Bliss Brothers (Complete Series), page 18
It’s other aspects of this lifestyle that aren’t working for me at the moment.
He raises his hands in the air. “My apologies, good sir. But really, Claire is…not my type. From what Roman says, she’s got a business here in town. That kind of thing would never work out for me.”
“Why? Are you looking for a traveling companion?”
“I don’t know. I like being by myself, out on the road.”
“So if someone who looked as good as Claire threw themselves into your lap, you’d just…leave with the sunrise, like you always do?”
“What makes you think nobody’s ever thrown themselves into my lap?”
I normally am the world’s biggest fan of sunglasses, but I wish I could snatch Driver’s from his face and throw them into the pool without looking like a complete asshole. I can’t tell anything from the set of his mouth.
“Driver, you don’t have to share that kind of information with me,” I say at last in a syrupy voice. “If you want tips on what to do for your first time—”
He leans over and punches me in the arm. “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.”
I pretend to fan myself with my hand. “Don’t say such provocative words.”
“You brought it up.”
“You hinted at escapades. You never say anything about what happens on the road.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t provide detailed reports of everything that happens in my life to my brothers.” Now he lifts his sunglasses so I can see his eyes. “You do, though.”
My laugh is an explosive thing, bouncing off the surface of the pool and back at us. “Please. You tell me what I’m hiding from all of you.” He doesn’t know—he can’t know—how much I really am hiding, but a cold desperation flares outward from the center of my gut. If Driver does know something about me that I haven’t told him, I’d rather be aware of it.
“You’re hiding…how much you love working with Claire.”
This time, the laughter is all genuine. I don’t want to upset the guests, so I swing my legs over the side of the lounge chair and cover my mouth. It has to be one of the craziest things Driver’s ever said.
He drops his sunglasses over his eyes and watches me like I’ve lost it.
“That is unbelievable.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I do not love working with Ms. Cashmore. Keep that one close to your heart, for it’s the truth.”
Is it, though?
Yes, it is.
“Maybe you don’t love how Roman set it up, but the good outweighs the bad. It’s obvious.”
I swing my legs back onto the lounge chair and force myself to relax. “You’re ridiculous.”
Driver adjusts his chair to a more upright position. “I don’t know if I’m the ridiculous one in this scenario, I hate to say.”
“Nobody hates to say that, but you’re such a sweetheart for putting it that way.”
“Seriously. I saw Claire going into the office yesterday morning—at least I’m assuming it’s her, based on the way you and Roman talk about her. You’re complaining about working with a woman who looks like that?”
“First—how is Roman talking about her?”
He shakes his head. “You know Jenny is the love of his life.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“You’d think Claire was some kind of holy savior, descending from on high to bring the resort back from the ashes.”
I groan. “Oh, my God. It was not that bad.”
“Wouldn’t know. I was on the road.”
“Well, whatever Roman tells you is an absurd exaggeration.”
“So no one sank a yacht?”
I have to steal a look at him to confirm he’s bullshitting me, which he is. “To some people, that rowboat might have been a yacht, for how much they care about it.”
Driver lifts his feet and digs them into the cushion on the lounge chair. “I notice you’re avoiding my question now.”
“Did you ask me one?”
“I asked you why the hell you were complaining about having to be close to Claire. I was thirty feet away when I saw her. I didn’t need to be closer to know that she is…” He trails off. “Extremely good looking.”
He’s right, in a way. Claire Cashmore is very easy on the eyes. More than easy. She’s like a magnet. I can’t stop looking at her, can’t stop tracing the curves of her body, wondering what she’s like in a bathing suit, skin slick from the pool—
I shake that thought right out of my head. Unless I run her into the pool myself, she’s never going to swim with me. On top of that, we’re obligated to spend time together for the next two weeks. That means nothing. She clocks out promptly at five, unless there’s an event, and I have no idea where she goes during the evenings. She’d implode if anything happened during the workday, which is sacred to Claire in a way I’ve never been able to fathom.
“It’s a personality thing.” I say it to Driver as decisively as I can manage, which probably isn’t very decisive. “She wants to suck the fun out of everything, and I want….”
“You want to suck the fun back in?”
