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I grab my bra and put it back on, ignoring the itchy welts I’m covering. I then wiggle my dress up and into place. It has a zip at the back that I carefully attempt to pull up. It plays nice; however, I can feel what the problem is. When I stretched to reach for my phone, the fabric has ripped on one side of the zip, right down to my ass.
Opening the door of the toilet cubicle, I peer out and find no one else in the bathroom. As carefully as I can, I make my way to the mirror and turn to see how bad the dress looks from behind.
Oh. God.
It’s gaping open. Anyone who walks behind me will be subjected to my back, half my ass, and a flash of my red G-string.
All this at the society wedding of the year.
I do the only thing worth doing right now.
I scream to let my frustration out.
It feels so good that I continue screaming until it kind of turns into a wail. No tears or anything, just a good old-fashioned release of the disappointment, resentment, and irritation filling me. This is something I should do more often. Hell, everyone should do this more often. Between screaming, wailing and having sex, I think the human race could probably resolve a lot of issues without resorting to violence.
A deep voice cuts through the air. “Jesus, are you okay?”
My mouth snaps shut as I catch sight of a man entering the bathroom. My body fills with anticipation at the same time that my knees threaten to give way.
This man is hot.
Really fucking hot.
Like, on a scale of I’d-throw-myself-off-a-cliff-to-avoid-ever-having-to-look-at-you to I’d-take-all-my-clothes-off-right-now-if-it-meant-you’d-just-talk-to-me, he has to be at the level of I’m-never-wearing-clothes-again.
He’s probably the best-looking man I’ve ever come across. And that’s saying something, because my bestie is one of the hottest dudes out there.
I’m even ignoring the way everything about him screams money. I’m not usually attracted to wealthy men in suits, but damn, this guy knows how to wear one. He also has just the right amount of scruff. And don’t get me started on the way his dark brown hair falls effortlessly into place. I’d bet all the money I have in the world—a huge risk because I currently have less than five hundred dollars in my bank account—that he’s had it styled, even though it looks like he simply dried it with a towel and let it do its own thing.
I grip the sink and throw out the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you always wander into women’s bathrooms?” I mean, I’m all for him doing that, just not when I’m in the middle of the kind of personal crisis t
hat is threatening to send me to the brink. My dress is gaping open, and my ass is hanging out. That’s a crisis with a capital fucking C.
His brows arch as his gaze drops to my back, clearly taking in everything on display. When his eyes meet mine again, he drawls, “Only when I think a woman is in that bathroom possibly dying. You do realise you were screaming like a woman on her deathbed, right?”
I grip the sink harder. “That’s because I fucking am!”
His lips twitch as if he’s trying not to smile. If he smiles or laughs, I swear I’ll turn around and clock him. He doesn’t, though. He’s smart as well as hot. “So now that we’ve established you’re close to death, do you want a hand with that?”
My brain scrambles fast to come to a decision. I figure things could be worse. Poppy’s mother and mine could have walked in on me. The Winters sisters would not be as cool about this situation as Mr I-Could-Blow-Your-Damn-Mind is being.
I nod. “Thanks. I’ll just grab my bag.” My emergency kit for these kinds of crises is in there. I’m choosing to ignore the nagging feeling deep in my gut that there isn’t any kit that can fix this problem.
I make my way back into the stall where I’ve left my bag on the floor, at which point I realise the flaw in this plan. If I bend to retrieve it, my dress will probably rip some more.
“Fuck me,” I mutter. “Why can’t anything ever be easy?”
“Problem?”
I spin to find Mr I-Could-Blow-Your-Damn-Mind standing directly behind me. Well, in front of me now. “What’s your name?” It comes out like a demand. It is, really. I don’t have the time to keep referring to him as Mr I-Could-Blow-Your-Damn-Mind every time I reference him in my head.
“We’re dealing with your death and you want my name?”
I pull a face. “Funny.” He kinda is, but this is not the time to be funny. I click my fingers to convey the urgency I feel. “Give me your name.”
His lips twitch again. “Owen. And you are?”
I want to spend time drooling over his name. It’s a good strong name, and I briefly imagine it falling from my lips while he gives me the kind of orgasm I bet a man like Owen can give. But I power on instead. This is no time for orgasm dreaming.
