A: That doesn’t sound like the whole story.
T: *shrugs That’s how it went down. Doesn’t matter anyway. Just steer clear of him. It’s what I do. He won’t even notice anything is different through his hate haze.
A: Right! Yes! OK! Good plan!
T: ??? Are you having a seizure? What’s with all the exclamation points?
A: Nothing. I have to go!
T: WAIT! I need help.
A: What did you do?
T: Why do you immediately assume I did something?
A: TONI!
T: Look, your pooh bear is insisting on taking me out to dinner. Asshole wants to get to know his future wife or some shit. *eyeroll
A: Crap. Don’t go. Make an excuse.
T: Can’t. He’s a persistent fucker. Better get it over with. Just tell me what to say, what not to say, how to behave, and what to do, and I’ll be fine.
A: There isn’t enough time in the world . . .
T: Oh, ouch! Bitch . . .
A: Hahaha!
T: LOL!
A: Just avoid wine—I know too much about it for you to fake it. Steer clear of politics and religion, and try to keep the focus on him. You’ll be fine.
T: Will I though? *squinty eyes
Nine
Toni
The pile of clothes on the bed was growing in direct proportion to my frustration. I groaned and whipped yet another dress off over my head.
Turning to face the mirror, I gave my reflection a disparaging look. “This should not be this fucking difficult,” I grumbled. “It’s just dinner. With a guy you don’t even like.”
My hair and makeup were done—not as flawlessly as Alex would’ve done them, but I’d washed and straightened my hair and applied about half the eye makeup I usually did, and I thought it looked pretty good. I tilted my head, studying my reflection. I really looked like her. Or she looked like me.
I rolled my eyes and turned to the wardrobe—again. I didn’t have time for another existential crisis. I had to pick a damn dress.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Who is it?” I put on my most polite voice.
“It’s George, miss,” he answered, just as polite and professional.
I pulled a robe out from the bottom of the clothes pile, sending half the garments tumbling to the floor. The robe was silk with motherfucking lace trim and made me roll my eyes every time I put it on.
I opened the door and pulled George inside. “I need help!”
“Why aren’t you dressed?” He propped his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to be leaving for dinner in fifteen minutes.”
“What the fuck do you think I need help with?”
He eyed the mess on the bed, then my panicked expression, and snorted, failing miserably to hold back laughter as his eyes crinkled at the corners and his shoulders shook.
“It’s not funny, asshole!” I whisper-yelled, and he lost it, letting a peal of laughter loose. I crossed my arms and tapped my bare foot on the timber floor, one eyebrow raised. After a few moments, he calmed himself with a sigh.
“All right, let’s see.” He rummaged through the pile and then straightened, holding a red piece of fabric. “This one.”
I took it and held it out in front of me. It was a knee-length, form-fitting sheath dress with a high neckline.
I gave George a skeptical look. “No. I already tried this one. It seems too plain for dinner. I’ve tried them all on. Nothing is right. How can a person have this many dresses and not a single one of them is right?”
“Put the damn dress on.” He wagged a finger at me and exaggeratedly checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”
I gritted my teeth. “Fine.” I stomped into the wardrobe and pulled the dress on. When I came back out, he was at the dresser, a pair of gold heels in one hand while the other rummaged through the jewelry.
He turned in my direction as I stepped in front of the mirror. It was a nice dress—a deep, rich red and made of a thick silky material. When George pulled the zip up all the way, I saw how well it hugged my curves. But it was still too plain. It looked like something you’d wear with sensible shoes and a tight bun to an office job.
“Put these on.” George dropped the flashy shoes in front of me, and I stepped into them. He lowered a long necklace over my head, the gold almost a perfect match for the shoes, and handed me matching earrings. With warm hands on my bare shoulders, he turned me to the mirror once more.
I frowned. “How’d you do that?”
It was the same dress, but with the jewelry and shoes it looked . . . fancier.
He shrugged. “Alexandria wears this one a lot. So don’t expect this kind of help again. I can think of maybe three outfits I see her wear that I might be able to pull together.” He threw his hands up and backed away.
I smiled at him in the mirror. “Thank you.”
George checked his watch again. “Out of time. Go.”
A silent, straight-backed chauffer drove Oren and me into the city. We sat in the back, staring out our windows. I spent most of the trip resisting the urge to fidget and wishing for a damn cigarette to take the edge off.
We were dropped off in front of a restaurant I’d walked past a handful of times but never even considered going into. I couldn’t afford anything on the menu. Intricate wrought-iron detail decorated the glass door, and lush plants lined the edge of the building outside. It was on a side street, away from the busier bars and restaurants around the corner but close enough to be part of the action. Aloof and intimidating as the customers it served.
Oren guided me through the door with a gentle touch to my lower back, and we were shown to a table. The waiter even pushed my chair in for me. I made sure to keep my knees together under the crisp tablecloth.
We both hid behind the obnoxiously large leather menus. I skimmed the items but gave up trying to guess what they were. With words like deconstructed, reduction, and artisanal, I had no idea what I was going to order . . . or how I was going to eat it. There was more cutlery on the table than I had in my drawer at home.
