She laughs, her brown eyes sparkling warmly. “Same here. This party’s insane, isn’t it?”
“You could say that.” She scans the room, taking everything in. I clear my throat and try to appear indifferent as I ask, “is Blaire here with you?”
“No, I’m here with Alessandro. His parents know the woman who’s throwing the party. Rachel, I think?”
“I see,” I say, burying a hand in the pocket of my rented tuxedo.
Elly watches me for a second too long as a small frown forms on her forehead. She’s quiet for a minute or two. “I feel like a heroine in one of those Regency books that Blaire loves so much. You know? Where the girl goes to a ball dressed in a beautiful gown and steals the duke’s heart with one dance or some shit like that.”
I stare straight ahead of me, picturing a blushing Blaire on my bed with an old paperback in her hands as she reads out loud to me. The memory makes me smile. “I always joked that I couldn’t compete against a duke.”
As soon as I utter those words, I realize the mistake I’ve just made. I steal a glance at the girl who just baited the truth out of me and see understanding dawning in her deceptively innocent face. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the guy Blaire was seeing over the summer. The one she was crazy about.”
I look away, flinching.
“I knew it. She stared at me funny when I mentioned your name. At the time, I thought it was my imagination, but now I see it all so clearly.”
“So what if I am? It’s over.”
“No, I don’t think so. Like Blaire, you carry your heart in your eyes,” she says quietly.
I clench my fists. Even when she’s not here, she manages to fuck with my peace of mind. There’s no reprieve from her. She once was heaven and now she’s the hell I’m burning in. “She’s part of the past. Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, beginning to move away.
She grabs my forearm and stops me, her small hand gripping it with strength I didn’t know she possessed. “Don’t give up on her,” she pleads.
“I’m done. She made her choice, and I wasn’t it.”
“You love her. Still. I can see it in your eyes.”
“No, Elly. You’re wrong. I never loved Blaire.” I smile wryly. “I loved a lie.” I walk away then, leaving Elly behind.
“She loves you. She’s just too afraid to admit it!”
Closing my eyes, I stop momentarily. Part of me wants to go back and ask her what she means. I want her words to give me hope, illuminate the darkness I’m drowning in, but I don’t. Instead, I continue walking. I turn my back on Elly and the man I used to be; anger, resentment, jealousy propelling my each step.
I move to stand behind Rachel, who’s now talking to a man. Pushing myself flush against her back, her sweet ass cradling my cock, I pull her long hair to the side and kiss the curve of her neck once, not giving a fuck about the stranger watching us. She trembles under my mouth.
“Hello, Rachel. Miss me?”
She turns to face me, blushing. “You came.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“No, I’m not. I knew you would come.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I caress her blushing cheek with the back of my fingers. “I forgot how lovely you look when you blush like that for me.”
Someone clears his throat, reminding us that we aren’t alone. She licks her lips as though she could taste me there.
“Behave,” she mouths.
“I don’t want to.” I lean in, whispering in her ear, “What I want is to fuck you again.”
“You’re impossible.”
I grin as she shakes her head, hiding a pleased smile. She grabs my hand and spins on her feet until we’re facing her guest, an older man wearing a funky bow tie and bright green glasses. “Carl, I’d like to introduce you to Ronan. He’s the photographer I was telling you about. And Ronan, this is Carl Brunswick, my closest friend and owner of The Jackson.”
Fucking hell. My eyes widen. The Jackson? The Jackson is the most exclusive art gallery in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Honk Kong, Dubai, Tokyo, and Milan. Hell, if the Carl Brunswick takes an interest in you it means that you’ve made it. Not even Edgar with his million dollar paintings has been able to get in The Jackson.
“A pleasure, sir,” I say.
He shakes my hand. “Oh yes, I remember now. Our diamond in the rough.” He pauses, studying my clothes, my hair, my face, and my hands. “He’s beautiful, Rachel. Where did you find him?”
She hesitates. “I met him at Edgar Juarez’s exhibit.”
A sly smile appears on his face. “Really? If my memory doesn’t fail me, which it never does, by the way, I seem to recollect that I waited for you inside the gallery for hours and you never showed up.”