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Chapter Eleven
“This ’ill have to do,” I mutter to myself as I stare into the floor-length mirror. I brought one outfit for going out and only because Dev insisted. Skinny white linen pants paired with gold sandals and a cropped hot pink silk top. It’s the best I can do on short notice. By no means is it a Hamptons-approved outfit––I have no doubt people will be wearing designer everything at this party––but I console myself knowing that no one will be looking at me.
Again, Grant offered to have his guy at Neiman Marks send over clothes and I categorically refused. As sweet as it was for him to offer, I wasn’t about to spend money on things I don’t need, or heaven forbid have him pay. I have braces to pay for in my near future. The days of me thinking about myself are long gone.
After our heartfelt talk the other night he’s been giving me a wide berth. Cordial but distant. I figured he probably regrets having said too much. Which, for reasons I can’t explain, kind of bums me out.
After gathering my long brown hair in a sleek ponytail and adding some mascara and lip gloss, I step out of the bedroom ready to fetch my son. I placed his chino shorts and light blue polo shirt on his bed while he took his shower so he should be ready to go.
Grant comes around the corner as I’m halfway up the stairs. Munching on an apple, he glances up and stops chewing the moment his eyes land on me. Aside from the long hair tucked behind his ears he actually looks…civilized for a change, wearing a long-sleeve cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khaki chino shorts. His eyes openly move over me, from the top of my head all the way to my toes.
“That shirt shows your…your…” His gaze focuses on the sliver of bare skin over my belly button.
“It’s called a stomach or midriff. And this just in––everyone’s got one.” For the record, it barely shows.
His frown deepens. “So why does everyone need to see yours?”
He can’t be serious. I have seen every square inch of this man and he takes issue with my wardrobe? The double standard here is appalling.
“I know you have a tiny beauty mark high on your left ass cheek. Glass houses?”
A lazy smile pushes up one side of his lips. “Look that closely, did you?”
He takes a huge bite of the apple, chews––slowly. Then he swallows––slowly. A very sexy swallow. I didn’t know a swallow could be sexy until this guy. Holy crow.
“Is that one of the expensive Honeycrisp apples I bought this morning?”
“Mmm. It’s really good,” he murmurs. “Sweet and juicy.”
Huh? A mist of sweat is already accumulating on my back. I feel the need to fan myself but that would be obvious. He smiles at my confusion. Of course, he does. Rattling my cage is his favorite pastime.
“I’ll go get Sam so we can leave.” Before I get sweat stains on my clothes. That little beauty I keep to myself.
Small feet come rumbling down the stairs. “We’re matching!” Sam points to his khaki chino shorts and smiles so wide at Hendricks I can see his molars. The bromance is strong with these two.
Grant holds out a fist and Sam bumps. “You’ve got good taste, little man.”
After an eye roll that practically strains a muscle in my neck, I get their attention. “Are you two dude-bros ready?”
Grant smiles. “After you.”
This party is a mistake. I called it. I knew it was going to be a mistake.
Steven’s mausoleum of a house is absent of any warmth or comfort. Everything is white, with the exception of all the abstract art hanging on the walls. It reminds me of a contemporary art museum. He has three couches and they’re all white leather and not intended to be sat upon. So technically, not couches. More like sculptures.
Young, rich, and beautiful people pack every corner of the house. So many of them they spill out onto the patio and all the way to the beach. The alcohol’s flowing, caterers pushing through the crowd bearing silver trays with food. The wild laughter and din of the crowd makes me feel disoriented.
When we walked in, Grant wrapped a protective arm around my shoulders while Sam clung to my side as he escorted us all the way to the back for some breathing room. He could’ve easily taken off by now to seek his own fun, and yet he’s remained glued to my side instead. I don’t know what to make of it.
“Thank you,” I murmur. When he doesn’t respond, I glance up and find him watching me intently.
“What for?”
“For not leaving me…I’m not good at parties,” I awkwardly admit.
“Why would I leave you?”
When I don’t comment right away because I’m too dumbstruck to think of a proper response, the atmosphere shifts, taking a trip into the awkward zone.
