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“Of course I’m worried, fucking look at him.” Reluctantly, I do, and at the most unfortunate time. Something Anna said was funny, apparently, because he tilts his head up to the twinkling veranda and laughs. Not just a polite laugh either, but the type that comes from deep within the hard walls of his stomach. The type that’s hard to fake.
I suppose he’s a better liar than I thought, because for a crazy second, I almost believe it.
Jesus, I must be drunk.
“You didn’t answer my question. He’s an asshole, right?”
Matt looks surprised. “Rafe? An asshole? Hell no. As much as I’d like to say he’s a dickhead, because a man that good-looking needs some flaws, he’s not. His scholarship program pays for a hundred disadvantaged kids to get a full ride to Devil’s Coast Academy every year. He funds the hospital’s Make a Wish foundation, and remember when that weird blizzard blew through Dip four years ago?” Reluctantly, I nod. “He paid for all of the repairs and damages out of pocket. Must have cost him millions. He’s a good guy, unlike some of the other Viscontis…”
I follow his pointed gaze to the other end of the bar, where Benny is attempting to impress a blond by pouring butane fluid from his Zippo into the palm of his hand. He makes a fist, holds the lighter underneath it, and then he blows.
Matt barks out a curse word as a fireball lights up the night sky, its vicious flames dancing way too close to the girl’s eyebrows for comfort.
“What about that? Does arson get girls?” he mutters, tone laced with sarcasm.
A sharp gust of wind brings over a loud laugh, wiping the humor clean off my lips. Matt leans closer, nudging me with his thigh, and like two heads of the same snake, we glare as Anna giggles and coos over something Raphael says. The laugh shakes her lithe silhouette so violently that she staggers backward, and when Raphael’s arm slides around her waist to steady her, we both hiss like snakes, too.
I bury mine under another mouthful of chocolate cake.
“I’m actually begging you now. Please go break them up.”
“Not a chance.”
“Just ask him for a dance—”
“There’s no way in hell—”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
The offer gives me pause. I mean, I’m veryfucking broke right now. Eating ramen that’s been sitting in my cupboard for over three years kind of broke.
Last night, as I inhaled the tangy leather strap of Raphael’s watch, I was high off the dollar signs. But now I’ve come back to earth and realized I’ll probably have to leave the Coast to sell a Visconti watch, because the chances of a pawnbroker risking their life to accept it here is next-to-none. And who knows when I’ll land a job?
“Make it two hundred.”
“Aw, come on. I’m a teacher.”
“Boo-hoo,” I snap back. “You teach in a school with a forty-grand a year attendance fee. You’re not exactly scraping pennies together to buy your own Crayolas, are you?”
Matt pauses. “Fine. One-seven-five.”
“One-seven-five and you get rid of your welcome mat.”
“Dammit. Two hundred and I keep it.”
“Deal.”
We seal it with a handshake, but the triumph skating down my spine is followed by thick, sticky dread. Typical. I was too blinded by the money to see the task at hand, and now I have to go over to Raphael Visconti, voluntarily, and strike up a conversation with him. The man who specifically told me he’d rather slam his cock into the door of an automobile before he talks to me again.
Matt’s loafer nudges my ankle. “Move.”
“Shut up, I’m going,” I hiss. I empty my champagne flute in three gulps, partly to drown out the butterflies that have no business loitering in my stomach, and partly to give me an excuse to head to the bar.
The table breathes as I rise to my feet. Fuck, I’ve drunk too much too quickly and I don’t know why. It’s not like I need liquid courage, because I have luck.
Luck. Right. I’d forgotten about my luck.
Rolling my shoulders back, I touch the four-leaf clover around my neck and shake off the nervous energy. He’s just a man, for God’s sake. And this is just a paid gig.
