Aisling and Persephone were still talking at our table.
The tune drifted into my ears, and I recognized the song. It was an acoustic version of “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden.
Hunter didn’t address my meltdown. I wondered how many people had seen me trying to escape his grasp, but didn’t ask.
“So…ceann beag?” I tilted my head sideways.
“It means little one in Gaelic.”
“Cute.”
“You mean condescending,” he countered. “It is.”
“Do you speak Gaelic?” I knew it wasn’t the most useful of languages, but rich people knew a lot of things others didn’t. Polo, for instance. Or tying a bowtie with one hand. Even though I was Irish through and through, my Irishness was limited to burning instead of tanning, getting freckled whenever there was a hint of sun out, and obsessing over folklore.
Hunter gave me half a nod. “Da’s fanatic about it. It was a bitch to learn.”
“Do you realize the limitless opportunities in knowing this language?” I tried to regain some of my confidence, mustering a smile.
“Not really,” he said dryly, his eyes darting to my lips. “Enlighten me.”
“You can call me anything you want, and I won’t know the meaning of it,” I all but exclaimed. “Carrot Top is nothing. Think outside the box, pretty boy. Let your imagination roam free.”
“So you admit that I’m handsome.”
“I don’t think anyone on this continent can dispute that,” I grumbled.
“Pretty sure I’m hot shit in Australia, too.”
I laughed. He wasn’t wrong. “No. You are virtually perfect, from the outside. But your inside makes you an endangered species. Totally murder-able.”
He examined me quietly, shaking his head and grinning.
“Aingeal dian,” he said. “Well, for the most part.”
“Does that mean crazy bitch?” I screwed my nose, realizing too late that I was trying to be adorable, and wondering what the hell had come over me. I never tried to be endearing, especially where guys were concerned. I always tried to make sure I came off like I couldn’t care less about them.
“If only,” he answered, still staring at my lips.
“What, then?” I filled the space between us with words so he wouldn’t get any ideas. We couldn’t be seen kissing. In fact, I had to show his father we were friendly, but not overtly so.
He frowned. “No. Your ass is gonna Google Translate it.”
“You’re impossible.” I fought a smile, biting down on my lip.
“Impossible? No. Extremely hard? Always.” He narrowed his eyes, but took half a step back so I couldn’t tell if he was speaking the truth.
I quieted, thinking about how he’d been awesome during my public meltdown. If only he wasn’t a sex-crazed, billionaire brat, we wouldn’t want to kill each other.
“Why did they kick you out of that British school?” I whispered.
I wondered what it felt like to be him, to barely know the city you lived in, yet know everybody in Boston knew your business.
“Sex tape.”
“That young?” I nearly shrieked. I knew he’d starred in one a second ago. I wanted to barf every time I thought about it. I’d promised him I wouldn’t Google him, though, and I hadn’t.
“Kidding. I got expelled for blowing up a tree with gunpowder, believe it or not.”
“I choose not,” I said, stifling another laugh. Somehow I couldn’t imagine the hedonistic devil in front of me doing something so wildly creative.
“You’d be right, too. It was my friend, Percy, who did it. He was named after the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who actually did get kicked out of school for that reason. He lost a bet. But when it came down to owning up to it, I knew Percy was going to get royally screwed if he got the boot. That boarding school was the only thing his rich grandparents had agreed to pay for. His dad lost their family money gambling.”
Hunter took my hand, laced his fingers through mine, and gave me a little twirl. My body swooshed along with the movement instinctively. I watched the room spin under Hunter’s arm and felt the skirts of my dress rustling against the floor. He lowered my upper body like in the movies, and it occurred to me that people were watching us again, but for the life of me, I couldn’t give a damn.
“You got kicked out for a friend?” My eyes flared. “Why?”
When my back was level with the floor, he held me there for half a second, his face close to mine. “You know why. You’re just as loyal.”
He whisked me back up, and we began to sway again. I clung to him more tightly than before. He felt like iron and steel beneath my fingertips. I wanted to escape his touch and lean closer to his chest at the same time.
“Why did you never tell you father?”
“Because he wouldn’t have believed me. And if he had, it’d serve as more proof to him that I am stupider than a can of sweet corn.”
Hunter’s lips brushed against my ear, the tip of his elegant nose in my hair. My heart was in my throat. I wanted to march over to Gerald Fitzpatrick and flip his full plate all down his suit for making his son believe he was anything short of wonderful.
“Sailor?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah?” I cleared my throat.
“Guess what?” He breathed in my face. If only he didn’t smell as he had—of cinnamon and male and my full-blown demise. “You’re dancing.”
Mood song: “Under the Pressure” by The War on Drugs.
Did I come from watching Da watching me spinning Sailor on the dance floor, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, nuzzling her hairline?
No, I did not.
Was I close to coming, though?
…ain’t gonna lie, my balls did tingle.
She was surprisingly compliant for a girl who possessed the etiquette and cordiality of a rabid capybara (basically a giant rat—look it up. Real nasty pet choice).
Maybe she exhausted herself mid-meltdown. Like when toddlers fall asleep in the height of their tantrum. Fuck knows she looked like she was about to off herself when I tried to drag her to the dance floor.
But it wasn’t like I had many options to choose from in the camaraderie department.
Da and Cillian ignored my existence, Mom was a shitty conversationalist, and Aisling screwed off with her new friends to form a fucking girl band or whatever. Chasing tail was not in the cards for me. I had zero friends here. Hitting up Vaughn and Knight on the phone several times a day wasn’t going to cut it anymore.
I wanted to show Da I was playing nice with the guard dog he’d appointed for me. The fact it looked like I was going to plow into her later that evening sweetened the deal, especially because he could never ask her if we fucked.
See, Da? Not as brainless as you think.
When the fundraiser ended, and Sailor kissed and hugged her friends goodbye (why did chicks do that? They were going to see each other the next goddamn day, in all probability), I shoved her into the limo and spent the time scrolling through pictures of hot girls I’d fucked. I needed to clear my head. Also, to empty my dick. Our little dance had given me an unexpected hard-on. True, she wasn’t Candice Swanepoel, but damn, did she rock that dress like nobody’s business.