We both laugh at that, lounge chairs rattling beneath us. But when the laughter is gone, I’m still a man out at sea, torn beneath heading out into the blue yonder and coming straight back to shore.
So dramatic.
“I don’t know what I want, Drive. It would piss Roman off, but maybe I should step back and let her take my place.” At the thought of it, there’s a strange blooming in my chest. Anyone who knew us would say that I have the most freedom of all the brothers. I set my own schedule. I—until last week—planned my own events. But lately they’ve seemed more like a cage than an open sky. Even if I wanted to plan events like Claire, how could I ever do that? People would think I’d been replaced by a clone with all my personality stripped out.
Even Driver might, and he’s the most laid-back of us all. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him, but I swallow the words. We’re sitting by the pool. Now’s not the time, if there ever is one.
“Or you could make your place what you want it to be,” he says in a cryptic tone.
I can’t help but snicker, because it sounds so stupidly sage and wise coming from him. He’s never here. He’s always searching for somewhere else to be. It’s really quite rich. “It already is what I want it to be. Except for Claire.”
I can feel him looking at me. “Okay.”
“Don’t.”
He looks back toward the pool. “Okay.”
I let the silence go on for as long as I can bear it. “Just say it. Whatever you’re going to say.”
Driver gives me a sly look from behind his sunglasses. “You could lay down and take it. Or you could…you know.”
“What?”
“If she’s so uptight…” He shrugs, looking out at all the people in the pool. “Show her a good time.”
8
Claire
I made a mistake.
I underestimated what it would be like to witness Beau Bliss wearing a tuxedo.
I should have prepared for this in advance. What, exactly, I could have done to prepare for that is a bit of a mystery, but I should have done something. Anything. Now that I’m standing here, watching him come in through the ballroom door, several solutions come to mind. I could have Googled photos of him. Surely, a son of the Bliss family would have been photographed wearing a tux before. I could have looked up his social media profiles. Or I could have looked up pictures of the sexiest men in the world at black tie events.
Even that might not have been enough.
I prepared for everything else. The menu. The seating, which is open seating, with staff nearby to smooth out any issues with place settings and chairs. The place settings themselves, which are white with teal accent plates. The centerpieces include a bowl of conversation starters, some of them bordering on cheeky. I want to add so much value that Beau can’t deny it.
Why I want that so badly, I can’t say.
Not that there’s anyone to say it to. Nobody in this entire room would care about that. We’re floating along on a sea of pleasant conversation.
And then he comes in.
Beau steps through the door, and instantly—I mean instantly—the room changes.
If I didn’t experience it for myself, I wouldn’t believe it. I bet it’s like when members of the royal family arrive at a gathering and are announced by the herald. The prince is here. Everyone, look alive.
I thought everyone looked plenty alive for the first part of the cocktail hour. The conversation was pleasant, and I’ve done my best to pick up any loners and find a group for them to chat in. It was a bit of a task, and the size of the party has a lot to do with it.
This is the largest dinner party I’ve ever hosted, outside from sorority events, and the stakes are much higher.
It was going well.
That’s what I thought, anyway.
But the moment his foot is through the door, everything is different.
Shamefully, I am different. He starts greeting people without missing a beat—there is, after all, no actual herald to announce his name, although now I’m reconsidering whether we should hire one—and I can’t look away. I’ve never seen any man look the way Beau does in a tuxedo.
The cocktail blazer and slacks were one thing.
The tux?
It makes my mouth water.
But what makes my pulse race is the crackling energy that fills the air around him, turning everybody’s heads. Including mine.
I spent half the night last night in as deep meditation as I could manage for the purposes of handling these occasions. Sitting in a meeting with him is one thing. I can’t exactly accuse him of flirting, but then—
Two-fold.
Yeah.
Beau spends the rest of the cocktail hour circulating, leaning in close to person after person, ending almost every interaction with a laugh and a clap on the back.
Is it possible I underestimated him? Is it possible he’s…adding value? Is it possible he could add even more value somewhere else? I’ve seen his abs. Those count as definitive evidence.
I circulate, too, but now that he’s in the room, all I can think about is where he is and why he’s not talking to me. Which is obvious. I am not a guest at this dinner party.
