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I giggle. “Yeah, I’m just trying to put it into perspective.”
“Perspective sucks,” Samantha says.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “I have to go. We’re going to this big event and I should get dressed. I wish you were here to do my makeup.”
“Use that diagram I sent you.”
“Right,” I say.
Samantha insists that I call her later to tell her everything again, and after I promise, we end the call so I can get ready to kick this weekend off with a formal party.
When I step out of the room, Blake is already dressed, waiting in the living room. He drinks whiskey at a wet bar I didn’t notice before, and he looked dashing in a timeless suit that accentuates his hard angles, and makes him look dashing as ever.
“That suit really works,” I say when I walk to him.
He turns, and his eyes slide down my body. His gaze is intense and I feel it on my skin like a physical touch.
“That dress really works onyou,” he says, throwing my compliment back to me.
I blush and glance down. “It’s nothing special. I didn’t have time to go shopping so I—”
“Don’t do that,” Blake says softly.
“What?” I touch my hand to my hair before I catch myself.
“Don’t sell yourself short. You look incredible.”
My blush deepens. I didn’t have time to find something new to wear for the weekend, so I packed a few of the cocktail dresses I already own. This one is black, with an empire waist and layers of satin and sheer material to give an interesting depth to the skirt that swishes around my legs when I walk. I paired it with ungodly high stiletto heels so that it makes the skirt—and my legs—look so much longer.
I pinned my hair back and applied smokey makeup with a deep red lip according to a diagram Sam sent me.
“Can I offer you a glass of wine?” Blake asks.
I nod, and he cracks open a bottle of Merlot. He pours a glass and hands it to me. When I take the glass from him, his fingers brush against my hand and electricity dances on my skin.
We sip our alcohol together.
“So, what’s tonight about?” I ask.
“It’s just a celebration to kick off the weekend,” Blake says. “We like to go all out, dress up and drink the night away. We’re really just well-dressed hooligans.”
I chuckle. “That sounds fantastic. I’m sure I can fit in and be a well-dressed hooligan, too.”
Blake shakes his head and takes a small step closer. It put him right up against me. He’s so close. If I lean in, our bodies will touch.
He looks down at me, and the tension in the air is so thick, that it’s all I breathe.
“You’re far from a hooligan, Rachel.” The velvety sound of his voice caresses my skin and makes my core tighten. I want him to come closer and whisper dirty things into my ear with that voice.
I drain my wine glass, etiquette to hell. I need something to ground me, and the alcohol will hopefully help me calm down.
Blake chuckles. “I would offer you another, but we should get going.” He throws back his whiskey, too, and offers me an arm. I loop my hand through his elbow, and we leave the cottage together.
The event is hosted in a large hall with chandeliers hanging at intervals, round tables with black table cloths and vases of roses, and at the center, a space has been cleared for a dancefloor. At the back, an open bar draws the most attention, with men standing together in groups talking, each with a glass in their hands. The women are dotted at the tables, gossiping.
When we walk in, the women look me up and down and lean in to gossip a little more. It makes me uncomfortable—what do they see when they look at me? And what are they saying?
“Don’t worry about them,” Blake says and he puts his hand on mine where I’m holding his arm. “They have nothing better to do with their time. They’re lazy housewives who spend the money their husbands make and think themselves very important for it.”
