How to Ruin a Wedding(22)
“I see. Well, you didn’t say or do anything embarrassing, if that helps.”
I snort. “Sweet of you to lie, but I know myself, and that is absolutely what happened.”
“Not to me.”
I narrow my eyes at his sincere expression and bring the glass to my lips. His gaze briefly flickers to where my mouth presses against the glass before reaching my eyes again, and my cheeks flush.
“Did we sleep together?” I blurt out. I’m sure we didn’t. I’m sure I would remember that—my body would, anyway—but I need confirmation. Just in case. To be sure. “I woke up with a shirt that wasn’t mine.”
“I walked you to your room, and we ended the night.” He tilts his head in debate about whether to add the next part. Then, “You said you wanted it because I smelled nice, so I gave it to you before leaving.”
The way he frames it lets me know he’s politely omitting a more dramatic scene, one where I said something a lot more sexual, or, worse, yanked it off him before he gently turned me down.
He doesn’t sound like he’s lying about nothing happening, but drunk me is a little more adventurous—and shameless—than sober me. “Be honest, did I make a move on you?”
“If you did, it would have been more than welcome.”
Which is a polite way of saying yes. I groan and rub my hand over my face, freezing when I remember I layered on mascara. I already acted insane around him; I don’t need to look the part too.
“Why are you sitting here with me and not running away? You have at least five reasons to.”
“I don’t want to.” He grabs a napkin. He then reaches over and cups my cheek in one hand, wiping the cloth over my skin with the other. I blink as he pulls away, spotting the black mascara staining the cloth as he places it on the table and continues, “And I need a favor.”
I frown at him. “I bet you get yourself into constant misunderstandings.”
His brows bunch together, pulling down a scar at the side of his right eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
I gesture to the napkin. “You’re very affectionate,” I point out, but affectionate doesn’t seem like the right word. Charming, maybe, but it doesn’t encompass what I mean to say, either. “I can tell you don’t mean to be, that you’re just doing things in the moment, but it only makes you more endearing. You probably think you pass as friendly, but other people might believe you’re looking for more than that.”
His gaze latches onto me. I can’t quite read the emotion in it. It’s a little darker than the easy warmth that seems to fill it most of the time. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I’m not entirely sure what he means by that, but for some reason, tiny circles of heat sear through my skin as he looks at me. I shift in my seat and take a fortifying sip of wine. “Anyway, what favor could I possibly do for you?”
“When you wrecked my friend’s wedding,” he begins casually, as if we’re talking about the weather, “I tried to find you but you left pretty soon after.”
I want to shrink inside myself for a moment, to become so small he forgets I ever walked into the restaurant, but his words don’t have any judgment in them. It’s enough to let me push aside the pulse of embarrassment vibrating under my skin and actually listen to his words.
“For a blissful moment,” I say, “I forgot I told you what I do.”
“Nothing wrong with trying to make a living.”
I hold up a hand. My pitch is a little too high not to hint at some mortification. “This is not to make a living but for a living. It’s not my life’s goal or anything. I stumbled into it, and one day, I’ll stumble out of it.”
Hopefully.
“Right, because you want to buy Save a Paw.”
What didn’t I tell him?
The bar is so low for men that Anders remembering this one detail sends a fluttering to the pit of my stomach. “Yeah, among other things.”
“I’d like to hire you.”
My hand stills on the glass pressed against my lips. Nothing about this conversation is going in any direction I predicted it to. “You’re engaged?” Being hung up on his first love marrying his best friend didn’t make it seem so.
“No, I’m not. It’d be for my sister’s wedding.”
My eyes widen. “Your sister?”
“You think less of me for it?”
“No.” I cross my arms against my chest. “It’s just, you didn’t seem the meddling type. You sat back and didn’t object to your first love and best friend getting married, but you’re inserting yourself into your sister’s relationship?”
He flinches, and guilt slices into me. I quickly add, “I’m sorry. That came out harsh. I’m just trying to better understand.” And, since the floor is open. “Did they set a new date? Your friend and ex?”
“It’s okay,” he says, sitting back, but there’s still a bit of tension in his shoulders. “They got married the next day. They’d reserved one of the halls for another night of celebration, so it didn’t stop them. Only made for some interesting speeches from the guests.”
Knowing I starred in those speeches isn’t too embarrassing. Aside from Anders, none of them know me, and it doesn’t seem like Anders told them anything. One day I’ll just be some deranged, faceless woman they tell stories about.