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I look up to the beautiful two-story mansion. It’s classic in its own right, chic and polished, much like itsowner. Two grand staircases lead up to the oversized balcony on the second floor. The wooden entrance doors are open, with wait staff on either side. The inside is lit up by large chandeliers, and music drifts outside.
“So you don’t live here?” I ask, admiring the beauty of this place. “Are you like the Gatsby of New York?”
He laughs because the house screams lavish events, high society, and leisure.
But not…home.
“I’m sure you’re used to amazing places,” he comments as we walk toward the front doors.
“I am, but this isverynice.” However, it does make me wonder what home looks like to Dawson because this is all business. A showpiece for his clients. I want to know what his house looks like because where a person lives often says a lot about them. Well, that’s what my nonna had always told me.
Dawson’s hand stays on my lower back as we enter the mansion. People start to greet him, throwing curious glances in my direction but asking for no introduction. I’m used to events such as these and honestly prefer when people don’t speak to me. Unless, of course, I’m hosting personally. Not once does his hand leave my lower back.
I find a small bit of satisfaction in the fact that when he shakes other people’s hands, he doesn’t really give anyone much more attention than they deserve, and his attentiveness continues to circle back to me.
We walk through the mansion and arrive in a room where most of the people are mingling. It’s asexpected—large chandeliers, grand art pieces, marble flooring, and screams decadence. But I still don’t see Dawson living here.
A lady walks over, holding a tray of champagne. He grabs one and hands it to me before taking one for himself.
An energy buzzes through the air upon the announcement of Dawson’s arrival. If people weren’t mingling before, they sure as hell are now. I find it fascinating to watch. I quickly realize that those wearing a red bowtie or red choker are the escorts. And they’re all beautiful. It’s like they all stepped out of a magazine, but it’s more than that. They ooze ease and charisma. This is the elite, and I feel like I’m stepping into another part of Dawson’s world. Had he started as an escort? He still has so many secrets.
“Should I have a red choker on?” I ask him. I can tell he’s been studying me more than the group around us.
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “The only choker you’ll ever wear is one I provide you.”
As he pulls back, I can sense the shift in him. His hand applies more pressure to my back as an older lady walks over.
“Dawson, this year’s picking…” She shakes her head and looks at me. “Oh, tonight you have a pretty date. I approve. Now, find me someone,” she says, smiling at me. But I feel judged by her. Being scrutinized was something I dealt with at these types of events back home. I was either judged for being my father’s daughter, a possible match for their son, or as competition. But this party is based on vanity and companionship alone.
“Mrs. Henderson, I supply you with the best, but you never like any of them,” he replies.
She lays a hand on his shoulder. “It’s because I’m waiting on you, dear.”
I want to laugh at her forwardness.
“I’m sorry, but I’m already taken,” he says, which surprises me.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind sharing you. Would you, dear?” she asks me.
“Oh, you can have him.” I smile, and her eyes widen, but Dawson pulls me closer, squeezing my hip. I can hear his unsaid “behave.”
“She’s joking. The sense of humor on this one. I don’t share. Sorry, Mrs. Henderson. Please enjoy your night,” Dawson says, pulling me away. I give her a little wave, and she smiles in return as we walk off.
“You would share me?” he asks as we reach an empty table.
“You aren’t mine.”
“But I want to be yours. Or at least make you come again.” He smirks.
I hold up the glass of champagne. “If I get another one of these, I very well may let you.” He hands me his glass, which he hasn’t touched. “I was joking.”
“You shouldn’t joke and play with my feelings like that,” he mock scolds as a man approaches us.He comes up behind Dawson and glances at me briefly before he focuses on Dawson.
“Edgar,” Dawson greets.
“Dawson.”
“Everything okay?” Dawson asks.