It shouldn’t matter at all, so I fold the thought up in the center of a napkin and put it delicately on a passing server’s tray. Ah, yes—another set of loners. The couple hovers awkwardly next to one of the standing tables, taking tiny sips of champagne and tilting their heads toward one another without taking their eyes from the people milling in front of them.
They’re easy to approach. “Can I help you find anyone?”
The woman smiles, sheepishly. “Our friends were supposed to be here, but they had to cancel. I’m Rachel and this is Mark—we’re part of the yacht club association.” I never would have guessed. I thought the yacht club association was only for the sixty-plus set. You learn something new every day.
“I have the perfect group for you.”
“Great,” Mark says, the relief evident in his voice.
Rachel jabs him with her elbow, wearing a good-natured smile. “What—you didn’t want to talk to me all evening?”
They banter as I lead them across the room, toward a clutch of people I’d put at about the same age. Rachel recognizes one woman from her yoga class, and within thirty seconds they’re off and running.
Then, in an instant, he’s next to me, leaning in. Even without touching him I know his skin is warm—warm from his tan, warm from the sun, warm from the radiant energy of being in a crowd. And as much as I hate free agents like Beau, as much as I can’t stand all the uncertainty and imperfection they bring to any situation…I can’t help wanting him to lean in closer. As it is, it’s like being alone in the crowd. Nobody else matters when he’s this close.
“It’s about time for dinner.” His voice is close and confidential and he smells like soap and a hint of cologne and chlorine. “Everyone seems to be having a good time.”
It’s true. The volume of conversation is louder, and it seems…freer, somehow. It can’t really be because of Beau, can it? The drinks have to be setting in. “Yeah. They do.”
”Except for you.”
Goosebumps.
I draw myself up as straight as I can, which is not much taller than I’m already standing. “I’m having a lovely time.”
“You’re not a good liar.” Then Beau extends his hand.
“What are you doing?” I’m dying to know the answer, because this—this is unprecedented. Of all my clients—
“Taking you to dinner.”
* * *
BEAU
Driver was right. He was absolutely right, in that infuriating way of his. It’s not like he’s around enough to be that wise about me. Some nerve, thinking he can give advice like he’s known me all his life.
Which I guess he has, but who’s counting?
Before our poolside chat, I only wanted to get a rise out of Claire. I only wanted to get under her skin. But by the time I headed back into the office to make sure there were no other details to agonize over before we went our separate ways to get ready, I wanted…something else entirely.
I really did want to show her a good time.
It sounds ridiculous in my head—almost as ridiculous as Driver claiming that I love working with her.
I don’t love working with her.
Not this version of Claire, anyway, the one who is always pursing her lips and refusing to show the slightest hint of emotion.
Except that blush. She can’t hide that from me, poor thing.
Driver was right.
And up until this moment, I only half believed it.
Now?
Now is the moment when I take in the sight of Claire Cashmore in a black off-the-shoulder evening gown.
I cannot fathom why everyone else in the room isn’t staring at her.
She looks outrageously sexy. It’s not right. It’s not fair.
Somehow, I thought she’d be in one of her pencil skirts with a matching jacket, but of course not. Of course she wouldn’t come to a dinner party wearing her office clothes. Still, don’t event planners usually wear some kind of all-black outfit that lets them blend in with the wait staff?
This is not that kind of outfit, and thankfully I’m getting more heartbeats to sear it into my memory forever.
She stares down at my hand, and God, is it ever fun to watch the wheels turn in her head. All the conversation floating around us fades away into a low hum of background noise. If someone wants my attention now, they’re really going to have to work for it.
“I—”
“Are we not hosting this event?” I gesture toward the room with my other hand. “Aren’t we the lord and lady of the evening? Look at you. If you weren’t planning to dine, why did you put on such a lovely dress?”
There it is—that blush high on her cheeks that even her makeup can’t hide. “The event isn’t for us.” Her voice is so damn even. Everything’s a decision with her. She is so definitive about everything. Where’s the room for spontaneity in that?
Screw it. If she doesn’t think there’s room, I’ll make room. This might be a Claire Cashmore Elegant Event, but it’s being hosted on my resort, and everybody here knows that I don’t just sit on the outskirts of a party. Even if sometimes I really, really want to.
That’s not going to be the case tonight. I’ve already made some alterations to the game plan, and it would be a dick move to make changes and not show up to enjoy them.
