Yes, he’s smoking hot. Yes, he’s my date.
Striker gets his drink, and we move into the crowd. If he’s hating this so far, his expression doesn’t show it. I make a mental note to congratulate him on his poker face later.
I’m just taking my second sip of champagne when I notice Miranda Fortier making her way through the crowd.
“Heads up,” I say to Striker. “Here comes the gala organizer.”
“December!” Miranda coos as she approaches. “How good to see you!”
“And you,” I return, leaning in for an air kiss. “The event is a triumph, as usual.”
“We’ve sold nearly twice as many tickets this year as we did last,” she simpers, looking pleased. “I do believe we’re on target to set a record.”
“How wonderful.”
But Miranda’s icy blue eyes have left mine, and she’s now staring at Striker with naked interest. “And who is this, December? I don’t believe I’ve seen him around town before.”
“Striker Rossi,” Striker rumbles. I suppress a giggle, because I’m almost certain she has seen him around Tanner Springs. She just doesn’t recognize him.
“Goodness. Aren’t you lovely,” she purrs, gazing at him through her lashes.
“I’m afraid I’m new to your gala this year,” Striker says, sounding like he does this every day. “Tell me more about the charity you’re supporting.”
“We’re raising money to fight children’s cancer.” Miranda flashes him a dazzling smile that probably cost more than my annual salary. “I hope you can contribute to the cause.”
“Count on it.”
“I believe you’re seated at table fourteen, December,” Miranda continues, not taking her eyes off Striker. “Please do let’s reconnect after dinner. I’m afraid I need to continue greeting people.”
I let out a deep sigh of relief as she whirls away. “Damn, you’re good at this,” I remark to Striker.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” His mouth curves upward.
“So, anyway, that’s Miranda. You made such a good impression that she didn’t even ask me about Mark.”
Striker cocks a brow at me. “You think she’ll wanna strike up a convo next time I see her downtown?”
I burst out laughing so loudly that a few people turn to see what the commotion is about.
“Lord, I would actually pay to see that,” I tell him. Feeling strangely lighthearted, I toss back the rest of my champagne and grab another glass from a roving waiter.
“You need to eat if you’re gonna keep downing that champagne,” Striker says, grabbing me a hors d’oeuvre from a passing caterer.
“You need to quit bossing me around,” I retort as I let him pop it into my mouth. But he just chuckles.
I should hate Striker’s protective, dominant streak way more than I do. Mark was a domineering asshole when we were married, and I always hated it. But the way Striker acts toward me feels different somehow.
Of course it feels different. You have the hots for him. Get a grip on yourself.
While my conscience is giving me a stern bitching-out, I don’t even notice Mark himself approaching, until he’s basically right in front of us. He’s dressed impeccably in the tuxedo that he owns, but that does nothing to distract from the fury on his face.
“Ember,” he grits out.
“Hello, Mark.”
“You’re looking well. New dress, I see? And you’ve got your gardener with you.” His lip curls. How nice.”
“Panty.” Striker greets my ex-husband with a deliberate smirk.
“How long did it take for you to get the dirt cleaned out from under your fingernails… Striker, isn’t it?” Mark draws himself up to his full height, which is still a good two inches shorter than Striker. “You know, I did a little digging about you, Mr. Rossi. Ember, you can’t have known he’s part of that motorcycle gang, the Lords of Carnage.”
“Club,” Striker corrects.
“What?” Mark turns to Striker with an expression of open loathing.
“It’s a motorcycle club, not a gang.” Striker’s tone is calm, almost pleasant. He’s absolutely unflappable. The contrast with Mark’s simmering anger is so ludicrous that I find any tension I was feeling actually ebbing away.
“Jesus, December, I thought you had more sense than to do this,” Mark hisses, waving one hand in an arc to indicate the room. “This doesn’t only hurt me, it hurts you. Your reputation is fragile, and you are in the process of destroying it!”
“I’ll take my chances,” I tell him with a calm I almost feel.
Mark takes a deep breath, then turns to Striker, a tight rictus of a smile on his face. “You know, I remember hearing a joke about bikers. You’ll like this one: do you know the difference between a Hoover and a Harley?” Mark waits a beat. “The position of the dirtbag,” he finishes, then starts to chuckle.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one,” Striker drawls. “Ya know, it’s a douchebag move to laugh at your own jokes.”
I’m starting to wonder whether I should separate the two of them, when Denise Hadley comes sauntering up. First time I’ve ever been glad to see her, I think to myself snarkily. Accompanying Denise is her father, Fletcher Hadley.
“Hello, all!” Denise says in her nasally voice as she loops her arm proprietorially through her father’s. “Ember! I’m so glad to see you. I wasn’t sure you were coming, since Mark showed up alone, but…” she trails off, giving Striker a frank once-over.
“Denise Hadley, Fletcher Hadley, this is Striker Rossi. Striker, Fletcher is Denise’s father. Striker, I’m sure I’ve told you about them.” I give him a look, which he immediately registers, and I know he remembers what I told him about Mark cheating on me with Denise during our marriage.
“Good to meet you,” Striker grunts. He sticks out his hand for Fletcher to shake.
“I don’t believe I know the name Rossi,” Fletcher muses. “Is your family from here?”
Denise and Fletcher are both staring at Striker and me in curiosity and confusion, as of course they would. Mark’s reddening face tells me that he’s furious.
And then, as if on cue, Striker does the unthinkable: he slides his arm around my waist.
“Afraid not,” Striker replies to Fletcher. “My family ain’t the society type. I’m just here with my date.”
He gazes down at me with a gaze of such pure, unadulterated adoration that for a moment I am quite literally speechless.
“I’ve told Ember that I feel like the luckiest guy in the world to snap her up when I did,” Striker continues. “Since she and Mark are getting divorced, I figured I’d better get in there and shoot my shot before some other guy came along, you know? Ember’s one in a million, and any dude would have to be an idiot not to see that.”
By now, Denise is openly gaping. Fletcher is a bit more diplomatic. Clearing his throat, he says, “Well, that certainly is true. Ember is both beautiful and intelligent.”
Mark, on the other hand, looks like his head is about to explode off his neck.