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“Oh,” she says, relief obvious in her tone. Then she stiffens. “Oh. No. No way.”
“It wasn’t really a question.”
“Then ask your not-a-question to someone else,” she fires back. “The waitress tonight would love to go with you. Actually, she would love to do lots of things with you.”
I set my silverware down and fold my hands in front of me. “There’s that jealousy again.”
“You’re confusing jealousy for disgust.”
“You didn’t seem disgusted in the bathroom.”
Her mouth flattens into a grimace. “Take someone else.”
“I could,” I admit. “There are plenty of women I could ask. But after what happened with Benjamin at the hospital and the news running with the story that I attacked a doctor, I could use some good publicity.”
“And you think kidnapping a woman and forcing her to be your date will help?”
“I think taking a poor, homely social worker as my date might garner some sympathy for me, yes.”
I’m being intentionally cruel, but it’s all bullshit. There is nothing homely about Piper. She’s a fucking vision, all the more beautiful for how much she tries not to let me see it. She leans her face to the side, her green eyes flickering golden in the candlelight.
“Whose wedding is it that you think it’ll make this much news? The pope?”
“The pope marrying would certainly make a headline or two.”
“You know what I mean,” she grumbles.
“It will be a well-publicized wedding. That’s all you need to know for now,” I tell her. “And taking you as my date will look less fabricated if we’re seen out together a few times before the event.”
It takes a few seconds for that to sink in. Then Piper sits tall and glances from side to side, scanning the half of the room she can see. “Is that what this is right now? Is someone watching us?”
“A woman in the waiting area took a less-than-subtle photo of us half an hour ago and the waitress tweeted that she was serving me five minutes after we arrived,” I say. “Congratulations, princess. We’ve just made our debut as a couple.”
Her cheeks flame red. She leans in, hissing between her teeth. “You are a…a narcissist. A twisted, sick, entitled narcissist who—”
“Brings you to fabulous restaurants and pays for your meals and keeps you from having a panic attack,” I finish for her. “You’re right, I sound awful. How monstrous of me.”
"Dragging me to dinner as a prop in your P.R. scheme makes you an asshole. Using people like that is the mark of an entitled narcissist."
“‘Using’ implies you don't want to be here."
“Here’s a headline: I'd rather be cold and dead than here with you,” she spits, nostrils flared.
I give her a winning smile just as the woman from the front of the restaurant takes a second, much less discrete photo of us. “That can be arranged.” Piper’s face pales. I lean in. “But we both know you’re lying. You felt the exact opposite of ‘cold and dead’ in the bathroom.”
She fists her hands on the table, staring straight down at her plate. “I’m not going with you. There’s nothing you can say to change my—”
“I know Noelle is the person who called you tonight.”
Piper doesn’t move except for her eyes, which flick in my direction and tremble.
“It was easy enough to track who the call came from. Even easier was to track where she lives and who she lives with.” I release a bored sigh. “She’s dating an FBI agent, did you know?”
Her shoulders sag, and I can see the fight draining out of her as easily as if I pulled the plug in a bathtub.
“The only reason you aren’t ‘cold and dead,’ as you so elegantly put it, is because I know you aren’t working for the FBI. That’s good news for you. But it could mean bad news for your friend and her boyfriend.”
“L-leave them alone,” Piper stammers. “Leave them out of it. The only reason Noelle looked up anything is because I asked her to. She’ll stay out of this if you just—”