“You know that’s absurd, right?”
She looks up into my eyes, and for the first time I really see the green there. It’s not a monolith, not even a little. A starburst of gold circles her irises, and I bet I could see even more of it if her pupils didn’t look so huge and dark. If I didn’t know better I’d think she’d had a glass or two of wine. But I know better.
Claire presses her lips together. “It’s not absurd. I can’t—” No one is standing within earshot, but she looks around nonetheless. “I can’t sit down to dinner in front of the clients.”
“I’m the client. And I’m asking you to dinner. And if that was the rule, you wouldn’t be mingling at the cocktail party, either.”
“I wasn’t mingling. I was facilitating.”
“Call it what you want, but I see right through you.”
“You don’t. And it’s not a matter of seeing through me. It’s a matter of—”
“Dinner. I know. So simple, yet so complicated. Plus, it would be very rude to refuse an invitation from one of the Bliss Brothers in front of everyone at our party.”
“There aren’t seats.” She raises her chin another inch higher. “I didn’t put us on the seating chart. The seating list,” she corrects herself quickly, then seems to realize she’s walked herself right into a little trap. “It’s open seating, and I didn’t leave room for us as extras—”
“Lies. There are some saved seats, and you and I both know it.”
“I didn’t save seats for us.” I hear the strain in her voice from trying to keep it so, so cool, and I can’t help but love it.
“When is the last time you checked the seating chart?”
“This morning, before I—” Her mouth drops open. “You did not.”
“I did. And you’re going to love our table.”
Claire allows herself to raise her eyebrows, and if I wasn’t looking closely, I wouldn’t know she was breathing faster. But she is. That dress is rising and falling along with her…chest. “You didn’t displace attendees, did you? Because this guest list was curated based on Roman’s specifications, and I really can’t afford to lose—”
She cuts herself off, but that has my attention. What can’t Claire Cashmore afford to lose? How could a woman like Claire allow herself to be in any kind of precarious position?
I want to know more about it, but I can see her shutting down right in front of me. I can see she’s not going to let her emotions get the better of her and spill any sordid details about her own life while we’re at this dinner party.
“I just don’t think—”
He raises his hands in the air. “My apologies, good sir. But really, Claire is…not my type. From what Roman says, she’s got a business here in town. That kind of thing would never work out for me.”
“Why? Are you looking for a traveling companion?”
“I don’t know. I like being by myself, out on the road.”
“So if someone who looked as good as Claire threw themselves into your lap, you’d just…leave with the sunrise, like you always do?”
“What makes you think nobody’s ever thrown themselves into my lap?”
I normally am the world’s biggest fan of sunglasses, but I wish I could snatch Driver’s from his face and throw them into the pool without looking like a complete asshole. I can’t tell anything from the set of his mouth.
“Driver, you don’t have to share that kind of information with me,” I say at last in a syrupy voice. “If you want tips on what to do for your first time—”
He leans over and punches me in the arm. “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.”
I pretend to fan myself with my hand. “Don’t say such provocative words.”
“You brought it up.”
“You hinted at escapades. You never say anything about what happens on the road.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t provide detailed reports of everything that happens in my life to my brothers.” Now he lifts his sunglasses so I can see his eyes. “You do, though.”
My laugh is an explosive thing, bouncing off the surface of the pool and back at us. “Please. You tell me what I’m hiding from all of you.” He doesn’t know—he can’t know—how much I really am hiding, but a cold desperation flares outward from the center of my gut. If Driver does know something about me that I haven’t told him, I’d rather be aware of it.
“You’re hiding…how much you love working with Claire.”
This time, the laughter is all genuine. I don’t want to upset the guests, so I swing my legs over the side of the lounge chair and cover my mouth. It has to be one of the craziest things Driver’s ever said.
He drops his sunglasses over his eyes and watches me like I’ve lost it.
“That is unbelievable.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I do not love working with Ms. Cashmore. Keep that one close to your heart, for it’s the truth.”
Is it, though?
Yes, it is.
“Maybe you don’t love how Roman set it up, but the good outweighs the bad. It’s obvious.”
I swing my legs back onto the lounge chair and force myself to relax. “You’re ridiculous.”
