Calling on depths of restraint I never imagined I had, I don’t hit Clive upside the head as I ask, “Are you asking me if I think Max will sleep with her? Honestly?”
Clive steps closer and mutters, “I thought you said there was nothing going on between the two of you. That he asked you to marry him out of pity.”
“I was being discreet. Besides, if you believed me when I said there was nothing going on between us, why did you go to his office on Saturday and act like a total jack apple?”
Clive runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I panicked. And now I’m even more panicked. If she propositions him and he turns her down, it could hurt his chances of getting the fellowship.”
Again, I fight the urge to do bodily harm.
Because all of my sound logic and reasonable reasons aside, if she propositions him and he doesn’t turn her down, it will be worse than bad. At least for me.
I hand Clive my glass. “If you’re so worried about it, maybe you should go offer to sleep with her.”
And with that, I leave. Because there’s only so much indignation a woman can take in one night.
Chapter 27
Max
The only thing worse than being in a group in public, is being in a group in public at a party.
And the only thing worse than that is a party in my honor.
How the hell did this happen to me?
Of course, I know the answer to that.
The woman beside me is to blame.
Lily. Fucking. McPherson.
If she hadn’t decided to join the selection committee and “update” the requirements, then I wouldn’t be here. More to the point, if she hadn’t reached out to me via Instagram, this party would not be happening. And she would not be standing at my side, her hand on my arm. Her annoying laughter ringing in my ears. And worse . . .
And this is the absolute worst part . . .
Her damn floral perfume clogging up my nose.
She smells like a fucking garden.
Specifically, she smells like my grandmother’s garden.
And she does not smell like lemon pancakes.
Which is completely beside the point.
I don’t want her to smell like lemons. It’s just that if I have to have some damn woman flipping her hair in my face all the time, the least she could do is smell like something that doesn’t make me feel awkward and uncomfortable.
Not that I have any expectation ofnotfeeling awkward and uncomfortable around Lily McPherson. For starters, this is a party. With what has to be damn near a hundred people. Most of whom I don’t know and probably don’t have anything in common with. I see Dave over by the bar. Maybe I should go talk to him. Ask him if he’s read Harry Potter yet.
But first I would have to ditch Lily McPherson, who—so far—is more tenacious than a parasitic invasive species. Something with fangs.
Though, based on the way she’s digging her fingers into my arm, perhaps claws would be more appropriate.
She gives my arm another squeeze, drawing my attention from the room at large back to her. She seems to be waiting for me to speak.
But I can’t remember the last thing she said. Or the last thing I said, for that matter.
Jesus.
