“That’s my brother Luke,” Adam whispers in my ear. “He hates these things.”
“I can see that,” I reply under my breath. Then I glance at the empty chair. “Who is that seat for?”
The muscles in Adam’s jaw clench, and I sense that I’ve just touched on a sensitive topic. “My youngest brother Isaac.”
“Is he coming?” I ask.
“No.” Then he takes a drink and averts his eyes. “He doesn’t come…to anything anymore.”
With that, I drop the subject. The last thing I want to do tonight is get on Adam’s nerves. He’s my lifeline, the only person I can rely on in this den of wolves.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. His lips are so close to my ear I can feel them brushing my hair. If I were to turn my head, we’d be mouth to mouth. Something tells me he was about to kiss me earlier after the introduction with Caleb and Briar. But he hesitated a second too long and the moment passed.
I’m cursing myself for not practicing the kissing before tonight. I had him touch my boobs. Why didn’t I just kiss him too, to get it out of our systems? Because before tonight is over, we’re going to have to kiss at least once. That was the deal.
“I need more alcohol,” I reply in a whisper with my nearly empty glass up to my lips. “Everyone is staring at me.”
“That’s the idea, remember?” His voice is low and authoritative, sending a wave of chills down my spine. I hate how good he smells and how nice it feels to be seen with him.
To be seen as his.
Adam always looks clean-cut and well-dressed, but tonight is next level. In a dark-charcoal suit with a coral-colored tie,
he almost looks like he dressed to match me. Not to mention the pink in the silk around his neck brings out the warm-brown tones of his eyes. And the soft-pink hue of his lips.
“You’re not going to stop me from drinking too much, are you?” I ask with a coy smirk as I finish my martini.
“Fuck no,” he snaps. “Get as drunk as you want. Give them a show.”
With that, he waves down the waiter.
We don’t actually get all that drunk. Although when one rich white man after another takes the stage to talk about the foundation, almost as much as they talk about themselves and how generous they are, I wish that waiter would make his trips a little more frequent.
After what feels like hours of torture, they serve dinner and the music plays. I barely pick at my meal. It’s a pecan-crusted chicken breast that’s bland and tastes a little too much like this place feels—smug and snobbish. The charity they’re supporting is literally for feeding children in third-world countries while they sit here and gorge themselves on a three-course meal, patting themselves on the back for how benevolent they are.
The longer I sit, the more bitter and cynical I get.
So when I notice the conversation around us growing quiet, I turn to Adam. With my lips against his ear, I whisper,
“I’m bored. Let’s cause a scene.”
His brow twitches as he fights a smile. There’s vitriol in his eyes as they glare across the table at his father, who’s talking to some old guy.
Adam’s eyes find mine for a moment before he tosses down his napkin and takes my hand.
“Let’s dance,” he says out loud.
Everyone at the table glances our way as we stand up and move toward the dance floor. There are already a few couples out there, but they’re mostly very old and very boring. The
music is some nameless, instrumental song I don’t know, and definitely not the kind of tune anyone should be grinding to.
Not that Adam and I are grinding, but as he pulls my body against his, my right leg slips through the slit in my dress, exposing my tattooed leg all the way up—mermaid tits and all.
I’m practically straddling his thigh as we start to sway in gentle circles around the dance floor.
To my surprise, Adam is actually a pretty good dancer.
He’s got rhythm and grace, leading me with strength, so all I really have to do is hold on to him and let him guide the way.
I scan the room as we move, noticing the way people stare at us with confusion before leaning in toward each other as if to gossip about us. It gives me a strange sense of satisfaction to know I’m disrupting this whole stupid charade of theirs.
“People are watching,” I say to Adam, but as I turn my head to look up at him, I find him staring softly at me. Not with condemnation or judgment. Almost like he’s… admiring me.
With a blink, the look is gone, his expression tightening and his jaw clenching.
“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when he recognized you. Scared shitless.”
“Good. Let him sweat a little,” I reply. “Do you think he suspects it’s fake?”
With a subtle shake of his head, he says, “No. He has no reason to think it’s fake, but we might need to sell it a little more.”
“Then kiss me,” I reply bluntly. Adam’s eyes grow serious, and I notice the bounce of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Now?”
“Are they watching?”
He glances back at his father’s table. “Yes,” he says with trepidation.
“Then do it,” I say, trying to encourage him. His arm is wrapped around my lower back and we’re still moving in harmony with the music, but I can tell Adam is struggling with this part. And I don’t understand why.
We shuffle around the room for another turn and I can see him trying to find the right time. Just then, the song comes to an end, and the dancers around us freeze in place, clapping for the orchestra on stage.
“Now,” I say as we come to a stop. His grip on my back tightens, and I feel the hard planes of his chest against my breasts as he squeezes me tighter. I also feel the swell of his dick in his pants, and while it’s not a raging hard-on, it’s not exactly soft either.
Just as our eyes meet and he leans down toward me, I brace for the kiss—
“Can I cut in?”
Our movement stops and we both freeze, our lips only an inch apart. Adam’s fingers squeeze mine so tight it almost hurts.
The clear, Southern drawl of the man behind me feels like a cold drip of fear cascading down my spine, and as much as my body is telling me to run, to get away and hide—I can’t.
Instead, Adam and I make brief, intense eye contact before turning toward his father, who is waiting to take my hand like it’s the casual, expected thing to do.
My stomach turns when Adam tightens his grip on my back.
“It’s just a dance,” Truett mutters darkly.
He can’t tell his father no. Not when hundreds of people are watching. He can’t cause a scene here and now, painting Truett as the victim. It’s not part of the plan.
I hear the tightness in his chest as he replies to his father,
“No.”
“Of course,” I say, interrupting Adam. My smile is as fake as it’s ever been and probably looks more cross than I want it
to. And when Adam squeezes me again, I fear the confrontation might be inevitable after all.
So I peel his hands from my back and look him in the eye.
“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s just a dance.”