“What?”
“Experience,” he whispers, chucking under his breath and staring at me like I’m vastly entertaining. Or, maybe like I’m a car accident — something so disastrous, he simply can’t pull his eyes away.
“Um,” I squeak again.
He laughs — rich, throaty, full-bodied — and the sound pools in my stomach like warm honey.
“I’ve no desire to ruin your night, Phoebe. I’ll leave you to your friends.” His lips twist again. “Though, I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever been rejected by such a beautiful woman.”
Damn, he’s good. My mouth gapes.
“Goodbye,” he adds softly. Keeping those intent eyes locked on mine, he bows his head before turning on a heel to leave.
My eyes fly from his retreating back to Lila, who’s glaring daggers at me and gesturing wildly at Cormack.
Go after him, idiot! she screams mutely. Then, she mouths either, I will flay you alive! or I’d like some good pie. (Hard to say, for sure.) Regardless, I did agree to follow her schemes to get over Nate — even if they lead me straight into hell. And a night with a sexy Irishman doesn’t exactly sound like torture. So, I throw back my shoulders, brace myself, and call, “Cormack! Wait.”
His grin is huge when he spins back around to face me.
I can do this, I tell myself as he crosses back to my side, gently takes my hand, and leads me toward the closest piece of art. Just because I’m on a date with a man so good looking he actually induces a stutter… and Nate is here somewhere lurking in the shadows… and I’ve already begun to perspire in my de la Renta… and Lila will kill me if I mess this up… and it’s the biggest night of Gemma’s art career… and there are a thousand paparazzi parked outside, chomping at the bit for a scandal…
Absolutely none of that means something will go horribly wrong and make this the most mortifying night of my existence.
Right?
God, I’m so totally fucked.
***
“What is it supposed to be?”
“I think it’s an eggplant.” I squint my eyes at the canvas in question, not judging Cormack at all for his confusion. Modern art is always somewhat of a mystery — I think that’s part of the appeal. The more confounding the piece, the higher the price. “Or… maybe it’s a squash?”
Cormack chuckles. “I’ve never been exceedingly fond of vegetables.”
Padraic remains silent, which isn’t exactly a surprise. So far, the hulking redhead has said a grand total of one word — his name — in the twenty minutes we’ve been circulating the gallery space, trying to decode swirls of color in the frames on the walls.
“Come on, guys. It’s definitely a penis,” Lila chimes in, stepping up beside me. “You should buy it, Phee. It’d look great, hanging above your bed.”
“I’m all stocked up on phallic artwork, to be honest.”
She leans close, her lips practically grazing my ear, and drops her voice to a whisper. “I know you keep about a thousand bodice-ripping romance novels under your bed, but — lusty pirates aside — I don’t know if I’d call those phallic artwork.”
Thankfully, her voice is low enough that the men can’t hear. Ignoring her, I jab an elbow into her ribs as I turn to face Cormack, all smiles. “Let’s go find Gemma. I have to congratulate her.”
Lila’s laughter chases us as we walk away. We’re silent for a moment, weaving through the dense crowd, but he keeps a light touch on my lower back. Gentle, but possessive. It sends a guilty shiver through me, and I resist the desire to scan the corners of the room with my eyes. When I came in, there were two security guards stationed at the front doors, dressed in black from head to toe.
Neither of them were Nate.
Is he even here?
Is he watching from the shadows?
Does he see the stranger’s hand on the small of my back?
Does he care?