabs a slice of bread. Placing it atop the blazing meat, he bakes it slowly.
I clap among Marc’s pleased laughter. While we watch him cook each meal, we get the chance to talk. Marc scoots his seat closer to me, placing his hands around my thigh. He’s especially touchy tonight, and I love it.
The chef serves a plate of caramelized asparagus with raisins. Yum.
Marc raises his glass of wine. “I want to say a little something.”
I hold my wine glass near my lips, falling deeper and deeper into the moment. The hazy glow of the courtyard, sweet with the smell of food and love, really sweeps me off my feet. All I want to do is have him hold me here all night.
He tilts his glass near mine. “I used to think I’d be alone forever,” he starts.
“Boo,” I chant.
He chuckles, but he’s being serious. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been wondering about a lot of things. I’ve had to take a step back and reevaluate what I want my life to be,” he says. “I’m thankful you came into my life, Ali. I see you with Sammy, and I know she can be a handful, but you really know how to talk to her.”
“Sometimes,” I say. “I tried to get her to open up earlier, but I think she’s a little angry with me.”
He places his free hand on my arm and slides down to meet my palm. Teasing my fingers around his, I listen to what he’s saying and really soak it up. “Ali, are you listening to me?” he asks. “I really like you.”
I tap my glass against his, sighing with great relief. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say.
For me, these are bold words to tell a man. It’s still hard for me to say it, too. But the point is that I do feel strongly for him. No, I can’t predict the future, but this is starting to feel like something that can’t be ruined. At any rate, it would have to be something pretty big.
We kiss, drink, and eat more food. Each dish is better than the last. Once we’re finished, we’re both a little tipsy and laughing at every word.
“Remember when we first met?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Ragamuffin vs. Rowdy. If you hadn’t pulled over for gas, you would’ve won the King Charles.”
I frown, but then I remember his face when he saw me on the freeway next to him. He was so shocked. “You were acting like a Formula-One racer on the freeway to the breeder,” I say, cackling.
“I whooped your butt, and you know it.”
I wink. “My station wagon did an okay job at keeping up with your Mercedes.”
He nods, stuffing his nose into his wine glass. His lips are stained red, but it’s cute. His positive drunken swagger is more endearing than it should be.
“In any case, you lucked out. Ragamuffin is crazy. Rowdy is a sweetheart,” he says.
I stick out my tongue. His eyes are focused on my mouth.
“Fate is crazy sometimes,” he breathes.
“Truly,” I say.
He leans forward, taking both hands into his. “I know you hate Valentine’s Day,” he says.
I take a sip of wine. “The worst of the holidays.”
“Usually, when someone doesn’t like something, it’s because they’ve had a bad experience,” he says. “So, for tonight, we’re going to do things a little differently.”
“There’s more?” I ask.
He grins. “Well, I did hire a sitter...”
This is already so romantic. He’s pulling out all the stops tonight. “What do you have in mind?” I ask.
He motions to my plate. The only thing that’s left is the oil. “You’ve got a little taste of the food and wine. Once we’re done with our glasses, a little entertainment will be necessary. Two tickets to the Ballet. Swan Lake. Row M, center orchestra. Best fucking seats in the house,” he says.
My face tightens with more excitement than I can take. I don’t know a thing about ballet, but I’ve always wanted to go.
Marc gives me a look before I inhale the rest of my wine. I’m tipsy and ready to be showered with love.
The chef responds for me. “You are one lucky lady.”
Unable to contain my excitement, I bubble over. Before I can stand, Marc sweeps me off my feet. “Are you ready?” he asks.
I can’t even answer him. Before I know it, he’s running through the exit, through the loud and disorderly crowd in the lobby, to the parking lot. When we get to the limousine, he sets me down and kisses me. I’m leaning against the car door, behaving like I love him.
Maybe I do.
One thing is for certain. I think I’m beginning to love Valentine’s Day…
Marc
We’re having the time of our life.
What first started off as a sabotaged date with Ali, turned into one hell of a night. She could have gone off on me for what Sandra did. Instead, she was honest about her feelings and played no games. The dinner went off without a hitch.
That’s part of the problem…
Every day I seem to fall further and further into Ali’s spell. Some days, it’s her eyes. At night, I find myself staring at her lips, endlessly drinking her in. She has a wonderful heart, and her style is off the charts. I knew she’d be a good choice for the shoot. Jim’s going to fucking love her.
I’m lying to myself if I think this is really going to work. Something that starts with so much tension can’t be resolved with ease. She’s been calm about everything so far, but the competitive woman I
met at the dog breeder’s home a week ago must be simmering underneath the surface, waiting for one fuck up on my behalf. What’s she going to say or do tomorrow when she finds out?
I can’t let that happen...
She’s never been to a ballet before, so the excitement waters down my anxieties about tomorrow. A variety cast of characters are chatting it up in the lobby. Among men other wealthy debutants, trillionaire tech bozo Zach Rochester stands in the corner with some yes-men that laugh at every joke he tells. It’s pathetic, and I steer her in the other direction, despite her obvious curiosity.
We get a few more drinks. Then we get a few more. By the time the show starts, I’m walking funny. The first piano notes ring out with the orchestra, and the show begins.
Ali leans against me, angling out of her chair to kiss my cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day. This was really thoughtful,” she whispers.
I kiss her back. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Ali.”
Halfway through the show, my phone starts to buzz. The sound alerts everyone in the first twenty rows, but the only eyes I’m worried about are Ali’s eyes. She glares at Jim’s flashing name like he’s a side-chick I hid from her.
Silencing my phone, I whisper, “It’s one of the shareholders.”
She redirects her sight toward the dancer on stage. “Well, you better answer it,” she says.
Searching for a quick escape, I glance at the aisle and begin to stand. But then I see the face of an angered old man with a mustache in the shape of Tallahassee, Florida. It’s Jim. He’s actually calling me in the middle of the show.
I jump back into my seat. “I’ll deal with it later.”
“You sure?” she asks.
I nod. “I don’t want to ruin the night.”
Redirecting her attention to the action on stage, she watches in horror as the dancer falls to the floor, apparently signifying some kind of death or something. I don’t know. I’m hardly looking at the show. My left eye is bent to the side, watching as Jim turns his head.