by Kati Wilde
“I’d say so. In fact, telling you that he would have lost is probably the only time he was ever right about anything.”
I frown. “You think I’ll lose?”
“No. He would have. My lawyers won’t. Because they are worth what I pay them.” Pulling me forward again, she adds, “They would also tell me not to speak with opposing counsel at all. So instead we’ll take up space on the dance floor right in front of them, and you can watch Shayne weep as he realizes that you have an incredibly wealthy fiancée, and that the thousands of hours his firm could have billed you just slipped through his incompetent little fingers.”
More spite. Which makes me laugh and washes away most of my irritation—but the second I’ve got Audrey Clarke in my arms, I don’t give a damn about the lawyer. I don’t even look in that direction to see his reaction. Because all that matters is hers.
She doesn’t stiffen when my hand flattens over the warm, bare skin at the small of her back. Instead she sighs and her upper body seems to melt against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, her warm breath skimming my throat. Her fingers lightly stroke down my arm, petting me. Petting my sleeve, I realize. As if enjoying how soft the flannel is. But, hell. I don’t care why she’s touching me. As long as she is.
And fuck me, she smells good. I don’t know what fragrance that is. A little bit like the green tea she was drinking earlier, but sweeter. And so subtle that I want to chase the scent up to her skin, and bury my face in her neck or anywhere else she sprayed that perfume.
We aren’t doing much more than swaying, but she doesn’t seem to care that I’m not pulling out the ballroom moves that some of the people around us are. The extent of my dancing talent begins and ends at rubbing up against a woman’s ass while some heavy bass thrums in the background. And slowly rubbing up against Audrey’s ass to a string version of “White Christmas” might sound damn good to me, but I doubt it would to her.
I glance down, tilting my head so I can see her face. Her eyes are closed. She’s not watching Shayne, either—or the other lawyer, Prescott. And when we slowly rotate back around in that direction, I see that they’ve moved to another part of the room, anyway.
So we’re done here. But I’m not in any rush to leave.
“Holy shittola!” A familiar voice and laugh sound from behind me. “Here I was thinking that I’m pretty fucking special, but now I see they’re just letting anybody in.”
Grinning, I swing around with my hand still at Audrey’s back and holding her against my side. “Did they actually let you in or did you crawl in through a bathroom window again?”
“Those days of drunken revelry are over, my friend.” Patrick brushes his hands down his front as if sweeping away the sawdust that usually covers him from head to toe. He appears real sharp tonight, sporting a suit and a crisp red tie. “I’ve got a classy girlfriend to keep happy. Not that you’d know what keeping a woman happy is like—” His gaze lands on Audrey and the grin he’s wearing drops into stunned disbelief. “Well, fuck me. You crazy bastard. You actually asked her.”
“I did.” I’m feeling like a goddamn king as I introduce him. “Audrey, this is Patrick Connell—a friend of mine from way back when.”
And she looks straight through him. Completely ignores the hand he sticks out, and looks through him.
His grin fading, he pulls back his hand and drags it through his red hair. “Yeah, so.” But he’s a good-natured fucker, so he adds, “So you’re getting married? For real? Congratulations and all that.”
“Thanks.” Though a pit opens up in my gut when Audrey doesn’t react to his sincere congrats. Not even with the hmmm she gave to all the rich assholes we’ve talked to. “It’s just for that thing with the inheritance.”
“Uh uh.” He gives Audrey’s figure a once-over before glancing back at me, brows rising. “Right.”
She’s not even looking through him now, but staring off into the distance at nothing, as if she’s bored as hell. Molten lead starts filling up my chest.
I fight to keep the anger out of my voice. “Where’s Karen?”
Patrick gestures vaguely behind him. “Talking to some people from work. I’d bring her over to introduce her… But yeah, I think not.”
Because he doesn’t want Audrey to pull this pretentious shit with the girl he’s crazy about. Doesn’t want some rich snob insulting her. Just like she’s insulting him.
