“Okay, well, there’s a car service planning to pick you up in eighty minutes in case I’m running too late to get you myself. I’m not sure how long this thing with Valdman will go.”
“You do remember who my parents are? I’ve been to hundreds of these parties. They’re all the same, and I know what to do.”
“I know, but—”
“Sean,” she chides. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
I worry about her.
It’s almost an hour later that I pin down Valdman wandering in drunk from the golf course, a young woman who is definitely not his wife petting his arm and asking about dinner. And look, generally I’ve never cared that Valdman is a garbage person because he’s good at running his company, and there didn’t seem any reason to care about the first when the latter seemed more important.
But I don’t know if it’s Jesus-osmosis or working more closely with the shelter or hearing Zenny speak so passionately about her callings, but I’m actually kind of grossed out by Valdman right now. Embarrassed for him…and then embarrassed for myself, because I’m honestly not on track to be any better than he is.
He stumbles to a table, dismissing the woman with an impatient wave of his hand…and gesturing over a waiter with the same hand once she’s gone. He orders a scotch and then looks at me through narrowed eyes.
“I thought you were going to be at the fundraiser representing us tonight.”
“I am,” I assure him, although an irritable part of me wants to remind him that I’d already be there if he just would have met with me on time. “But I’ve got to know that we’re keeping Northcutt away from the Keegan deal.”
“I’ve gotten your messages,” Valdman says, accepting the scotch glass that comes his way. “But I don’t understand, Sean. You were the one who wanted off the deal in the first place.”
I wish that I could tell this red-faced old fuck the truth and have him care, but I know him too well, so I spin the truth so that he’ll actually care. “Look, we both want this thing to get fixed and get fixed quietly. And Northcutt is a recipe for an unsavory news story. If he says or does something to those sisters, they are not the type to stay quiet about it. And that’s not the kind of press we or our clients want.”
Valdman considers this, and I press on, sensing a victory. “Yank him off anything to do with the Keegan deal. You can trust me to keep my nose clean and get this swept up.”
I don’t mention, obviously, that I’m planning on fucking one of the nuns tonight, and that’s probably the exact opposite of keeping my nose clean. I’m different from Northcutt, what Zenny and I are doing is different and fun and good.
I think.
I mean, I hope I’m different from Northcutt. And Valdman.
I look down at my hands as Valdman takes a drink, and I have a moment of real doubt all of a sudden. Why am I working with these people? Why have I made it my goal to be Valdman? Do I really want to be a gouty lecher with no meaningful relationships in my life when I get older? Is there any amount of money that’s worth such a hollow life?
“I’ll tell him personally to back off,” Valdman says finally. “You have my word.”
“Thank you, sir.” I shake his hand and leave the country club. I’m going to be late to the fundraiser, and all I can think about is Zenny alone, waiting for me in her pretty new dress, at the mercy of the wolves.
My biggest fear when I stride into the hotel ballroom is that Northcutt is already here and he’s causing some kind of mayhem with Zenny, but once I get into the event itself, I don’t see him anywhere in the room. Thank God. It takes me a heart-poundingly long minute to search out Zenny, but once I find her, that strange new gap in my chest expands and contracts with enough force to make my breath catch.
She is magnificently, indescribably, painfully beautiful.
The dress I bought for her is a delicate shade of blue-green—seafoam is what the girl at the store called it—and it gorgeously sets off the amber-brown of her skin and the copper in her eyes. And then there’s the way the chiffon flutters and kisses along her body—over her perfectly curved shoulders and teardrop breasts. Along her narrow waist and then over that sweet ass. She’s living, walking art. And she’s mine.
For the next three weeks, a hateful voice in my head adds, and that hollow in my chest starts to physically ache.
I go straight to her, not even bothering to make eye contact with the people telling me hello as I pass, and then I pull her into my arms. And for a moment, the ache eases.
“Hey you,” I murmur, nuzzling against her hair.
“Hey yourself,” she says back, smiling. “Glad you could finally join me.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, still nuzzling. “Dumb boss. Dumb meeting. All I could think about was you in this dress.”
“You like it?” she asks, suddenly shy.
I pull away enough to look at her, to run my hands over her waist, and then I pull her back into me so she can feel where I’m getting hard. “You look like something out of a fucking painting. Like a princess. I can’t wait to do very un-princesslike things to you when we get home.”
“A princess? Really?” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased.
I nod, pressing into her belly and running my lips over the shell of her ear. “The kind of princess who ends up bent over a bed with her gown up over her waist while a prince kneels behind her and kisses her pretty cunt.”
“Promises, promises,” she replies, her voice hitching with undisguised arousal.
I want to tell her that tonight is the night that I’ll do more than kiss her cunt, that tonight is the night I’ll finally give her what she wants so much, but then she pulls away and I realize her phone is ringing.
I make a grumbly noise as she pulls it out of her clutch, wanting to be pressed against her and murmuring dirty words into her ear once again, but it’s someone from the shelter with a question, and I understand when she has to duck out of the party to take the call. I do some discreet adjustments to my body and find a drink, suddenly feeling very grouchy and restless without her, my Zenny-bug, and that hateful voice pops up in my head again.
Less than three weeks left.
Less than three weeks.
“Sean Bell!” a stupid voice says nearby, and I turn and try to look polite, because it’s not this person’s fault that they aren’t Zenny and therefore aren’t interesting to me. “It’s been ages! It’s Hayley, remember? And this is Sophia, Todd, Katelyn, and Jeremy. Sophia, Sean used to work with Mike, before Mike moved into consulting.”
And before I know it, I’m swallowed whole by a cluster of stupid people and their stupid chatter.
Introductions are made—apparently I used to work with “Mike,” although if it’s the Mike I’m thinking of, Hayley needs to get a divorce and take him for everything he’s worth. (At the office, we used to call him Cocaine Mike, until a fuzzy and very illegal night involving a park bench and an escort earned him the new nickname of Double Condom Mike.)
Ugh. I can’t believe I ever hung out with that guy. Or anyone like him.