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Luke catches up to me again a little while later, after I’ve looked over the silent auction items, smiling to myself as I imagine my dad’s reaction to everything they have listed. Why the hell would someone buy a custom cowboy hat from some place in Aspen for $10,000? “It’s for charity” would not be a good enough reason for him.
That’s when Luke hurries over to me, grabbing ahold of my arm, panic written all over his face.
“Hey, would you and Dustin mind getting Tate home? Chloe just called me and Harper spiked a fever. Nothing major, but she keeps asking for me and I need to get home.”
He’s already looking away, searching for the fastest exit.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.”
Once he’s hustled out the door, I leave the silent auction room right away and go in search of Tate. She’s not on the dance floor, not near the bar, not mingling in the hall. She’s waiting in line for the women’s bathroom when I finally find her. I touch her arm, just above her elbow, and lower my voice, letting her know quietly, “Luke just had to leave. Harper’s sick.”
Her eyes widen as she looks up at me in alarm.
I rub my thumb on her arm, instinctively wanting to reassure her. “He didn’t seem to think it was anything major, slight fever, but she wanted her dad.”
Her bottom lip juts out. “Poor thing.”
“Luke asked if Dustin and I could help get you home.”
Her worry morphs into an indignant laugh. “I’m perfectly capable of getting home by myself. Besides, Dustin just left a little while ago.”
“What?” The jerk didn’t even come tell me bye.
“Yeah, did he not tell you? He said he was going to look for you…”
“I was in the silent auction room and then I was out searching everywhere for you. Maybe we just missed each other.”
She nods. “Well…” The line moves and she shifts forward, slipping out of my grasp. “Consider your duty complete. I can call an Uber.”
“I have a driver.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course you have a driver. That’s all well and good, but us normal folk still manage just fine without them. There’s a thing called the subway, have you heard of it?”
The elderly woman in front of her laughs and looks back at Tate. “If I were you, dear, I’d take the damn driver. Especially if this fine gentleman comes with it.”
Her tone drips with innuendo as she gives me a pointed once-over before she turns and tugs open the restroom door.
Tate’s left smiling in disbelief.
“Well…” I prod. “You heard the woman.”
Ten minutes later, I lead Tate out into the warmth of the early summer night, down the steps of the library, toward a line of waiting cars.
“Mine is that black Escalade.”
“Yes, as opposed to that black Escalade,” Tate teases.
To be fair, there is an obnoxiously long line of sleek black SUVs.
I lift my hand to press it to the small of her back, then think better of it and tug my hand into a fist to let it fall back at my side. There are still photographers out here and it’s better to play it safe.
My driver rushes out to open the door for us, and I help Tate step up and slide into the back seat. Once I’ve given the driver directions for Tate’s apartment, I slide in beside her.
The second the door closes and we’re confined to the small space together, the air becomes charged with the electricity we’ve been ignoring for the last few weeks. It’s impossible to ignore that we’ve put ourselves in a pressure cooker. I know Tate is as aware of it as I am. It’s why she’s turned toward the window, scooting to the edge of her seat as if she’s trying to flatten herself against the door and make herself as small and invisible as possible.
Now that she’s sitting, the slit on her dress rides up seductively on her thigh again, only it’s no longer hidden under a tablecloth. She catches me staring and I look back toward the front seat. She fidgets and tries to fix her dress, but it’s hopeless.
“Apologies about the traffic,” the driver says. “I think everyone had the same idea to leave right when you two did.”
“It’s fine.” I say it brusquely only because I’m wound tight.
“Damn dress,” Tate whispers under her breath.
I fight back a smile as I peer back over at her again. She’s adjusting the top so less of her chest is showing, which only tugs the slit on her thigh up higher. So much tan skin on display…
“Don’t look at me like that.”
I have to fight back my smile. “Like what?”
“It’s not that indecent.”
“I never said it was.”
“Your eyes say otherwise.”
“It’s a sexy dress,” I say point-blank, leaving off, on a sexy woman.