My throat aches with fucking shame as I agree, “Yeah. So maybe later?”
He laughs. “Sure. In a couple of years, maybe. Whenever Elsa releases you from her castle and lets you play with the filthy rabble again, yeah?”
Fuck. Jaw clenched, I nod.
“I hope it’s all worth it, man. See you around.”
My throat’s so tight I can’t say a damn thing. I pull her into my arms again, but I’m not enjoying it now. I’m not enjoying any of this now. My first impression of Audrey Clarke wasn’t the best, thinking she wouldn’t ever associate with someone like me, but I changed my mind about that after we met up in the town square. Hell, I started liking her. And although she was reserved with everyone, she didn’t act like she was better than them. Or better than me. But the past hour should have taught me why that was, too. Just like it did to every other fucking person here, that inheritance made all the difference to her. Made me acceptable. But obviously my friends aren’t.
Yet I’m still hard as fuck, holding her. This cold woman who looked straight through my best friend as if he didn’t exist. I’m so fucking disgusted and it’s not all directed at her. A whole lot of it is aimed at myself.
I hope it’s all worth it, man.
“Caleb?” She’s blinking up at me, her brow furrowing as she searches my face. “Are you…upset?”
“Pretty fucking pissed, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t really give a shit if you’re a snobby little ice queen with me. Be as pretentious or as frigid as you want, act like I’m not good enough to even lick your feet. I’ll put up with any goddamn thing if it means the Wyndhams get what’s coming to them. Unless you act just like them and treat my friends like trash again. Then we’re going to have a serious fucking problem.”
“Like trash?” Her face goes utterly still. “I did that?”
“Yeah, you fucking did.”
Pulling away, she looks out over the crowd. “Where are they—and what were their names?”
“Christ. He was that invisible to you? It was just one guy. There.” I point him out. “Patrick. And he didn’t deserve the condescending shit you pulled. Yeah, maybe he only works in a furniture shop, but he’s one of the best men I know.” And just saying that truth unleashes the rage and disgust building up in me. I’m choking on them as I tell her, “Fuck this shit. I’m going to get some air.”
Before I completely erupt. Tearing away from her, I head for the nearby balcony. A dozen pairs of French doors are open to the outside, where the cold air slaps my face and some sense into me. The fireworks that suddenly explode overhead are like the ones going off in my brain, a goddamn epiphany of color and light.
This marriage isn’t going to work. And it’s not fucking worth it.
If it was just the money, just the lawyers, yeah. But marry someone who’ll treat my friends exactly the same way the Wyndhams treated my mother? I wouldn’t be any better than them. And I’m no fucking saint as it is.
I can and would tolerate a whole lot of shit if Audrey’s snobbery was just aimed at me. But the way she treated Patrick—and would probably treat anyone else I know and care about? No. I won’t accept that. Not even to destroy the Wyndhams.
Fuck this marriage. If she still wants to pay for the lawyers, I’ll let her. If not, I don’t give a shit. I’ll find some other way or just let this all go. And try to get over the shame of wanting a woman who would have looked at my mother the same way the Wyndhams did.
It’s time to call off this bullshit engagement.
People are streaming out onto th
e balcony to watch the fireworks, but I push through the crowd and return to the ballroom. Audrey’s not where I left her. I scan the tops of heads, searching for a pale blond ponytail. She should be easy to spot.
I don’t see her anywhere. Goddammit. I just want to get this over with. Tell her the wedding isn’t happening—and then go and get so fucking drunk, I forget the way she felt against me. The way she smelled.
“Hey, man.” Patrick stops beside me, Karen on his arm—both of them heading toward the balcony. “You looking for your girl? She just took off that way. Looked kind of freaked out by the noise.”
My chest tightens. “Freaked out?”
