That’s also where I want to be.
She’s about to return to the wet floorboards.
“Wait.” I quickly roll a hairband off my wrist. My hair doesn’t reach my shoulders, but it’s just long enough that I can put it in a bun.
Her smile widens when she realizes what I’m doing. Our eyes never detour, not even as I start gathering her hair in my hands. It’s messy.
Not even close to perfect.
But I’m able to tie her hair up into a knot at the top of her head. When I’m finished, her gloved hand hovers above her bun, and she scans the room for a mirror. None.
Her eyes hit mine. “How do I look?” she asks.
Beautiful.
But I feel the hot gazes of Charlie and Farrow. They’re quiet, which means they’re listening.
Fuck it.
“Beautiful,” I tell her.
Surprise parts her lips, but her smile reaches her eyes. “Tom called you an honorary Cobalt this morning on the phone,” she says. I didn’t know that.
Charlie overhears and he calls out to us. “Until you two stop fake dating.” His yellow-green eyes pierce me. “Then you turn back into a pumpkin.”
We hold each other’s gaze.
He’s calling me the Cinderella in all of this.
And maybe he’s right.
I am coming from nothing suddenly being welcomed into a world that I don’t belong in. An uncomfortable tension winds between Jane and me. Security is holding the “end” of the fake dating op over our heads. I hate that it could come sooner than Halloween. I hate that I can’t do shit about that.
Mostly, I hate when we have to breakup, I won’t be able to call her beautiful. Not out loud. It’ll stay in my head. Like it always has before.
26
THATCHER MORETTI
Dear Jane,
I hope you’re doing well. I realize now that my earlier intentions to set you up with a respectable man, while well-meaning, were misplaced since you have already found yourself a boyfriend. I’d love to meet him and have the chance to speak to you in person. Let me know if you’d be free for an afternoon tea this weekend.
Love,
Grandmother Calloway
That email still rips through my head. Jane showed it to me yesterday and stated plainly, “I have to put this whole ordeal to bed. And the only way to do that is to meet with my grandmother and tell her what’s on my mind.” I don’t blame her. Grandmother Calloway has been too quiet, too silent, and she’s always worse when she’s lurking in the fucking shadows.
So Jane accepted the invitation.
And now we’re sitting on a leather couch in the infamous Avondale Club. Cigar smoke wafts in the poorly lit parlor, and cocktail tables, couches and chairs are all filled with blue-blooded aristocrats.
Jane tucks her pastel-sequined purse closer to her stomach. We sit side-by-side but turned into each other. Knees knocking. Legs brushing. My hand feels glued to the inside of her thigh, like that’s where it was always meant to be.
Her eyes flit around the room before settling on me. “She’s late.”
I go to touch my mic, thinking I can radio to see her grandmother’s whereabouts, but my fingers brush the fabric of my collar. No wire.
No mic.
No comms.
I’m off-duty. Here as Jane’s boyfriend only.
I don’t fucking hate it. But I do wish I at least had my taser. Not that I’d tase her grandmother. I’d tase one of these pricks that keep leering at her from across the room. Two targets are at a high-top table by the window, puffing on cigars, and eyeing her up and down like they’re etching her body into their memories.
That, I hate.
I wrap an arm around Jane’s waist, trying to ease her tension in a different way. “I can go ask Banks if he has any word on her ETA.”
My brother sits with Akara on the first lounge, raised a couple steps above the parlor and separated by a mahogany half-wall.
The Avondale Club has been a topic among security since I first joined. Only a handful of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts attend. Even less do so regularly. Cell phones aren’t allowed beyond the doors, and the country club’s own security is so tight that our guys aren’t even permitted past the first lounge.
But from that vantage, you can still clearly see the main parlor and do your job. Honest, most of the guys on the team just want to see the inside. To say they’ve been here. A place only the most affluent will ever gather.
For the most part, being stuck at the club all day on duty is considered dull work. And after the second time a bodyguard has to go, they’ll start complaining real fucking fast.
I’ve always thought the longer I worked in security, one day I’d probably make it here.
I just never thought it would be as a boyfriend. Fake boyfriend.
Not a bodyguard.
Jane shakes her head. “No, I’d rather you stay here,” she says and leans closer into me. “This place gives me the chills. My dad does business here sometimes, and growing up, when he’d come home after, he was always a little different.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her gaze sinks into me. “My dad says he has many faces and the one he puts on for this place is the coldest of them all.”
Christ.
It reminds me.
This is her first time here, too.
“We’re not staying long,” I tell her. Talk to her grandmother. Get out. That’s the op. No straying.
“Yes,” she agrees. “No longer than we need to. And if my tardy grandmother would so kindly show up, we could move this along even quicker.”
I slide the sleeve of my sports coat back and check my watch. Who the fuck is late to their own apology tour? It’s horseshit.
Jane’s knees start to bounce.
Fuck.
I make the call. “Five minutes and we’re leaving.”
Relief lowers her shoulder. “Oui.”
She rests her palm on the inside of my thigh and scoots even nearer.
Soft chatter from guests drowns our own conversations. Each member of the club looks like they could be from the same Yale Secret Society.
I do a fine job at blending. I’ve been in even fancier black tie events for work.
Servers walk around the room, carrying silver trays with flutes of champagne. Jane motions for one. The server bends down for her to take a glass.
She doesn’t reach. “Can we get two beers?”
He blinks. “This is Dom Pérignon.”
“I’m aware,” she says. “But I’m more of a beer drinker. Two pints of Guinness perhaps?”
The server nods and leaves quickly.
Jane knows my favorite beer. That simple fact sends blood rushing south. I return my hand to her thigh. Like a fucking magnet. She shifts to look at me head-on, and my palm slides a little higher up her baby-blue dress pants. I stop before it becomes inappropriate.
“Guinness,” I say first.
She smiles. “The best kind of kisses.”
Fuck. My free hand rises to the back of her head, prepared to remind her what those kind of kisses feel like. I’d do more if we weren’t in public. She’d be on the table. Legs open. Ready for my tongue. Then my cock.
I tell her, “Also the best kind of sex.”
Flush runs up her neck and shallow breath leaves her lips. “Have we had Guinness sex yet?”
I shake my head.
“We should rectify that. Most surely,” she says and pats my chest like she doesn’t know where else to put her hands. Her eyes drop to my crotch. I think she wants to put them there. She’s sexy as all hell and right now, I get to call her my girlfriend. Fake girlfriend, but still, it’s a good feeling.
I open my mouth to reply, but movement on my four catches my eye.
We both look up as her cousin approaches, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. A strict code violation for the club, but Sullivan Meadows was able to skate on by.
According to the owner, she’s the first Olympic gold medalist to step foot on the premises.
“Just a heads up—there are no cupcakes or donuts here,” Sulli says, but she carries a stack of pastries on a small plate. “Fucking waste of a good tea party.”
She slumps down on the couch beside Jane.
“Thank you for coming,” Jane says into a smile and squeezes her side.