Driver adjusts his chair to a more upright position. “I don’t know if I’m the ridiculous one in this scenario, I hate to say.”
“Nobody hates to say that, but you’re such a sweetheart for putting it that way.”
“Seriously. I saw Claire going into the office yesterday morning—at least I’m assuming it’s her, based on the way you and Roman talk about her. You’re complaining about working with a woman who looks like that?”
“First—how is Roman talking about her?”
He shakes his head. “You know Jenny is the love of his life.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“You’d think Claire was some kind of holy savior, descending from on high to bring the resort back from the ashes.”
I groan. “Oh, my God. It was not that bad.”
“Wouldn’t know. I was on the road.”
“Well, whatever Roman tells you is an absurd exaggeration.”
“So no one sank a yacht?”
I have to steal a look at him to confirm he’s bullshitting me, which he is. “To some people, that rowboat might have been a yacht, for how much they care about it.”
Driver lifts his feet and digs them into the cushion on the lounge chair. “I notice you’re avoiding my question now.”
“Did you ask me one?”
“I asked you why the hell you were complaining about having to be close to Claire. I was thirty feet away when I saw her. I didn’t need to be closer to know that she is…” He trails off. “Extremely good looking.”
He’s right, in a way. Claire Cashmore is very easy on the eyes. More than easy. She’s like a magnet. I can’t stop looking at her, can’t stop tracing the curves of her body, wondering what she’s like in a bathing suit, skin slick from the pool—
I shake that thought right out of my head. Unless I run her into the pool myself, she’s never going to swim with me. On top of that, we’re obligated to spend time together for the next two weeks. That means nothing. She clocks out promptly at five, unless there’s an event, and I have no idea where she goes during the evenings. She’d implode if anything happened during the workday, which is sacred to Claire in a way I’ve never been able to fathom.
“It’s a personality thing.” I say it to Driver as decisively as I can manage, which probably isn’t very decisive. “She wants to suck the fun out of everything, and I want….”
“You want to suck the fun back in?”
We both laugh at that, lounge chairs rattling beneath us. But when the laughter is gone, I’m still a man out at sea, torn beneath heading out into the blue yonder and coming straight back to shore.
So dramatic.
“I don’t know what I want, Drive. It would piss Roman off, but maybe I should step back and let her take my place.” At the thought of it, there’s a strange blooming in my chest. Anyone who knew us would say that I have the most freedom of all the brothers. I set my own schedule. I—until last week—planned my own events. But lately they’ve seemed more like a cage than an open sky. Even if I wanted to plan events like Claire, how could I ever do that? People would think I’d been replaced by a clone with all my personality stripped out.
Even Driver might, and he’s the most laid-back of us all. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him, but I swallow the words. We’re sitting by the pool. Now’s not the time, if there ever is one.
“Or you could make your place what you want it to be,” he says in a cryptic tone.
I can’t help but snicker, because it sounds so stupidly sage and wise coming from him. He’s never here. He’s always searching for somewhere else to be. It’s really quite rich. “It already is what I want it to be. Except for Claire.”
I can feel him looking at me. “Okay.”
“Don’t.”
He looks back toward the pool. “Okay.”
I let the silence go on for as long as I can bear it. “Just say it. Whatever you’re going to say.”
Driver gives me a sly look from behind his sunglasses. “You could lay down and take it. Or you could…you know.”
“What?”
“If she’s so uptight…” He shrugs, looking out at all the people in the pool. “Show her a good time.”
8
Claire
I made a mistake.
I underestimated what it would be like to witness Beau Bliss wearing a tuxedo.
I should have prepared for this in advance. What, exactly, I could have done to prepare for that is a bit of a mystery, but I should have done something. Anything. Now that I’m standing here, watching him come in through the ballroom door, several solutions come to mind. I could have Googled photos of him. Surely, a son of the Bliss family would have been photographed wearing a tux before. I could have looked up his social media profiles. Or I could have looked up pictures of the sexiest men in the world at black tie events.
Even that might not have been enough.
I prepared for everything else. The menu. The seating, which is open seating, with staff nearby to smooth out any issues with place settings and chairs. The place settings themselves, which are white with teal accent plates. The centerpieces include a bowl of conversation starters, some of them bordering on cheeky. I want to add so much value that Beau can’t deny it.