“Yeah. Was all”—he hunches his shoulders and sticks his fingers into his ears before straightening up again—“so maybe you better check up on her. And she explained about earlier. About having a tough time with crowds, then being overstimulated and spacing out. So, you know. It’s all good.”
“We invited her to our ugly sweater party next Saturday,” Karen adds. “And she said that would be fun. So make sure to bring her.”
“Yeah,” I tell her, barely listening. Searching for Audrey again. “Which way?”
He points and I surge through the crowd in that direction. Remembering the reverend telling me about the fireworks.
Not telling me about them. Warning me about them.
And remembering Audrey, saying that she needed me to stay at her side until we left the party. But I abandoned her right in the middle of a crowd—which she apparently has a tough time dealing with. Now I don’t see her anywhere.
Because she was freaked out. Was she afraid?
Or hurt?
With worry clawing at my stomach, I stop at the coat check. She’s not there. But how hard can it be to find a woman who looks like she does?
To the attendant, I rasp out—“Blonde ponytail. Red dress. Fucking beautiful. Which way?”
“That way,” he says immediately, pointing.
So I’ll ask every person in this hotel until I find her. And when I do…
I don’t know. Not anymore.
Not that she’s likely to give me any choice in the matter. Not after what I said to her.
But I’ll deal with all that after I find her. After I make sure she’s all right.
As soon as I know she’s okay, I’ll follow my original plan. Get drunk, and try to forget. But not her scent or her touch.
Instead I’ll try to forget how I just fucked everything up.
5
Audrey
The hotel isn’t currently hosting a conference, so it isn’t difficult to find an empty meeting room to hide in. I sit in the quiet and the dark, on the floor and with my back against the wall.
I know now what the unfamiliar emotion is, the pang in my chest that’s accompanied by fear. It’s vulnerability. Because I opened myself up to being hurt by Caleb. And hurt me, he did.
A snobby little ice queen.
He’s so different from anyone else I’ve dated—and different from most people that I know. So I hoped he would see me differently than most people do.
But the only difference is that I’m marrying him.
If he still wants to marry me after I was rude to his friend. I suppose it’ll depend on whether his need for revenge against the Wyndhams is stronger than his anger at me. And he’d been furious. Believing that I’d deliberately insulted his friend. Believing that I’m the same as the Wyndhams.
That pang strikes again, deeper. My throat tightens until the ache there matches the one beneath my breast.
From across the room comes the sound of the door opening. A light flicks on, a burst of dull red through my closed eyelids.
Without opening my eyes, I tell whoever it is, “This room is in use. Please shut off the lights and close the door behind you.”
Darkness falls again. The door snaps shut.
But I’m not alone. Footsteps come toward me. Only hotel employees have access to the electronic keys that can open these rooms. But I know without looking who this must be.
My throat feels raw. “They let you in here?”
“They let you in, too,” Caleb points out softly. “So apparently all anyone has to do is ask.”
“I don’t have to ask. I own this hotel.”
He falls silent for a moment. The gravel in his voice seems rougher as he says, “They let me in because I told them you’re my fiancée and I was worried about you. I came to make sure you’re all right.”
“I will be.” But I’m not yet. And I can’t pretend that I am. “In a little while.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
No. It should be so easy to say. Just a little lie. But I’m no good at lying, so I remain silent. That usually works as well as a lie, because people assume the answer I don’t give.
Caleb ignores that unspoken answer. I hear him moving closer, the shuffle of his boots and the slide of his back against the wall as he sits on the floor next to me.
Then his hissed—“Shit, goddammit. What the hell did I just sit on…?” His voice flattens. “Is this your engagement ring?”
“Yes.”
“You took it off?”
“It was bothering me.”
He makes a sound of relief. “Okay. Good. And what else is…is this a handkerchief? It’s damp.” A bleak edge scrapes through the observation. “Were you crying?”
“It’s a pair of panties,” I tell him. “They were bothering me, too. So I took them off.”
