Tuxedo-Mark comes closer, and I change my position, showing him what my buttercup hand props are for; I am living flower art.
“You look incredible,” he says, relaxing his hands in his pockets, looking me up and down again. “But I’ll have a word with Aiden or your boss about the length of skirts in the future.” He lifts an eyebrow.
“I can wear it later if you like it,” I say, flashing him a grin and my attempt at a wink.
He leans closer, his eyes burning into me. “If I can wait that long.” His voice is a rumble, and as always it hits me straight in the core. It’s so hard to be this close without being able to kiss him. He’d get paint all over his mouth.
“Careful, you don’t want to make the flower wet.”
His crooked smile appears, and I know that’s exactly what he wants to do. Fuck, I can’t walk around for three hours with damp knickers. This is going to be harder than I thought.
The evening unfolds how I imagine it was planned to. Riley plays a perfect acoustic set in the square under leafy trees and festoon lights on a warm summer evening. The square is busy, and I spot at least three movie stars and someone I believe is royalty, although my eyes land on Mark every chance I get. And he’s easy to find; he seems reluctant to stray too far.
When my living flower routine is over, I move into the restaurant and it’s my turn to work the room, making peopleeat and encouraging some of them to move up to the wine bar. It’s so fun putting a smile on people’s faces with mine. Especially because, for me, this joy is genuine. I love this costume, this setting.
I shimmy over to a group that’s been standing together for a while, and ask if they’ve tried the wine bar upstairs. One of the men turns to me and leans closer.
“This is an interesting job,” he says, nodding to the costume.
“Sure is,” I answer, doing a silly little curtsy. “What doyoudo?”
“I’m a movie producer.”
“That sounds fun too,” I say and laugh. He chuckles and puts a hand on my elbow.
“Hey,” I hear behind me, the deep voice I know better than any. I turn to see Mark.
“Hey, man,” the movie producer says, his voice nervous as he looks up at Mark. “Sorry, can I help you?”
“You’re touching my woman.”
The man’s hand drops away from me.
“Yourwoman?”
Mark nods slowly and takes a sip of his whiskey, glaring down at him.
The man looks at me again and back at Mark, and a dirty grin spreads on his face. “Oh, right, I see.”
The exchange gives me a stomachache. What assumption is he making here? The billionaire in the tuxedo and the scantily clad woman; it can only mean one thing? I close my eyes and will the man to leave.
Mark must be so embarrassed. I wish I could see his expression, but his face is angled away from me.
Fuck. Me coming here was a terrible idea.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mark snarls. “She’s mygirlfriend,” he adds, and I gasp. We’ve not had this conversation.
The man puts his hands up and lets out a haughty, disgusting laugh before he shuffles away. He looks back at Mark and shakes his head in disbelief.
His girlfriend.
He’s not embarrassed?
“Does this happen every time?” he asks and turns to me.
His jaw muscle is working double time.
The relief I felt a second ago is replaced by niggling anger, simmering deep in my gut.
