“True. I usually keep an ace up my sleeve.”
“What’s that ace tonight?”
“I’d be a shitty negotiator if I gave that up so early,” he says, lowering his eyelids slightly.
Sparks run down my spine and explode in my pussy. I draw in a deep breath. “I’m still not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”
“Braden,” he says again. “And you are, Skye. You definitely—”
A server appears. “Hi, Mr. Black. I’m Cory, and I’ll be taking care of you and your lady this evening. Would you like to begin with a cocktail?”
“Absolutely, Cory,” Braden says. “Skye?”
A drink? A drink is the last thing I need at the moment. What would a woman eating dinner with Braden Black order?
On second thought, a drink might be just what I need. I’ll keep it at one, but I desperately need something to help me to relax. “Vodka martini,” I say. “Extra olives.”
“Any particular vodka?”
“Grey Goose?” The only brand I can think of.
It must be okay, because Cory nods and then turns to Braden.
“Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
Wild Turkey? Not one of the top-shelf brands that Addison orders? She likes the Pappy Van Winkle fifteen-year to the tune of about seventy-five dollars a shot.
Then I remember.
Braden Black is new to his money. He comes from a working-class family in South Boston. I love Wild Turkey. I grew up on it. My grandpa used to let me have a very small sip of his when we sat on the porch in the summer evenings. My mom put a stop to that eventually, but I’d already developed a taste for it. I should have ordered it, rather than the martini. I like vodka martinis, but I honestly prefer bourbon to just about anything.
Unbelievable that I have something in common with the man across from me.
I’m still not going to bed with him.
Even though I want to.
I really want to.
Braden orders raw oysters. “Do you want anything else?” he says to me.
I shake my head. “I love raw oysters.”
He smiles, and my heart skips a beat. So cliché, but I swear, it really skips a beat.
A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive. Thank God. Now I have something to do with my hands.
Braden lifts his glass to his lips and tosses some liquid onto his tongue.
I imagine that tongue doing other things, and I squeeze my thighs together to ease the ache between them.
“Tell me,” he says after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”
“I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”
“For her influencing?”
“Yeah.”
“But those are selfies.”
“Actually, they’re not.” I spill the beans about how we take fake selfies before I realize Addison might not want that information made public. Then I remember passersby see us all the time in public places when we take the photos.
A wide grin splits Braden’s handsome face. “Sounds like classic Addie. Everything has to look perfect.”
I agree, but no way am I saying that. I don’t want to lose my job.
I gather courage and ask, “How do you know Addison?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
She did, but this gives me the chance to find out his side of the story. Whatever their connection, it clearly didn’t end well.
“Not really. I’d love to hear it from you.”
“But you witnessed the interaction between us.”
“Yeah. You weren’t overly friendly.”
“No.”
Interesting. I’ve learned exactly nothing.
Cory arrives with the oysters. He rattles off the name and origin of each one, but none of it matters to me. I love them all, the brinier the better.
Braden takes out his phone and snaps a photo of the oysters that arrived. “Got to keep the followers happy.”
Is he posting to Instagram? Braden Black? That surprises me, though it probably shouldn’t. After all, he commented on Addie’s post.
“How many followers do you have?” I ask.
“Not as many as Addison, but enough.”
I can easily check, so I don’t ask for any elaboration. “I never would have thought you were the social media type.”
“I’m not, really, but people seem to want to know what I’m up to. Probably only because I’m richer than God, which still seems a little unreal to me. I’m definitely a self-made man. I wasn’t born into money like Addison and her sister.”
I’ve only met Addison’s fraternal twin, Apple, once. She’s the anti-Addison, into Zen, yoga, and the chakras, and wears only flowing Bohemian frocks.
“Anyway, I never really got out of the habit,” Braden says. “You on Instagram?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“What’s your handle?”
My cheeks warm. “@stormyskye15.”
His lips twitch. “Stormy? Why not sunny or blue? Or even cloudy?”
“Because I like stormy skies. They’re a lot more interesting than blue or sunny skies, don’t you think?” When I was growing up, stormy skies were often the norm. I took shelter from more than one tornado when I was a kid. Talk about feeling out of control.