“But…they’re damp.” Incredulity rings through the statement.
“I know. That’s why they were bothering me. I could feel them. And it was…distracting.”
“But they’re really fucking damp.”
“Of course they are!” I snap, my frustration boiling through. “I’m sexually attracted to you, and you were touching my bare skin and holding me close. So I was physically aroused. But then I hyperfocused on the wetness and I couldn’t feel anything else, or think of anything else. So I spaced out and was rude to your friend.”
“You didn’t talk to Patrick because you were focused on how wet your pussy was?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“And I’m making sure I heard it right. Because you just blew my fucking mind—and I don’t want there to be any more misunderstandings between us, especially when we’re talking about how me touching you gets your cunt so hot and wet.”
Not just his touch. His voice, too. Especially when he talks like that. I squirm against the floor, suddenly too aware of the needy ache between my legs. “Don’t,” I tell him, my breath shuddering. “Don’t talk about it. I’m trying not to think about it now.”
“All right.” His tone gentles. “You told Patrick and Karen that you don’t do well in crowds?”
“I don’t.”
“Because of the noise? You get overstimulated, you told them.”
“That’s different. I have difficulty interacting with a lot of people even in a quiet room.” Sensory overstimulation just makes it harder. “It’s too much to process.”
“So you have, what—social anxiety?”
“No.” I don’t get anxious. “I get overloaded, trying to figure out what people mean. Because they rarely just say what they mean. And sometimes they say the opposite of what they mean, and I can’t easily parse their body language and tone and make it match their words. Like Jennifer Pearson. She says ‘interesting’ but that’s never what she’s really saying. So many people do that. And sometimes I know how to respond. If someone asks ‘How is your day going?’ I know it’s an empty question and they don’t want any answer except ‘Good.’ But most of the time, it’s not like that. And it’s exhausting trying to follow along.”
“That’s why you take things so literally.”
“Also why people think I’m too blunt.” Or frigid and condescending. “I say what I mean. You do, too, mostly. So it’s easier talking with you.”
“Mostly?” He pauses. “I’ll be more direct with
you. And just ask me if you’re not sure of my meaning.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, big and bright and beautiful. “I will. I appreciate it so much,” I say to make my gratitude explicit. “Thank you.”
“Ah, fuck. Baby, you don’t need to thank me for that.”
“I know I don’t.” Then I laugh. “See? Whenever people say, ‘You don’t need to do that,’ it’s not what they mean. Usually they mean, ‘I don’t want you to do that.’”
“I meant ‘You shouldn’t feel obligated to thank anyone for treating you with a basic level of decency.’ With no effort on my part, I can make your interactions with me easier. And if you ever need something from me, I’ll give it to you. It’s that fucking simple,” he says gruffly. “So you better tell me what works for you and what doesn’t.”
“All right. But don’t go and look up any of this on WebMD. Because there’s no neat diagnosis or category for me. So you might think I have Asperger’s but I just share a few of the same tendencies—but only a few. Like I don’t have any trouble making eye contact. And I have some obsessive compulsive behaviors. But so many people try to figure out what I am based on a few things they’ve observed me doing, and then act shocked when I do something they didn’t think I would. It’s irritating.”
“So I shouldn’t play online psychiatrist.”
“Please don’t. I don’t need you to figure me out. My doctors and I have done a good job of it already.”
“I won’t, then. But tell me what you think I should know.”
The bright warmth in my chest swells. What you think I should know. Not demanding everything. But asking what I want to give. “I have trouble understanding nonverbal cues—and I prefer it when social interactions follow rules and are easy to make sense of.”
“Like conducting a business deal?”
“Yes. That’s easy. But I don’t always understand the rules of personal interaction. Sometimes I think there aren’t any rules, and that’s so frustrating to me. So it’s easier when I have a context, because there’s usually a guideline for that interaction. Employer, employee. Donor, donee. Investor, investee—”