Why I want that so badly, I can’t say.
Not that there’s anyone to say it to. Nobody in this entire room would care about that. We’re floating along on a sea of pleasant conversation.
And then he comes in.
Beau steps through the door, and instantly—I mean instantly—the room changes.
If I didn’t experience it for myself, I wouldn’t believe it. I bet it’s like when members of the royal family arrive at a gathering and are announced by the herald. The prince is here. Everyone, look alive.
I thought everyone looked plenty alive for the first part of the cocktail hour. The conversation was pleasant, and I’ve done my best to pick up any loners and find a group for them to chat in. It was a bit of a task, and the size of the party has a lot to do with it.
This is the largest dinner party I’ve ever hosted, outside from sorority events, and the stakes are much higher.
It was going well.
That’s what I thought, anyway.
But the moment his foot is through the door, everything is different.
Shamefully, I am different. He starts greeting people without missing a beat—there is, after all, no actual herald to announce his name, although now I’m reconsidering whether we should hire one—and I can’t look away. I’ve never seen any man look the way Beau does in a tuxedo.
The cocktail blazer and slacks were one thing.
The tux?
It makes my mouth water.
But what makes my pulse race is the crackling energy that fills the air around him, turning everybody’s heads. Including mine.
I spent half the night last night in as deep meditation as I could manage for the purposes of handling these occasions. Sitting in a meeting with him is one thing. I can’t exactly accuse him of flirting, but then—
Two-fold.
Yeah.
Beau spends the rest of the cocktail hour circulating, leaning in close to person after person, ending almost every interaction with a laugh and a clap on the back.
Is it possible I underestimated him? Is it possible he’s…adding value? Is it possible he could add even more value somewhere else? I’ve seen his abs. Those count as definitive evidence.
I circulate, too, but now that he’s in the room, all I can think about is where he is and why he’s not talking to me. Which is obvious. I am not a guest at this dinner party.
It shouldn’t matter at all, so I fold the thought up in the center of a napkin and put it delicately on a passing server’s tray. Ah, yes—another set of loners. The couple hovers awkwardly next to one of the standing tables, taking tiny sips of champagne and tilting their heads toward one another without taking their eyes from the people milling in front of them.
They’re easy to approach. “Can I help you find anyone?”
The woman smiles, sheepishly. “Our friends were supposed to be here, but they had to cancel. I’m Rachel and this is Mark—we’re part of the yacht club association.” I never would have guessed. I thought the yacht club association was only for the sixty-plus set. You learn something new every day.
“I have the perfect group for you.”
“Great,” Mark says, the relief evident in his voice.
Rachel jabs him with her elbow, wearing a good-natured smile. “What—you didn’t want to talk to me all evening?”
They banter as I lead them across the room, toward a clutch of people I’d put at about the same age. Rachel recognizes one woman from her yoga class, and within thirty seconds they’re off and running.
Then, in an instant, he’s next to me, leaning in. Even without touching him I know his skin is warm—warm from his tan, warm from the sun, warm from the radiant energy of being in a crowd. And as much as I hate free agents like Beau, as much as I can’t stand all the uncertainty and imperfection they bring to any situation…I can’t help wanting him to lean in closer. As it is, it’s like being alone in the crowd. Nobody else matters when he’s this close.
“It’s about time for dinner.” His voice is close and confidential and he smells like soap and a hint of cologne and chlorine. “Everyone seems to be having a good time.”
It’s true. The volume of conversation is louder, and it seems…freer, somehow. It can’t really be because of Beau, can it? The drinks have to be setting in. “Yeah. They do.”
”Except for you.”
Goosebumps.
I draw myself up as straight as I can, which is not much taller than I’m already standing. “I’m having a lovely time.”
“You’re not a good liar.” Then Beau extends his hand.
“What are you doing?” I’m dying to know the answer, because this—this is unprecedented. Of all my clients—
“Taking you to dinner.”
* * *
BEAU
Driver was right. He was absolutely right, in that infuriating way of his. It’s not like he’s around enough to be that wise about me. Some nerve, thinking he can give advice like he’s known me all his life.
Which I guess he has, but who’s counting?
