“Everyone will make fun of you.”
“No one will know.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to laugh at me?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have to get my revenge somehow.” I lean down to brush my lips across her cheek. And then lower, across the shadow of her neck. Butter soft. Sweet. “I won’t have any mercy on you, Ashleigh. But you don’t want mercy, do you?”
Chapter Thirteen
Ashleigh
Three dances later we end up tucked into the corner of the ballroom, claiming an entire ten-seat table to ourselves while everyone mills around the center, finally deigning to dance. Two gold-plated appetizer plates are piled high with asparagus and prosciutto and crab puffs. We’re seated right outside the kitchen, and we’ve been using the waiters who leave as our personal buffet.
A meatball and pale liquid look rather plain in an elaborate soup spoon. I tilt my head back and pour it into my mouth. Spices and savory flavor explode on my tongue. There’s cumin and pepper—and God, that broth. Definitely fresh ginger.
Immediately I eye the soup spoon that Sutton snagged, and he laughs, handing it over to me. I eat it ravenously, as if I haven’t eaten in days, instead of just a few hours. It seems incomprehensible that I lived on two-day-old hot dogs for so long.
Guilt makes my cheeks heat. “I feel bad about all this food. Shouldn’t we save some for the other people? Surely they didn’t expect us to eat this much.”
He nods his head toward the door, where a woman stands holding a miniature, glossy Yorkie. As I watch she feeds him one of the duck lollipops. And another. Another. “Don’t be. At least we’re people. I don’t even think Mopsie was invited.”
That makes me giggle. “Maybe I should bring something back for Sugar.”
A raised eyebrow. “Sugar?”
“My cat. Well, she’s not mine. She lives on the street. Like me.”
Another waiter glides through the swinging doors, and Sutton lifts a hand in gentle but inescapable command. “What do you have, good man?”
“Cast iron-seared Wagyu beef with truffle miso,” the server says, lowering the silver tray.
“Ah, contraband. Excellent. We’ll take six.”
The server must be well trained because he doesn’t try to protest that we’re taking half his platter. Instead he produces a cocktail napkin as we transfer the pieces to my small mountain.
Only when he’s gone do I pop a piece into my mouth. The beef is still hot. It falls apart on my tongue, juicy and subtly spiced. My eyes fall closed. A low moan surrounds me, and I realize that it’s mine. God. “It’s so good,” I say, my mouth still full. I swallow and sigh. “Forget an open bar. This is what weddings should have. Food that feels like a religious experience.”
Sutton gives me an arrested expression, those blue eyes turning dark.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing too slow that a reference to the wedding would make him sad.
“No, I—” He shakes his head, as if breaking a trance. “The way you look when you ate that is the same as you look when you come. Have another one. Have three.”
My cheeks heat. I’m suddenly self-conscious. “What? No?”
He lifts a piece to my mouth, insistent. “Another one.”
It already smells like heaven. It feels warm against my lips. I open, and he presses the piece inside, the rough tip of his finger brushing against my tongue. I can’t help the loud moan.
Shouting. Clapping. A disruption from the entrance catches my attention. The bride and groom enter to a round of fierce applause. They look like glamorous movie stars. Harper’s hair is down in resplendent honey-brown curls. Christopher seems more disheveled than in the church in some slight, unnamable way—as if his hair’s been ruffled and then reordered. They are the perfect picture of newly married couple.
Like everyone else in the room I clap, but I turn a worried glance to Sutton—and find him looking at me. He meets my eyes and then drops his gaze to my mouth.
The couple begins their first dance, and the audience settles slightly to watch them. I sit down without an ounce of grace. Now people are standing between me and the dance floor, making it so I can’t see; that’s fine, though. I can’t stand another second of Sutton’s intense scrutiny. God, he makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the room.
Sutton sits down more leisurely beside me.
I take a bite of the persimmons with goat cheese and honey, careful not to look at Sutton when I do, certain that I won’t make another sexual sound while eating. Ever again.
“I had a cat once,” he says, as casual as anything.
That makes me glance at him. “Did you? What was her name?”
“He was a boy. And I called him Tom.”
“For tomcat?”
“For Tom and Jerry.”
A shadow falls over his handsome face. “He disappeared one day. I wanted to think it was just one of those things. Maybe he fought a cat who was stronger.” A harsh laugh. The grooves around his mouth make him seem suddenly older. Harder. “No one likes to think their dad would kill their pet.”
A soft gasp. “Did he?”
“I don’t know. Probably. He never liked Tom much. And… he shot my dog right in front of me. Lucy was barking. It was late at night. Dad was drunk as shit.”
My chest tightens. “I’m so sorry.”
“I sat with her until she was gone.”
There are no words, so I lean against him, offering him the warmth of my body. He seems so cold. So alone, for a man who has so many friends.
“I think you might know something about shitty dads,” he says softly.
A fist clamps around my throat. “How do you know that?”
His voice becomes wry. “A guess. You don’t end up on the streets because you’re well cared for. And you don’t trust men very much. I’m guessing that started early.”
I swallow hard. “It wasn’t like that at home. No drinking or shooting my pets. I had food and clothes and… a lot of things. Some people would say I’m crazy for leaving.”
“Fuck them. They don’t know what it was like.”
I look at him sideways. “You don’t know what it was like either. I might be crazy.”
“No one chooses the street corner unless you have no other option.”
“I couldn’t stay.” My breath catches, remembering. He’s right about something—I learned not to trust men early in life. My experience on the streets reinforced that, but it didn’t start there.
“What did he do?” The question is so offhand that I can almost answer.
“He—” The words won’t come out. I look down, ashamed.
“Should I kill him for you? I might enjoy it.”
I face him then, my eyes burning. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Thank you for being—”
“Kind?” A harsh laugh. He runs two fingers across my cheek, capturing a tear on his skin. “God, you’re tempting like this. Crying. Except I want to be the one to make you cry. Only me. Cry and beg and scream. Don’t mistake me for a good guy, Ashleigh. I’m a bastard. No one knows that better than you.”