“Great!” Hayes scribbles something down on a Post-it Note and hands it to me. “We’ll see you there.”
I shove the note into my pocket, and as I pass Kingston on my way out, I stop in front of him.
He hesitantly meets my eyes.
“It’ll be okay,” I say softly and smile. “I gotchur back.” I reach out, squeeze his muscled bicep, and deny my hand permission to linger on the firm muscle there. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Great,” he says with little enthusiasm.
He’s worried.
I don’t blame him.
But he’s in good hands with me. I may have a love–hate relationship with the New York elite, but I know exactly how to handle this world of money and reputation.
I was born into it.
Kingston
“You have no idea what you’ve done!” I pace the length of Hayes’ office, double fists in my hair and pulse racing.
I was stuck in place for what felt like hours after Gabriella walked away. I couldn’t find my voice or sort my thoughts fast enough to reject Hayes’ stupid idea. Inviting Gabriella to my dad’s birthday party as my guest? Selfish prick.
He wants to throw the redhead with the scarred face on my arm just to rile up our father, and usually, I’d be on board for his kind of fun, but not with her. Hayes is a cruel bastard. At the very least, he’s set Gabriella up for dirty looks and inappropriate comments. At the worst, well… I refuse to allow my mind to go there.
“I got you a date for the party. You’re welcome.”
I swing my arm out toward the door. “With her.”
“Yes, with her.” He tilts his head. “She’s perfect. Feisty, outspoken, and you won’t be on August’s radar because he’ll be too busy looking at that nasty scar.”
A surge of unholy rage floods my insides. “Don’t talk about her scar.”
He narrows his eyes. “Since when did you become her protector? Did you leave your body while she was in here? She’s plenty capable of protecting herself.”
A pin bursts my lungs, and I release my held breath. I blink away the red fog and try to act chill.
“You’re acting like Alex.”
“Shut up.”
“What is up with you? You hardly spoke to her, didn’t flirt, barely looked her in the eye. Are you sure you didn’t fuck this girl?”
My molars grind together.
He holds his hands up. “No judgment. She’s got a hot little body—hey, where are you going?”
I slam the office door and head to the elevators. I’m taking the rest of the day off.
Five
Gabriella
“You’re going out on a date with him?” Annette says while she takes Mrs. Lawrence’s vitals.
I run my thumb along the paper-thin skin of her hand, noting how soft it is. She was brought in two weeks ago, in the final stages of heart disease, and we’re keeping her comfortable. She sleeps most of the day, only waking when her ninety-eight-year-old husband visits once a day.
“I am. But it’s not a real date. He’s gay,” I whisper, not that Mrs. Lawrence is alert enough to care.
Annette nods knowingly. “The pretty ones always are.” She moves the stethoscope around Mrs. Lawrence’s chest.
“He’s not out to his family. They’re wealthy. His last name is etched into glass on the biggest building in the city.”
“So, what? He’s trying to keep up appearances to his folks?” She readjusts Mrs. Lawrence’s blankets.
“That’s the feeling I got, yeah.”
“A date with a beautiful man where you two get to pretend to be crazy about each other, but there’s absolutely zero pressure for sex?”
“Sounds nice, right? I can wear sensible underwear and not worry about overeating—”
“Or overdrinking.”
“Exactly!”
She frowns. “I’m jealous.”
Annette has a head of gorgeous natural curls and a face with smooth skin and freckles, both a source of envy for me. She never has a problem finding a date. Or a bed partner.
I haven’t been in a relationship since before the accident. God, it’s been three years. I’ve settled for flirtatious friendships that never lead to more. I have yet to find a man who sees beyond my scarred face. Not that I’ve been out there looking.
“Where is the party?” Annette asks once we’re in the hallway.
“It’s at that new French restaurant in Greenwich Village.”
“The Cellar? It’s impossible to get in there.”
“Not when you’re loaded.”
“You’re so lucky. Take pictures. Text me from the bathroom. Oh! Take pictures of the bathroom!”
Evan joins us in the hallway. “I wasn’t going to ask, but I gotta know. What bathroom?”
Annette smirks at him. “Gabriella has a date with that super-hot guy she saved from the alley.”
He frowns. “The drunk bum?”
“He was drunk. I wouldn’t say one night of overindulgence earns him the title.”
“You know him well enough to say that?”
I cross my arms at my chest. “I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
He huffs out a frustrated breath. “Suit yourself.”
Annette and I watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. “Someone’s jealous,” she says.
“No way.” I rearrange a stack of old magazines on a table in the hallway.
“He’s so into you.”
“We’ve worked together for two years, and he’s never done more than a little harmless flirting. Honestly, I’ve had underwear make bigger moves.”
She rocks into my side. “Men don’t always see that what they want is standing right in front of them.”
I bat my eyes dreamily. “To think I’ve been sitting in front of my dream man for years just waiting for him to be desperate enough to notice me. Is there anything more romantic?” I sigh, then roll my eyes.
Truth is, she’s not wrong. I won’t ever be the woman who sweeps a man off his feet at first sight. The best I can hope for is to be the friend that developed into more. The occasional drunken mistake. The funny girl with the great personality.
And now, added to that, the beard.
Kingston
“Nervous for your date?”
I shoot Hayes a glare. “Fuck off.”
He chuckles from his leaned position on the bar at The Cellar and sips his vodka rocks. His date, Ellie, a call girl he calls on frequently, sits at his side quietly sipping a glass of merlot.
“It’s just,” he lowers his voice, “you’ve been eyeing the door since you got here.”
Yeah, I have. I don’t tell Hayes I’ve been eyeing it a lot longer from outside.
I don’t know what happened. I slept in late this morning, hit the gym for two hours, and took my time getting ready for tonight’s dreaded family party, and I still arrived forty-five minutes early.
I sip my scotch and find my gaze drawn to the door again. “This is your fault. You invited her to a slaughter.”