Before our poolside chat, I only wanted to get a rise out of Claire. I only wanted to get under her skin. But by the time I headed back into the office to make sure there were no other details to agonize over before we went our separate ways to get ready, I wanted…something else entirely.
I really did want to show her a good time.
It sounds ridiculous in my head—almost as ridiculous as Driver claiming that I love working with her.
I don’t love working with her.
Not this version of Claire, anyway, the one who is always pursing her lips and refusing to show the slightest hint of emotion.
Except that blush. She can’t hide that from me, poor thing.
Driver was right.
And up until this moment, I only half believed it.
Now?
Now is the moment when I take in the sight of Claire Cashmore in a black off-the-shoulder evening gown.
I cannot fathom why everyone else in the room isn’t staring at her.
She looks outrageously sexy. It’s not right. It’s not fair.
Somehow, I thought she’d be in one of her pencil skirts with a matching jacket, but of course not. Of course she wouldn’t come to a dinner party wearing her office clothes. Still, don’t event planners usually wear some kind of all-black outfit that lets them blend in with the wait staff?
This is not that kind of outfit, and thankfully I’m getting more heartbeats to sear it into my memory forever.
She stares down at my hand, and God, is it ever fun to watch the wheels turn in her head. All the conversation floating around us fades away into a low hum of background noise. If someone wants my attention now, they’re really going to have to work for it.
“I—”
“Are we not hosting this event?” I gesture toward the room with my other hand. “Aren’t we the lord and lady of the evening? Look at you. If you weren’t planning to dine, why did you put on such a lovely dress?”
There it is—that blush high on her cheeks that even her makeup can’t hide. “The event isn’t for us.” Her voice is so damn even. Everything’s a decision with her. She is so definitive about everything. Where’s the room for spontaneity in that?
Screw it. If she doesn’t think there’s room, I’ll make room. This might be a Claire Cashmore Elegant Event, but it’s being hosted on my resort, and everybody here knows that I don’t just sit on the outskirts of a party. Even if sometimes I really, really want to.
That’s not going to be the case tonight. I’ve already made some alterations to the game plan, and it would be a dick move to make changes and not show up to enjoy them.
“You know that’s absurd, right?”
She looks up into my eyes, and for the first time I really see the green there. It’s not a monolith, not even a little. A starburst of gold circles her irises, and I bet I could see even more of it if her pupils didn’t look so huge and dark. If I didn’t know better I’d think she’d had a glass or two of wine. But I know better.
Claire presses her lips together. “It’s not absurd. I can’t—” No one is standing within earshot, but she looks around nonetheless. “I can’t sit down to dinner in front of the clients.”
“I’m the client. And I’m asking you to dinner. And if that was the rule, you wouldn’t be mingling at the cocktail party, either.”
“I wasn’t mingling. I was facilitating.”
“Call it what you want, but I see right through you.”
“You don’t. And it’s not a matter of seeing through me. It’s a matter of—”
“Dinner. I know. So simple, yet so complicated. Plus, it would be very rude to refuse an invitation from one of the Bliss Brothers in front of everyone at our party.”
“There aren’t seats.” She raises her chin another inch higher. “I didn’t put us on the seating chart. The seating list,” she corrects herself quickly, then seems to realize she’s walked herself right into a little trap. “It’s open seating, and I didn’t leave room for us as extras—”
“Lies. There are some saved seats, and you and I both know it.”
“I didn’t save seats for us.” I hear the strain in her voice from trying to keep it so, so cool, and I can’t help but love it.
“When is the last time you checked the seating chart?”
“This morning, before I—” Her mouth drops open. “You did not.”
“I did. And you’re going to love our table.”
Claire allows herself to raise her eyebrows, and if I wasn’t looking closely, I wouldn’t know she was breathing faster. But she is. That dress is rising and falling along with her…chest. “You didn’t displace attendees, did you? Because this guest list was curated based on Roman’s specifications, and I really can’t afford to lose—”
She cuts herself off, but that has my attention. What can’t Claire Cashmore afford to lose? How could a woman like Claire allow herself to be in any kind of precarious position?
I want to know more about it, but I can see her shutting down right in front of me. I can see she’s not going to let her emotions get the better of her and spill any sordid details about her own life while we’re at this dinner party.
“I just don’t think—”