I peeked at Oren over the top of my menu. We hadn’t spoken since before getting into the car, and it was starting to get awkward.
Just as I started running through potential ways to get out of this nightmare, his eyes flicked up and met mine. He held my gaze for a moment and lowered his menu. I followed suit.
He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get a word out, the waiter appeared. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
Oren turned to me. “Do you mind if I order for us?”
I smiled, making sure it looked polite and not relieved. “Please.”
“Can we get a bottle of the Clos Mogador Priorat, please? The 2015.”
“Certainly, sir.” The waiter bowed and walked away.
“Fantastic choice,” I said. I had no idea what the fuck he’d just ordered.
“Thank you. I’ve been brushing up on my wine knowledge.” He looked so proud of himself. My stiff smile relaxed. He was making an effort for his fake fiancée. Aww!
“Have you been here before?” I asked.
“Once or twice. I don’t spend a lot of time in New Orleans, but with the current expansion of the business, I’ve found myself here three times in the past year. I have to admit”—he leaned in as if he was sharing a secret—“I didn’t like it at first. I thought it was loud and obnoxious, full of bachelor parties and cheap ghost tours. But the more time I spend here, the more it grows on me. It’s got a certain vibe that’s hard to describe.”
Now, this I could talk about for days. “I love the history of it. The fusion of European, Creole, and so many more cultures. It makes for a unique atmosphere.”
“I see you’ve done your research too.” He flashed me a smile. There was no suspicion in it, but it reminded me that Alex had never been to New Orleans. I needed to be careful how I talked about it.
Thankfully, our wine arrived—it was a red—and the waiter asked for
our orders. Oren rattled off what he wanted, confident in his pronunciation of the complicated foreign words. Then the expectant look was turned on me.
“Uh . . .” I looked at the menu again. “What do you recommend?”
The waiter was more than happy to list some dishes.
“That sounds fantastic.” I smiled and held my menu out. He nodded, collected the menus, and disappeared.
“Shall we discuss the terms of our arrangement?” Oren sipped his wine.
“Sure.” I took a sip myself, avoiding his gaze. It really was damn good wine. I’d never been a wine person, but maybe I’d just never had any good stuff.
“I think some casual touching in public will be necessary—to keep up the appearance of intimacy. But I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Our situation is not ideal, Alexandria, but I do want you to feel safe in it.”
I stared at him for a moment. This guy was annoyingly proper, but he also had something I’d never come across in any dickhead I’d let into my bed—integrity.
When I didn’t say anything, he kept speaking. “For example, was that all right when we walked in just now?” He nodded to the door, clearly referring to the chivalrous touch to my lower back.
“Oh! Yes, that’s perfectly fine. Anything above the hip area is fine.” I took another sip and rushed to add, “Except . . . well, the obvious exception . . .” I gestured vaguely to my boobs. Which really did look spectacular in the form-fitting dress, despite not even an inch of cleavage being on display.
He threw his head back and laughed. “Naturally. What about hand holding?”
I tapped my chin and scrunched my eyes, making a show of considering it seriously. “I’ll allow it.”
“Your negotiation skills are as astute as I’d been told,” he teased, and we both chuckled.
I fixed him with a more serious look. “I’m happy to hold your hand, Oren.” It was such an innocent thing, and I doubted we would be in public together much anyway before Alex and I swapped back.
Without thinking about it, I lowered my hand, palm up, to the table. He flicked his eyes to it, then back up to my face, before slowly reaching out. His big, soft hand wrapped around mine and gently flipped it, caressing my knuckles with his thumb. I suddenly found it difficult to look away from his hazel eyes.
The waiter delivered our first course, breaking the moment. I frowned. What the hell was that? I decided to put it down to the fact that I hadn’t gotten laid in over a week now. My body was reacting to every damn touch as if it were between my legs.
I frowned even deeper once I registered what was on my plate. It looked like a thimble-sized pile of tiny salad leaves.
I took another sip of wine to buy some time and glanced at Oren. He picked up the smallest knife and fork at the very edge of the pile of cutlery, and I followed his lead.
My dish turned out to be tuna and watercress, and it fucking melted on my tongue.
After several moments of silence, Oren asked me how my ride had been the previous day. I avoided saying anything whatsoever about Jack and focused on what I saw on his property, how it felt to be on a horse, the parts I enjoyed.
We spent five mind-blowing courses talking about his properties (the family had about a dozen, and he owned three personally); his business; the struggles of trying to balance doing what his father expected, honoring his legacy, and really stepping into the leadership role himself. It didn’t help that daddy dearest was having trouble letting go of the control. At least that answered where Oren’s own control issues came from.
I answered his questions as best I could before steering the conversation back to him. By the time they were clearing the table after the dessert course, I knew quite a bit about Oren Charles Winthrop.
I didn’t necessarily want to know so much about him, but it was the only foolproof tactic I had to keep him from prying too much into me. Bartending had taught me two invaluable things. The first was that if you keep asking questions, people will keep talking about themselves—and will probably like you a whole lot because they love to talk about themselves. The second was that most people see what they want to see.
