“A minute if that.” I’m smiling so big my cheeks ache, so I dial it back. I’ve no idea why I’m so giddy all of a sudden.
Am I nervous?
Excited?
Relieved that he isn’t a cruel-hearted prick?
“Listen, I’m sorry about last week.” His gaze softens, his expression apologetic as he places his hand over mine. “Waited ten, fifteen minutes then got to thinking that I’d mixed up the dates or times. And of course Aunt Jane forgot to give me your number. Anyway, I feel awful about the mix-up.”
He half-smiles when he talks, and his words are sweet and unrushed, milk and honey.
“Don’t even worry about it.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
Our server appears with an uncorked bottle of pinot and two wine glasses. I didn’t realize I’d ordered a by-the-bottle only selection.
I pray that this bill fits my schoolteacher’s salary …
“You drink pinot?” I point to the second glass as the waiter uncorks and pours the red liquid courage into my waiting chalice.
“More of a gin and tonic guy, actually. I’ll take one of those. Forager’s if you’ve got it,” he orders Trevor’s drink. A good sign, I hope. “Thank you so much.”
The server nods before leaving.
“So your aunt tells me you work in the finance industry?” I sip my wine and try not to let my stare linger on his broad shoulders or his perfect, snow-white smile.
Garrett’s eyes sparkle in harmony with the flickering candlelight, and the way he looks at me makes me lose my train of thought for a second, much like the first time I ever laid eyes on Trevor.
“Hedge fund manager at Gainey-Hodge downtown,” he says. “Started out as a day trader fresh out of college, networked, made some connections, put in a few years working eighty-hour weeks and … yeah. Here I am. Aunt Jane says I need to divorce my job and marry a real woman.”
He laughs through his nose, and I imagine his relationship with Mrs. Angelino to be wholesome and loving.
I don’t know much about stock brokers or anything in that arena, but I know that hedge fund managers tend to be extremely intelligent, driven, and successful—definitely admirable qualities in the right person.
“Aunt Jane told me you’re a kindergarten teacher?”
I nod. “I am.”
“That’s adorable.” He smiles, flashing two dimples, and I swear my heart somersaults. “You even look like a kindergarten teacher.”
“And what do kindergarten teachers look like?”
“They’ve got this air of sweetness about them. This gentleness. Kind eyes. Pretty smile.”
Our stares hold, but the moment is interrupted once our server delivers his drink.
“Would we care to hear the night’s specials?” The young man hands us leather-bound dinner menus before prattling off an array of expensive-sounding options.
“If you could give us a minute, that’d be great.” Garrett looks at me when he speaks to him. “We’ve got all night. No need to speed things along, right?”
I’m seconds from agreeing when something catches my eye from the bar.
No, not something.
Someone.
Bennett.
I swear I feel the color draining from my face in real time as his penetrating glower intersects with mine, and I force myself to look away, fussing with the cloth napkin in my lap and clearing my throat. The blouse wrapping my upper body might as well be a sauna, my skin prickling with heat beneath the silky fabric, but I resist the urge to fidget or fan myself.
“You okay?” Garrett asks.
I reach for my wine, mustering a convincing smile. “Yeah. I’m good. Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew.”
Garrett turns around, glancing toward the bar, but Bennett’s back is facing us now and he’s settled in between a handful of other patrons, blending well. Returning his attention to his menu, he says something about the steak, but I can’t focus on his words.
“I’m sorry—would you excuse me for just a second?” I scoot out of the booth and follow the restroom signs to the back of the restaurant, and when I’m out of Garrett’s sight, I lean against the wall, arms folded, and wait.
Twenty seconds pass, maybe thirty, when Bennett appears from around the corner.
“I knew it,” I say.
“You knew what?”
“You followed me here.”
He huffs, hands resting at his hips. “Don’t flatter yourself, Astaire.”
He’s definitely read the email …
“Then explain what you’re doing here.” I cross my arms tighter. I hate the way he says my name.
“You do realize this is a public restaurant.”
“Okay, then just admit that you’re following me.”
His gaze narrows and he wears a twisted half-smile. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or messing with me. “I’m not following you—though maybe someone should.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a con artist.” He doesn’t blink, as if he’s merely stating a fact. “A predator.”
“Excuse me, what?” I choke on my words. Never in my life have I been called anything remotely in the vein of predator.
“You find rich men and you find ways to insert yourself into their life for reasons I can only assume have to do with financial gain.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m on a blind date right now and—”
“Right. A date with a guy who happens to be wearing a twenty-thousand-dollar timepiece. Have you told him your sob story yet? About your terrible childhood and your fake dead fiancé?”
I try to respond but the words get stuck. My vision blurs. Heavy tears slide down my cheeks before I have a chance to swipe them away.
“Move,” I say when I realize he’s blocking the door to the ladies’ room.
“Astaire.”
“Move.” So help me, if this asshole doesn’t get out of the way, I’m bowling him over.
Bennett steps aside, his lip twisting like he’s about to say something, but I disappear inside before he gets the chance. The overwhelming pong of industrial bathroom cleaner and cinnamon potpourri assaults my lungs, providing a much-needed sensory distraction that steers me out of my tearful state.
I’ll be damned if I let him ruin this night.
I yank a paper towel from the dispenser and clean up my mascara before reapplying some lip balm, washing my hands, and taking a handful of deep breaths.
When I emerge, the bastard is gone.
Thank God.
But when I return to my table … so is my date.
16
Bennett
I swipe my keycard against the lock on the penthouse elevator and wait for the doors to part.
I’m not sorry for what I did tonight—for warning that sad bastard in the tired Prada suit that the woman he was enjoying his lovely evening with was nothing more than an angel-faced hustler.
At first he didn’t want to believe me … until I introduced myself—last name first, of course. I’m not afraid to namedrop myself when the situation calls for it. I was tasteful about the entire thing though, kept my voice down, shared my concerns with him ‘bro to bro.’