I’m not shy by any stretch of the imagination. Being a bold modern woman, I’m more than capable of making the first move. Many men find it intimidating that I take pride in my confidence, but the one meant for me will not. I’m ready to see if this guy is a contender.
His dark gaze tracks my slinky approach. I add more sway to my hips under his intense focus. While I erase the distance separating us, my eyes have a feast of their own. His hair is a dark shade of blond, styled in that effortless way I want to tousle with my fingers. A slight shadow coats his jaw in stubble. Just enough to elicit a burn against sensitive flesh. Flammable tingles stir in my lower belly. All I need is a fuse to go off like a rocket. Yes, please. Is it too early to ask for seconds?
I shamelessly prop myself against the wall he’s leaning on. With a quirked brow, I glance at his drink. Bourbon, maybe? The sophisticated choice wouldn’t be a surprise. He smells like money. The ancient type that’s seared into his DNA. He wasn’t just born with a silver spoon in his mouth—it was already there before his parents had sex. An entitled kind of stench seeps from his pores. Luxury and privilege drape over his casual pose, fitting even better than his custom-tailored suit. He reeks of expensive liquor, fast cars, and bad decisions.
And I’m hooked on it.
He remains unmoving and imposing, much like a concrete pillar. Perhaps his emotions resemble a similar structure. Breaking this thick ice between us is also my responsibility, apparently, as he continues to wear a mask of indifference. The sneaking suspicion that he’s a bad choice begins whispering in my ear. I mentally swat at that pesky voice, refusing to surrender without a proper attempt.
“Hey, handsome. I’m Vannah.” I offer him my hand to shake—or kiss, if he’s into that sort of thing.
The ass sneers at my outstretched palm as if I’m poisonous. To a man like him, I just might be. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I’ve never been a good liar.”
“Wow, okay.” I drop my arm. “That’s how it is?”
His features return to a neutral state of disregard. “You interrupted me.”
A glance over my shoulder lands on the packed dance floor. “Creeping on someone?”
He snorts into his crystal tumbler. “Hardly.”
“Care to fill me in?” I straighten from my come-hither position.
“Just enjoying destruction in the making.”
What an odd thing to say. “Vague much?”
“That’s intentional.”
It feels like my lashes are coated in concrete as I blink at him. “All right then.”
Well, this is a bust. Pressure of my own making threatens to hunch my shoulders. Dignity rattles through my posture, keeping me poised and on guard. I almost startle when the silence ends between us.
“So… Savannah.” His tone resembles a hiss. “How do you fit into this scenario?”
I ignore his question, still mulling over his audacity and the urge to set sights on prospects with actual potential. Then I process what he else he said. Why does he assume that’s my full name? The fact that he’s correct boils my blood a bit hotter. “Everyone calls me Vannah.”
“I’m not everyone,” he drawls.
“No, you’re clearly not.” I wrinkle my nose and re-appraise him with a lazy perusal. Such a pity to discover his appearance is hiding an ugly spirit.
He swirls the remaining alcohol in his glass. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“Do you actually care about my response?”
“No.” His blunt retort should be expected at this point, but the bite still burns.
I could walk away, as any logical woman would. But this is becoming a matter of stubborn nature and principle. Who has the bigger balls? Metaphorical or not, this guy isn’t getting the final word.
With a haughty tilt of my chin, I stare him down and prepare for battle. “Ashlee is my cousin, but we might as well be sisters.”
“How nice. I suppose that explains your dress,” he says with a curl of his upper lip.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m a bridesmaid. The maid of honor, actually.”
He grunts, polishing off the rest of his beverage. “What an idiotic tradition. This spectacle is all for show. Not to mention a horrific waste of money.”
A storm cloud seems to be thundering above his head. I get a chill from that stony look. Not that I’d ever expose my reaction. On the outside, I appear calm and detached to a fault. That’s how I got the reputation as a snarky diva, defense mechanism or not. My resting bitch face could win a gold medal at the Olympics. This dickhead has nothing on me.
I press my lips into a firm line to keep an expletive shower from pouring out. “Then why did you bother attending?”
“Josh is an old friend. I felt the need to watch him go down in flames.” His wrist flicks in that dismissive way cocky men overuse.
“How kind.”
“I aim to please.”
It’s my turn to huff. “Okay. Mr. Grey.”
A furrow creases his harsh brow. “What?”
No shock that the similar phrase and reference are lost on him, although it would be funny if he’d read the popular books. “Never mind. You don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage?”
He shoves a fist into his trouser pocket. “Only if the arrangement financially benefits both parties and there’s a bulletproof prenup.”
Bile churns in my stomach. I gulp to avoid chucking filet mignon over his loafers. “Like a business transaction?”
He nods, the movement sharper than his sculpted jawline. “Precisely. A merger of sorts.”
“Wow,” I stretch the word with feigned enthusiasm. “You’re a real piece of work.”
“Thank you.” The douche tips an imaginary hat.
“That wasn’t meant to be a compliment.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” The snarl pinching his features should look disturbing, but he’s just too damn hot.
That doesn’t mean I have to accept his appeal. “You’re casting a real doom-and-gloom vibe on this momentous occasion. Maybe you could ease up on the theatrics.”
“At least I don’t look like a dehydrated apricot.”
I don’t need to glance at my dress to confirm that the orange clashes with my hair. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of confirming the obvious. All he gets is my glare, narrowing further on his stupidly handsome face. “Are you offering to buy me a drink? I’ll take a dry martini with extra olives.”
“How predictable. The bar is right over there.” His shooing gesture is where I draw the line. There are only so many strikes I can handle before being mistaken for a pushover.
I sashay backward. “Well, this conversation has been enlightening. I hope to never see you again.”
His gaze devours my retreat. Whether in glee or disappointment, I’ll never know. “The sentiment is entirely mutual.”
“Enjoy the party.”
“I won’t.”
All he gets in return is my middle finger waving goodbye.
Realization strikes as I’m stomping off. The asshole never told me his name.
“I’m cursed!”