Oren didn’t suspect a thing. He saw Alexandria Maria Zamorano sitting across the table—his future wife and guaranteed ticket to his inheritance.
The only parts of me he saw were the ones I couldn’t hold back, like my love of animals and riding, or the times I genuinely had no idea how Alex would react, so I had to fill in the blanks.
By the time he flashed his platinum card and we made our way outside, my core muscles were so tight from the tension of keeping up the deception you could probably have bounced a quarter off my stomach. I took a deep breath of the sweet night air. We’d finished off the bottle of wine, and I was craving something harder, desperate to loosen up a bit. Maybe I could somehow ditch rich boy and go get myself a drink.
I looked up to the sky as a cloud passed over the bottom half of the bright moon, just visible over the top of the buildings.
Oren stepped up next to me. “Oh, damn. I forgot to call the driver before we left.” He reached for his inside jacket pocket.
“Wait.” I spun to face him and grabbed his wrist. “We don’t need to head back yet, do we?” Even if I could lose him, I had no way to get back to his stupidly remote property. I couldn’t afford the taxi. But I didn’t want to go back yet either. “Let’s go get a drink.”
His brows pulled down in uncertainty. “I don’t know . . . I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
I couldn’t hold back the eye roll. “Oh, come on. Loosen up a bit. Unless . . . I mean, I’m having a good time.”
I tilted my chin down, peering up at him through my lashes. I knew he wanted to make an effort, and I was hoping to make him feel guilty. It was a low blow, but I really needed that damn drink.
He sighed, but his lips turned up in a small smile. “I wouldn’t even know where to take you.”
“That’s OK.” I grinned, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the end of the street. “Let’s go. I know—” I cut myself off. I was about to say I knew a good little bar just up the street. It wasn’t as posh as most of the other establishments in the area, but it had great cocktails. “Uh . . . I know you’ve been working really hard lately, and I just think you deserve to let loose a little. I’m sure there are plenty of places around here.” I flashed him a grin and gave his hand a squeeze as I rounded the corner.
He threaded his fingers through mine and increased his pace to keep from being dragged along. “All right.”
Suddenly, I questioned my readiness to agree to the hand holding—this felt too intimate. But before I could think about it too much, Black Lantern came into view. I wove past the people on the much busier street. Unlike the young, messy crowd usually found on Bourbon Street, these people were a little older and cleaner, though still looking for a good time.
“How about here?” I stopped in front of Black Lantern and headed inside without even waiting for an answer.
Oren laughed but came willingly. His hand once again went to my lower back as I led the way through the dark interior to the bar. A band was playing a seamless fusion of modern sound and big-brass-band energy, and the sizable crowd was clearly loving it.
I ordered a whiskey sour.
“I’ll have the same,” Oren shouted and handed over his card.
“Thank you.” I used his shoulder to balance as I leaned up to speak into his ear. Fuck, he smelled good. “You don’t have to pay for everything, you know.”
I hoped my gaze conveyed how much I appreciated it. There was no way I could’ve paid for the dinner. That was one thing Alex and I really did have in common, but Oren handled it like the gentleman he was.
“I invited you out. I insist.” He gave me a warm smile and accepted our drinks, handing me mine.
I took a sip of the strong cocktail, the whiskey burning my throat a little but the tang pleasant on my tongue and the smoky flavor decadent in my nose. It was an exceptional whiskey so
ur.
We sipped our drinks and listened to the band. I could feel the bass reverberating through my feet, almost making me forget how fucking uncomfortable those heels were.
I was surprised when Oren ordered another round. I was downright floored when he led me onto the dance floor once the drinks were empty.
Looked like rich boy only needed a gentle nudge into spontaneity; he seemed more than happy to roll with it now. We danced close—it was impossible not to in such a dense crowd—but he kept his hands above the hips, as per the terms.
Between the wine and the whiskey, not to mention the intoxicating sound of the band, I felt relaxed. And having Oren’s hands on my waist didn’t bother me anywhere near as much as I thought it would.
I hadn’t even drooled over the sexy lead singer or the bartender with the beard and the tattoo sleeve. In fact, I’d barely noticed any of the men. But I didn’t have time to linger on that fact, because Oren surprised me yet again by taking advantage of a gap in the crowd and spinning me in a complicated maneuver. His dexterous hands moved my body perfectly until I was back in his arms, his hands landing on my hips but the respectable distance maintained.
I could’ve stopped, could’ve used my grip on his shoulders to steady myself, but instead I leaned into the momentum until my front was flush with his. We stopped dancing, just standing in the middle of the writhing dance floor and staring at each other. His wavy, usually perfectly styled hair was falling over his forehead. His eyes looked dark and inviting in the dim light.
I dragged my hands over his shoulders and wrapped them around his neck. He mirrored the movement; one arm banded around my lower back, drawing me tighter against him, as the other splayed over my upper back, the tips of his fingers brushing the small amount of skin exposed at the top of the dress.
Just Be Her Page 10