I tell myself I’m waiting to hear from Tank about the results of his paternity test before I go any farther. But I’m also hoping Striker will call me with information from Tweak on Jess’s whereabouts.
No such luck on that front, however. In fact, it’s mid-afternoon on Wednesday before I hear from Striker again. I’m just leaving the office to go home and get ready for the charity gala when I hear the buzz of a text.
What time 2nite?
My heart starts to race as I realize he’s still planning on coming with me. I don’t know if that means he’s just going to drive me there and wait outside, but I’m too nervous to ask for any details. Instead, I reply with what I hope is a non-anxious, non-needy tone:
Pick me up at seven?
After a moment I get his answer:
Will do.
Well, okay, then. At least I know I have a ride.
I spend more time than usual getting ready for the evening, and it’s definitely not because there are people at the gala I want to impress. I found my dress a couple of weeks ago at one of my favorite consignment shops. I actually still have a number of expensive gowns in my closet from my days being married to Mark, but I didn’t want to wear the memories that came with them. The dress I ended up buying is classy, but just edgy enough to feel like a revolt against the moneyed, staid atmosphere I’ll be walking into tonight. It’s conservatively cut in the front, with the back dipping into a low, sexy V all the way to my waist. It’s a little tighter than most dresses I would normally choose, but the fabric still has enough give to make it comfortable whether I’m standing or sitting.
After I’ve put my hair up into a high chignon, I slide on the dress and select a long pair of dangling earrings as my only jewelry. A pair of silver heels complete my look. It’s just before seven o’clock as I consider my reflection in the full-length mirror in my bedroom and decide I’m happy with what I see. Seconds later, Bert starts barking uproariously, and I realize my ride has arrived.
“Here goes nothing,” I whisper, then grab my clutch and head down the stairs.
The car that has pulled into my driveway is not a Chevy Tahoe. Instead, it’s a… Mercedes? White, a very recent model, and so clean you would think it was just driven off the showroom floor. The man who steps out of the car in a tailored suit resembles Tom Hardy on his way to the Oscars — so much so that I literally do a double-take before I realize it really is Striker.
The second he sees me on the front step, he stops in his tracks. For a long second Striker stares at me, not moving. His eyes slide over my dress, slowly and languidly. It’s a repeat of his reaction to my suit from the other day, except this time he’s more controlled. More deliberate.
“You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” Striker asks.
I meet his gaze uncertainly. But his eyes are twinkling, so I let myself relax a little.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
“You should. You look hot as sin.”
“You look pretty sinful yourself,” I admit. “Nice suit. Nice car, too.”
He opens the passenger door for me. “Only the best for the woman who’s sure to be the best-looking one there,” he says as I slide in.
I don’t know how to react to his compliment. Actually, I don’t know how to react to anything about how Striker is acting right now. After what happened the last time I saw him, I was expecting… I don’t know. Distance? Polite professionalism? So instead I say nothing, and just make sure my skirt is all the way inside so he can shut my door. As he walks around the front to his side, I notice how crisp and polished he is, how well he fills the suit out.
And how hard it is not to stare at his narrow hips and bulging biceps.
“My God,” I whisper. “How is he even more handsome like this?”
Striker climbs into the driver’s side and starts the car. “So. Where is this fancy-ass shindig, anyway?”
“Tanner Springs Country Club,” I say, sarcasm seeping into my words.
Beside me, Striker snickers. “That good, huh?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” I snark.
“Okay. So, it’s not gonna be the best party I’ve ever been to.” He backs the car into the street. “Tell me what thing is for.”
“It’s a charity dinner and silent auction for children’s cancer research,” I explain. “At least, that’s what it’s about on the surface. The real point of it is an opportunity for rich people to get dressed up and show each other how rich they are.”
“That sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Striker deadpans. “And you’re going why?”
I huff out a breath. “The person at the head of the charity is my ex-husband’s former boss’s wife. The four of us used to socialize together when Mark was employed by him. I’m not really friends with any of that crowd anymore, but word of mouth is important in a small town like this, so I don’t want to make enemies of them, either.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s a small price to pay to go to this thing once a year, to keep up superficial appearances.”
“There gonna be any decent food at this thing?”
“I hope so,” I quip. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
We arrive at the club. Striker drives up to the front entrance and tosses the key to the valet like he was born into money.
“You nervous?” he asks, turning to me. Striker remembers this is the first time these people will see that Mark and I are no longer together.
“A little,” I admit.
“Think of it like pulling off a Band-aid,” he suggests. “People might talk a little bit at first, but by the end of the night, they’re gonna have moved on to something else.”
I don’t tell him it’s Mark’s reaction I’m most nervous about. I know he won’t be happy I’ve decided to go public about our separation. He never would have agreed to it if I had suggested it.
Oh, well. Maybe the prospect of the $100,000 land purchase I’m helping him with will make him less angry with me.
Striker gives me his arm. I take it, and we stroll in through the open double doors together.
“We need to show a ticket for this or something?” he asks.
“If you’re dressed like this, they assume you belong here. But we do have tickets.” I pat my bag. “I’ve paid for them through my expense account, since this definitely counts as business. Or at least, the absence of pleasure,” I joke.
The din of well-heeled people laughing ostentatiously at one another’s jokes greets us as we stride toward the large President’s Ballroom, where the gala is taking place. My stomach flutters a little bit, but I’m actually calmer than I would otherwise be because Striker is here with me. A caterer comes by, carrying a tray of champagne. I reach out and take a glass.
“You?” I ask Striker.
“I’m gonna grab a whiskey.”
I take a sip. “I’ll come with you.”
As we make our way over to the bar, familiar faces smile at me in greeting. I notice many of them casting surreptitious glances at Striker. A few of the women turn toward one another to whisper. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what sorts of things they’re saying. I answer them in my mind.