The Love of My Afterlife(56)
“It’s working,” I whisper. While Cooper’s hand remains impressively steady, mine is trembling. “Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No. We’ll be late, though. The ruse will be ruined.”
“That’s not important right now.”
I continue holding the fabric in place until the bleeding subsides. And then, grabbing the army knife again, I rip off the other thigh. As I do, I notice that Cooper is looking right at my legs, his eyes almost black. “Yes, some of us have meat on our bones,” I say in response to his weird expression. Then my heart starts to thud again. I ignore it and wrap the other piece of fabric around his hand, tying it at the bottom so it looks like a black bandage.
“There,” I say. “Looks like a fancy black bandage.”
Cooper stands up, inspecting his hand before his eyes drop down to my thighs, which now have two slight muffin top bulges spilling out of the remaining shapewear.
“Jonah appreciates them a little chunky,” I say, pulling my dress back down.
I hear the swell of voices softening from the front of the building. Cooper hears it too.
“They’re going back in,” he says. Come on! Hurry.”
* * *
As we reach the front of the manor, the last of the couples are disappearing into the grand porticoed entrance of the building.
“Shit. Shit, nooooo,” I mutter as a guy with a walkie-talkie stands out at the front, eyeing us with suspicion as we approach.
“Keep cool,” Cooper says, striding purposefully towards the man.
“Do you have your tickets, mate?”
“Of course not,” Cooper immediately says with the same imperious air I know him to be excellent at, since he’s been using it with me pretty much since we met. “Our phones are inside our coat pockets, which, of course, are inside the manor, abandoned during the panic of the alarm. How irritating for the fire alarm to go off and stall the festivities.”
“Coats?” the man says. “In a heat wave?”
Cooper realises his mistake, his eyes widening in panic. This is a man unfamiliar with failing. I need to distract the bouncer away from the coats line of questioning, because it can only end badly. I know what to do. I’ve seen plenty of old movies in which women use their feminine wiles to disarm an enemy. I’ll take a crack at that.
I step in front of Cooper and smile at the bouncer, knowing that right now is the best I’ve ever looked in my whole life. I bat my enhanced eyelashes, open my glossy mouth, and swiftly remember that I have never ever flirted before. Not ever. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
“You are…very handsome on your face…” I try, immediately flailing.
“Come again?”
“And I like your…buttons.” I trail my hand down the buttons of the man’s black shirt. Wow. Some distant part of me knows this is bad, but somehow I cannot stop. “They’re shiny buttons. I like it shiny.”
I wink at the man.
I wink.
Cooper darts in front of me.
“Haha. Forgive her, mate. We may have already had a little too much free champagne. You know how it is…”
“Too much free champagne? No, mate, funnily enough I don’t know how that is.”
The bouncer narrows his eyes at us. I truly think we’re about to be busted, when suddenly he peers down towards my knees, his eyes sliding across to Cooper. I follow his gaze to where Cooper is frantically trying to smooth back his curls, which have returned to full wild disarray after the whole window-smashing thing. The bouncer nods slowly and gives a little chuckle. “Ah, that’s why you were around the corner, eh? A little hanky-panky? My wife likes it in the open air too.”
Huh? I look down at my knees and see the green grass stains from when I kneeled down to bandage Cooper’s hand. He thinks we were doing it?
I lean in. “Kindred spirits, your wife and I!” I giggle. “But I am parched now. You know…”
“Of course, love,” the man says, waving us through. “Go in and get yourself a drink, looks like you’ve earned it.”
Ew. Ewwwwwww.
I hook Cooper’s arm and drag him along with me to the lobby of the manor, where a waiter holds a tray filled with crystal champagne flutes. Cooper plucks two of them from the tray and hands one to me, clinking his glass against mine.
“You like it shiny?” he asks, amusement lifting the corner of his mouth. “That’s a new one.”
I down my champagne and immediately grab another.
“We will never speak of it again.”
28
Derwent Manor is astonishing and intimidating. As Cooper and I walk into the ballroom, I can’t help but gasp at the opulence. There are chandeliers that are bigger than my bathroom and the walls are painted a dark blue so inky that it could be black. Hundreds of gold gilt frames display stunning oil paintings. Holy shit, is that a Titian?
On a wide platform a pianist and accompanying swing band play Rosemary Clooney’s “Mambo Italiano” as guests twirl and sway about the room, sipping champagne and chatting like this isn’t the most ridiculously luxurious thing to ever happen to them. I scan the room but I don’t see any professional dancers. Perhaps they’re still getting ready, warming up somewhere? Then it occurs to me that, if there are guests already dancing here, why would the event planners hire professionals to do it too?