He noticed.
I wondered what else he was noticing or judging: my heavily tattooed skin, bleached-white hair shaved on the sides, septum ring and nipple rings (not that he could see those). I looked like Trouble.
He looked like Wall Street.
A slightly flushed English Wall Street.
“Neither,” I said. “I’m Roxy.”
“Roxy?” His eyebrows arched.
“That’s my name,” I said. “Why, what’s yours? Something dignified like Dilbert?”
He snorted, eyes crinkling at the sides, and my belly tightened. “Good one. I expected something crasser, but Dilbert is good. And no, it’s Edward.”
Edward. He looked like an Edward. Gentle and polite. Certainly not the kind of man I was typically attracted to—dirty in all the ways that counted. Hard and muscled and silent—the kind of man that liked fucking me in front of my mirror.
Edward looked like the kind of man who would break for tea halfway through.
He plopped down on one of the leather tattoo chairs. “And you haven’t asked me about my very recent break-up. Recent as in three hours before I came in here.”
“And you haven’t told me what kind of tattoo you thought would obliterate the pain of heartbreak,” I said dryly since I’d seen it all before. Had tattooed hearts and names and then inked them over when things went south.
Edward shrugged, lips quirking up. He tried to catch my eye, but I turned away quickly. “I’ll tell you my story if you recommend a tattoo.”
“That I’m not giving you now, are we clear on that?” I asked.
“Yes… ma’am,” he finally said with a slight rasp to his voice that had the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“Okay, then,” I said, sitting primly in the chair next to him. I crossed my legs, and his eyes trailed up my torn fishnet stockings. “Hello?” I snapped, even though I kind of liked the feel of it—a polite perusal.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking genuinely apologetic. “What you should know is that while I am a corporate asshole, I’m quite a nice one.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
“I have excellent hearing, Roxy,” he said. My toes curled in my boots. I shifted in my chair, shaking the feeling away. “I come from a long line of corporate assholes. Actually, that’s not entirely true. My family comes from old money in England. We own The Cartwright Hotel chain.”
The air rushed out of my lungs.
“You’re familiar?” he asked.
“You know I am,” I drawled, trying to mentally guess how much he was worth. The Cartwright Hotel chain was famously lavish and exorbitantly priced, catering to the mega-wealthy all across the world.
“So, yes, we’re both corporate assholes and old money. The very worst combination,” he said, smiling now.
“Okay, I get it. Don’t judge a book by its cover or whatever,” I said.
He chuckled in appreciation. “Unfortunately, I do not own The Cartwright Hotel in Manhattan. My parents do. I have managed it for them for the past decade. My younger siblings both own their own Cartwrights in various locations.”
“They own their own hotels, but you just manage yours?” I asked, catching his clarification.
“Yes,” he said, cheeks flushing slightly. “A vital aspect of this rubbish story. My parents, like most people in their extremely privileged position, are maniacally concerned with their legacy. Ownership of our own hotels is written into our private trust funds. And that ownership is contingent upon marriage to a suitable partner. Suitable meaning a partner they approve of. And of course, a partner with whom we will reproduce, thereby joyously continuing their legacy.”
I snorted—I couldn’t help it. “That sounds like a business arrangement, Dilbert. Not a family.”
Edward opened his palms face-up with a look of gratitude. “Ah, you understand. It is a business arrangement, and as I love The Cartwright Hotel, I’m more than ready to marry an approved partner and receive ownership. Was ready to marry, for example, the woman who just terminated our relationship at Le Bernardin.”
“That’s a fancy place to have your heart smashed in. And a very corporate vision of marriage,” I said.
“I am a Cavendish, after all,” he sighed. “But I don’t want it to seem like Emily and I, over these past two years, didn’t… didn’t care for each other. Even though, and I can admit this to myself now,” he said, sliding a hand through his hair and mussing it slightly, “she was likely a she-devil parading around on this earth as a human woman.”
“She-devil,” I smirked. “Explain.”
“Well, she bloody broke up with me at a restaurant and wouldn’t even let me get bloody angry as she ripped my heart out and stomped on it.” He let out a long exhale, and for the first time I saw pain, not levity, in his gaze. I turned around and fired up the coffee pot behind me, pulling out two mugs.
Edward’s brow lifted.
“Is this one of those new-fangled tattoo machines?”
“Har har,” I said. “It’s a coffee pot. Because at some point, after you’ve bored me with this story of corporate asshole-ry, you’re going to need to be sober enough to leave me alone.” I nodded towards him. “So, please continue. You were getting to the good part.”
He smirked again, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “You’ve got a real mouth on you, don’t you, love?”
“Don’t call me love,” I said swiftly. “Not the type. And continue.”
“Well,” Edward said, reaching up to loosen his tie. A small patch of his smooth skin revealed itself, right at the base of his throat. “As I was saying, in retrospect, and granted, it’s only been three hours, Emily and I were more like polite friends than a couple in love. And that’s the way she treated our break-up. A mutual parting of the ways, although I was shocked to pieces.”
“And the sex?” I asked.
His eyes met mine, steady. A cool blue. “Not… like it was. Not like I, I mean… there’s a way I think I prefer, to be honest.” That blush again.
“Oh… kay,” I said, rolling my eyes to cover up the incessant beating of my heart. What kind of sex did he prefer?
I handed him a mug of steaming coffee, and he gave me a brief look of appreciation. “If this sobers me up, can I have that tattoo?” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “And continue.”
Edward’s fingers continued to loosen his tie. I was salivating a little. Even though he wasn’t my type.
Not at all.
“She’s always been a bit… cold. Distant. But I guess it’s been getting worse, and I never really noticed. Although, I thought, well… I don’t know, I thought we might be something. Two years is a long time. Especially when the assumption is that you’re to be wed…” he trailed off, staring into his coffee.
My fingers itched with the desire to rip this girl’s throat out. “And then what?” I asked but softly.
“For the past six months, she’s hardly been around. We’ve attended the proper social functions, of course, and made sure to be featured in the society pages as expected, but we’ve been lacking a connection. And then, well,” he lifted his mug in cheers to me, “tonight, at this very swanky, very elegant restaurant, she told me she’d been shagging my mate for six months.”