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“Sure you can,” Fergus said.
“I’m not telling you my bra size,” I repeated.
“They’re a solid D. I’d start there,” the guy standing a few feet away from me said, his eyes fixed firmly on my chest.
“You know what else starts with a D?” I stared at him. “Drop that attitude or get out of my bar.”
He held his hands up. “Just trying to help.”
Fergus clucked his tongue. “There are strip clubs for that. What can I get you, apart from some manners?”
“Behave yourself, Fergus,” I sighed, pushing off the bar and turning to the back.
“I always do!”
***
Unfortunately for me, Fergus hadn’t been lying about buying me a bra.
In related news, I had an opening for a new best friend, because I’d just fired Abby for telling him my bra size.
At least he didn’t buy me panties. That would have been a step or ten too far.
I wasn’t happy about the bra, but according to Fergus, it screamed sex kitten. Given that the only person who would see the bra on was me, I didn’t see that I needed to be a sex anything.
At least, that was my plan.
I hadn’t planned on being kissed either…Or seeing Damien…Or basically anything that had happened today.
If I’d learned one thing today, it was to quit making plans, because mine apparently sucked. And, no matter what I planned, it was going to go to shit anyway.
Funny how that never happened with Damien’s plans.
I adjusted the top of my stockings and looked at myself in the mirror of the staff room. I felt ridiculous—I wasn’t really a stockings kind of girl. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I’d ever worn them, but I only had myself to blame. Asking Fergus was the quickest way to clothing styles I had no interest in; although I had to admit that the bra he’d bought made my boobs look good with the sweetheart neckline of my dress.
Really, really good.
I put my hands on my hips with a huff. How had I gotten talked into this? How was I standing in the back room of my bar, wearing stockings and a bra bought by my gay employee, while waiting to go to dinner with a man who was as attractive as he was infuriating?
If you’d asked me ten years ago where I thought my life would be at twenty-five, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been this.
Hell, if you’d asked me a year ago, it wouldn’t have been this.
In that instance, my father’s illness was still nothing but a situation I hoped we never found ourselves in, Damien Fox was no more than a guy who owned strip clubs, and I was just Dahlia. I worked. I spent time with my friends. Then, I worked some more.
I didn’t have time to date.
I still don’t. I have even less time. But the only way to get out of this was to go into the witness protection scheme or something equally like that, and that seemed a little drastic.
I slipped my feet into my favorite, shiny, black heels. They were my ‘comfort’ shoes and added a good four inches to my height, but I still felt stupid.
This whole thing was stupid.
I knew it.
Yet I couldn’t put a stop to it. I could if I really wanted to. Despite how annoying Damien’s persistence was, something told me that if I put my foot down once and for all, I’d never see him again.
So, why couldn’t I do that?
Why couldn’t I use tonight to tell him that I wasn’t interested in whatever game this was? Why couldn’t I put an end to this once and for all? There was nothing he could do to convince me to sell to him. This game was for his own amusement, to see if he could play me into giving him what he wanted.
My reflection stared back at me with the answer.
Because I wanted to play his game. I wanted to know about him, to break beneath the surface and figure out all the things that made him tick. I wanted his secrets and his lies. I wanted to know everything, and the only way to get what I wanted was to make him think he was getting what he wanted.
And, I wanted more.
I wanted him.
I wanted his mouth on mine again. I wanted his hands and his body. I wanted to see if he was as good as he said he was—if his words were empty or understatements.
I wanted to fuck Damien Fox. I had since we’d had dinner and he’d pulled me on top of him and slipped his fingers inside me.
It was that simple.
But, maybe, the best way to play his game was to bend the rules.
Just a little.
Fifteen
Dahlia
He wore all black.
Jacket, shirt, pants, shoes. If it weren’t for the light behind the bar illuminating the different fabrics, they’d have all blended in together.
