To be honest, I half figure I am and wholly expect the guy to turn away and ignore me because who the hell am I? The kicker, though, is the hint of the sassy smirks dawning each of their lips. They’re waiting to let them free and will the moment I fail to get Ransom to oblige, but those little grins are guaranteed to backfire as my sole reaction would be laughter, because again... who the hell am I and why would he come at my call?
Only Ransom doesn’t snub me.
He pushes to his feet, and without so much as breaking eye contact, stalks this way in all his six-four sexiness.
Amy sits up straight, a weary expression twisting her face, somewhat mirroring the others around us, while I lift my elbow to the table and press my chin into my open palm.
Scott shifts closer.
The table grows tenser.
Ransom steps up behind me without a care.
His hands lock around the edge of the thick wood at my sides, and he bends, blocking Scott from me completely as he brings his mouth near my cheek.
“What can I do for you, Trouble?” He doesn’t care enough to quiet his deep voice but allows whoever wants to listen in to do just that.
I tip my head backward, now inadvertently resting on the wide stretch of his shoulder. “You’re staring this way.” I don’t point out how he’s breaking the little rule their note conveyed.
“I am.”
My lips quirk with his instant answer. “Why?”
His light eyes shift between mine. “I’m angry.”
I cross my legs beneath the table, swiftly flicking my gaze toward Amy. I’m tempted to throw out her name but decide against it.
“Care to share your reasoning?”
Her eyes narrow and I move mine back to the entertainment of the hour.
Ransom pretends to mull over the question, and when he speaks, his words are delivered in a seductively coy tone. “I expected to find a wicked hourglass of red waiting for me... but that didn’t happen.”
Well, okay then.
There’s the confirmation I didn’t need, but confirmation, nonetheless. They sent me the dress.
Amy’s frown deepens, even more so when heat sneaks up my neck.
She has no clue what he means; she couldn’t possibly, but she sure as hell wants to.
“Damn disgrace, don’t you think? Expecting a shade of the devil with long, dangerous... forks to show itself only to be disappointed by the sight of a crisp, blank canvas.” He shifts the slightest bit, the small waves along his forehead grazing mine as he plays me like a matchbox, striking his lips across my cheek, leaving a low burn in their wake. “Shame really, it’s my least favorite color.”
My fingers twitch around my cup, and I freeze when Ransom dips forward, the sharp definition of his jaw and stretch of his neck pulling my attention, the way his Adam’s apple shifts as he opens his mouth. His mouth that now closes over the peaked swirl of whipped cream at the top. The ache that sparked grows, catching fire.
And then extinguishes.
He’s gone, and I swear everyone at the table hisses a cut-short orgasm.
Following his exit, my eyes lift to Amy’s.
“Well.” I take a quick drink as an excuse to swallow. “There you go.”
Thankfully the bell rings two seconds later and everyone pushes to their feet.
I don’t miss the way Scott’s gaze falls to my outfit as I slip away—a crisp all-white jumpsuit, even my leather slingback shoes share the same color or lack thereof, as Ransom chose to point out.
As I step into my cooking class, I’m greeted by the teacher’s aide, a dark-haired guy I’ve yet to see until today who is channeling his inner Adam Levine and killing it.
He grins, holding the paper in his hands close to his trim chest. “Jameson, I bet.”
“You should consider gambling.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, my dad would love that. Station four.”
With a quick thanks, I head where I’m instructed, and not two minutes later, Ransom, Arsen, and Beretta slip inside.
Arsen slips onto the chair at my side while the other two continue on to the far back corner station.
His entire body shifts, fully facing mine, and he stares, straight-faced, directly into my eyes. He waits for me to squirm, but instead, I lift a brow and he faces forward before his grin slips over his lips.
I shake my head, fighting my own, and look to the front of the room.
I try to focus on the teacher when he begins to speak, but I can’t stop cutting quick glances toward my partner.
Or tracing the curves of Arsen’s shoulders beneath his T-shirt.
With his forearms flat on the desk, one hand molded over his other closed fist, he leans forward, stretching the finely made cotton to its finest, fullest edge.
His skin is tan and like the mahogany in his dark blond hair, likely a gift from the sun.