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“You’re not anything like the other women here.”
I give him a big, cheesy, fake smile. “Well, thank God for that.”
“You don’t approve of them?”
“Have you met them? Besides, I thought you were expecting someone different. Which is why you were convinced that Jake must’ve paid a pretty penny for me.”
His eyes crinkle a little like he wants to smile, but can’t bring himself to do it. He looks down at the untouched platter in my hands. “You don’t like the food?”
This time, it’s me who studies him. “I’m not sure if you just want to hear what I have to say, or if you’re really asking all these questions because you don’t know the answer.”
“I like hearing what you have to say.”
“You sure? Because you may not like this.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Please. Don’t hold back.”
No problem, old timer.
I take a breath and lean back against the wall. “I spent last night in jail. I’ve had no sleep. What was supposed to be a relaxing day at the spa turned into an afternoon in hell. I’ve been poked and primped and plucked and waxed in places I didn’t know I had hair. My feet hurt. This dress is uncomfortable. Everyone here looks at me like I’m a whore. Jake is an asshole. As are his friends. I’m hungry as a hostage. And this shit looks like something a vegan barfed.”
“Interesting. But I only asked about the food.”
“And I only wanted a fucking chicken wing. Instead, I got this crap and a conversation with you. So I guess we both got more than we bargained for.”
He gives me a healthy dose of that Swagger silence then says, “Come with me,” before he turns and walks out.
I was not expecting this….
I don’t know what to do.
Follow?
Run?
Scream?
I stand and poke my head out of the door. He’s walking toward the kitchen. At least there are witnesses there. There are also knives.
You are not a punk, Penelope Hart!
I look down at the platter, unsure if I should bring it with me to my doom.
“Leave the tray, Penelope.”
Pee Paw Swagger is a witch!
I set the tray down. Smooth my hands over my dress. Take a deep breath. Lift my chin. One foot in front of the other…that’s all I have to do. By the time I join him in the kitchen, the sinking feeling in my stomach is at its worst.
“Of course, Mr. Swagger,” the chef says with a bow. Then he barks a command in a language I don’t understand and the entire kitchen staff disappears.
Pee Paw stands with his back to the massive industrial sized stove. His eyes are on me as he takes off his jacket, folds it over a chair then starts removing his cufflinks. He nods his head toward a stool next to the prep counter. “Sit.”
I sit because I’m scared to fucking death.
He rolls his sleeves up and grabs an apron from a hook on the wall.
What the hell?
“Would you like something to drink? Perhaps a beer?”
Of course he would know I had a beer.
He opens the refrigerator and grabs two bottles of Budweiser from the case sitting on the top shelf. “Phillip, the waiter you asked to bring you a beer, had this in the trunk of his car.” He twists off the caps before handing me one then keeping one for himself. “He was told to personally make sure you were accommodated with whatever you wanted. Lucky for you, he shared your taste in beer.”
“Really? Who told him to do that?”
“My grandson.”
My heart warms. And I want to kick myself because I could’ve had chicken wings after all.
“Jake always goes above and beyond to make sure his…guests…are taken care of. From what I can tell, he’s treated you no different. So imagine my confusion when you tell me he is an asshole.”
Blood floods my face. Hearing this, I feel I’m the true asshole. But my stubborn pride has me grasping at anything to aid in my defense. “He has yet to say something nice to me. You know, he didn’t even tell me I looked pretty. He said, ‘You’ll do.’”
“Do you really need to be told you’re pretty?”
“Yes,” I deadpan.
“I see.”
“He also told me he’d introduce me to Ed. Even get him to play me a song. He hasn’t done that either.”
“Ed?”
“Ed Sheeran. The singer. He’s here. At your party. Where have you been?”
He ignores me as he melts butter in a skillet. “I heard you had an issue with Briggs tonight.”
I cringe at the reminder. “Something like that.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Sure wouldn’t.”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure am.”
He shoots me a chastising look then grabs a knife to cut the loaf of fresh bread next to me. “I have the feeling that if I ask you to tell me the truth about the reason you’re here, you will.”
