I shiver again, for a different reason entirely.
“You’ve been friends a long time.” Cormack’s voice cuts through my mental ramblings and, for a second, I think he’s read my mind.
“What?”
He glances at me, lips twisting in amusement. “You and Lila. You’ve been friends a long time.”
Oh. Lila. Right.
“Since we were little,” I confirm. “She’s the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Just one terribly annoying big brother,” I say, fondness creeping into my tone. “You’re lucky he’s out of the country — he’s an old hand at scaring away my dates.”
The few that I’ve ever had, I add internally.
Cormack stops mid-stride and turns to glance down into my eyes. When he speaks, his voice is slow, thick, sweet — like melted chocolate. “I don’t scare very easily, Phoebe.”
Phey-bee.
Swoon.
I don’t say anything — what exactly does a girl say to something like that? — so he just places his hand on my back and starts walking again.
Calling Cormack O’Dair charming is like calling a contestant on The Bachelor dramatic. The word falls pathetically short of reality.
With just one devilish grin, he could get a Royal Guardsman to blush redder than his uniform.
With only the sparkle in his blue-green eyes, he could talk the pants off a priest. (Is that sacrilegious? Oops.) Point is, between his mega-bright smiles and quick-witted comments and, dear god, that accent… I’m feeling a shade out of my depth. Which is perhaps why I didn’t immediately realize the wait staff have been supplying me with glass after glass of champagne since the moment my date arrived, or that I’ve been sipping them at an alarming pace, just so my mouth has something to do besides gawk or grunt unintelligibly in his direction.
The first glass works through my system like a pleasant anesthetic, loosening my joints and making my steps a little more languorous as I glide through the gallery on Cormack’s arm.
By the second glass, I’m really feeling the art, in a way I probably — definitely — wouldn’t be, without the aid of alcohol. ‘Cause, I mean, it’s not just a $6,000 painting of a white paper cup on canvas. You know? That cup — it’s empty. Lying on its side. Which is deeply symbolic of…of… something. I think.
Don’t snort bubbles out your nose. Don’t snort bubbles out your nose. Don’t snort bubbles out your nose.
Now, by glass number three, everything around me has adopted a kind of fuzzy, golden aura. Blurred at the edges. Mellow. Warm.
That handful of stale Cheez-its I ate earlier wasn’t the most substantial dinner I’ve ever had…
Blessedly, Cormack hasn’t seemed to notice that my brain is sloshing around inside my skull like a pickled egg. He’s too busy charming the pants off everyone we talk to.
I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that I’m not wearing pants and, thus, cannot be charmed out of them.
(Probably bad.)
In any case, as we maneuver through the crowd looking for Gemma and Chase, we’re stopped at least six times to chat with various family friends and some of my father’s business partners. Several women ask — with a fair amount of shock in their tones — who my date is. I grit my teeth and pretend it doesn’t bother me that they treat a deviation from my perpetual single-hood with such delighted dismay. The other women we come across are too busy sultrily eyeing Cormack behind their martini glasses to be bitchy. Their husbands aren’t much better — they either ask after my father’s whereabouts, let their gazes linger too long on my cleavage, or say nothing at all.
Cumulatively, I worry their antics will make my date run for the hills.