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“You have a point.”
“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll have your mother finalize plans with Yasmine, and we’ll formally announce your involvement in the competition.” He stood, reaching out to shake my hand. I gripped his firmly, and he yanked me to my feet with a smile, clapping me on the back.
My head was still processing this weird-ass conversation when a name penetrated the fogginess of my scotch-infused mind. A name that made my balls shrink and recede inside my body. A name that made my palms sweat. Oh, fuck no.
“Wait a goddamned minute. Are you honestly suggesting I partner with her? She-who-will-not-be-named? The antichrist, she-devil herself?”
“Are the nicknames necessary? Are you twelve?” he asked, chuckling and waving his hand before walking back to his walnut desk and picking up a fountain pen.
He straightened his tie—because why wouldn’t he be wearing a three-piece suit while drinking scotch on a Saturday morning before ten in the morning—and shuffled through the papers on his desk. Not that I had room to talk, but I’d forgone the coat and cuffed my sleeves to my elbows, pairing that with my black club collar button-down shirt and an emerald-green pocket square.
“Necessary?” I asked, brushing non-existing lint off my vest. “May I remind you, your name for her was the Prissy Pure-Blood Princess?”
“Oh, I forgot about that,” he said with another laugh. “Well, regardless, you haven’t dated anyone seriously in years, and she’s from good stock.”
“Good stock? Good stock?”
I was getting worked up, and why shouldn’t I? It took me years to get freaking Yasmine Avery’s claws out. I still couldn’t watch Baywatch for fear of having a full-on mental breakdown seeing a particular actress’s name flash across the television. She was a bleached-blonde, money-hungry demon with a serious Daddy kink. Not that I minded a little role play, and a Daddy kink could be sexy as fuck, but not when she used this creepy-ass baby voice and asked me for an allowance to get her tits done. She didn’t give a fuck about me, only my money and last name. I was ashamed it took me so long to figure it out.
“Listen, Simon,” my father said, probably suspecting I was spiraling from how I paced in front of his desk. “I agree she’s a piece of work, but there isn’t a better option, and you two have a history. If this is what it takes to jumpstart our good press, I’ll be the bad guy. God knows I’ve done it before.”
“Can you hold off on finalizing things with her for a few days? I’ll do the dance thing or whatever, but please…”
He put down his fountain pen and sighed, looking at me with furrowed brows. “Okay. I’ll wait, but not long. Let me get back to this case. Remember, brunch tomorrow with your sister. Make sure you speak to your mother before you leave.”
With a subtle twitch of his hand, he dismissed me, and I turned around, walking out of his office and toward the dayroom, where I knew my mother would be waiting. At least he agreed to hold off on contacting Yasmine. I’d lose my shit being in the same room with her, let alone dancing. I shivered at the thought, trying to push my hair out of my eyes again as I walked down the hall, stopping in front of the door that led to the dayroom. Panic set in, and I rubbed my knuckles on my breastbone, trying to get rid of the feeling by focusing on something positive. Something delicate, gold, and sitting on my bedside table.
The feeling of panic dissipated. Wait. No. Not panic, something different. The second my brain shifted gears to Pop Rock, the panic gave way to—excitement? Lust? Fear of the unknown? Whatever it was, I knew I needed to see her again to find out.
