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Chapter Twenty
Vivian
Iwear the red-bottomed Louboutins from Nate and pair them with a new dress I argued and insisted on paying for. He refused.
The dress reminds me of the lingerie I wore when we were in Chicago. It laces up, the bodice is satin trimmed. It’s very, very short. It’s gorgeous, and for good reason. The retail ticket on a Dolce & Gabanna dress hovers around three thousand dollars. Which is why I argued with Nate that I should be allowed to pay for at least half of it. Then he said he was insulted, and I told him I used to have a closet stocked with D&G and it gave me flashbacks. I didn’t win that argument either. He pulled me close, the dress still on its hanger trapped between our bodies, and said, “Time to make new memories.”
He was very convincing.
He works hard for the money he makes and he deserves every penny. I’m trying not to take advantage of him. When I told him that, he chuckled, the sound low and gruff. Then he kissed me and shook his head and told me to get dressed.
There’s nothing slimy or self-serving about the way he gives gifts. He just…gives. I can’t say any man in my life has treated me well without an ulterior motive.
Since our awkward morning in Chicago, Nate and I are closer than before. Him revealing his emotions and me tending to his needs set us in a different zone than before we left. In short, I dropped my guard even more, which doesn’t feel dangerous so much as decadent. Nate is back to his comfortable, confident self. I can tell he appreciated me being there for him. He isn’t accustomed to leaning on someone.
He’s probably always been a tough guy who tried to have everything under control. It’s the role he gave himself, and yes, he’s amazing at it, but he’s also human. Every human wants to curl up and stop worrying for two minutes. I’ve been trying to be the person he can lean on, who sweeps away his worries.
Everyone needs someone to lean on.
While I check my lipstick in the vanity mirror of his Tesla, he pulls up to the valet. Club Nine is a splashy big-city-like club, but in Clear Ridge. Tonight’s the big grand opening.
“I see the Miami influence,” I say. Archer should be proud. It’s a gorgeous building, sleek and modern. Neon lights glow from inside and the façade. A lot of well-dressed guests loiter outside waiting to come in.
“He done good,” Nate agrees.
He complemented my black dress by wearing all black himself. His black satin shirt is adorned with crystal embellishments lining the button panel and the collar. It’d look ridiculous on anyone but him.
“You look great.” I touch his collar.
“Versace.” He cranes an eyebrow.
“You wear it well.”
I might not be able to purchase him expensive clothes, but I can come with him to this event. I can remind him he’s worthy. And that his strength and stoicism are far less important than his willingness to be himself with me.
After the valet takes the car we bypass the line wrapping around the building. They don’t open the doors for another fifteen minutes. Apparently, they are keeping these finely dressed guests in a state of mouthwatering anticipation by making them wait until the clock strikes ten on the nose.
Inside, Benji spots us first. At his heels is a petite blond woman with soft curls surrounding a cherubic face.
“There you are. Archer’s at the bar.” He tips his head. Their brother is wiping down a bottle of liquor with a white cloth. I’m not joking. He inspects another, wipes that one and I overhear him tell the bartender to “keep ’em shined.”
“Committed as usual,” Nate says.
“I’m Cristin, Benji’s assistant.” The blonde offers her hand. “You can call me Cris.”
“Life assistant coach,” Benji corrects as I take my palm from Nate’s arm to shake her hand.
She rolls her eyes. “He made that up.”
“She’s humble,” Benji says, his eyes on her. The look he gives her is friendly and flirty—the same way I’ve seen him look at practically everyone. The look Cris gives him is more than that. Longing and admiration mixed into a cocktail that will one day spill from its shaker.
Another woman enters via the front door. She waves at Benji as she approaches. She’s tall, leggy, blond. Her wide mouth is coated in a pink sparkly lipstick matching her dress.
“Hey, Bennie!” She presses her slim body against his and his arm wraps around her small waist.
“Benji,” Cris corrects from his side.
“I know.” The blonde’s smile doesn’t waver.
