“No, thank you,” I reply, summoning my best dowager duchess impersonation as I sweep away. Heel, toe, heel, toe; I take pains not to step on the hem of my dress. To fall flat on my face is all I need to crown this evening.
My dress. The dress.
I’d picked it up in a consignment store in the US for seventy bucks. An Alex Perry! I thought for sure moving to London I’d get an opportunity to wear it. But the opportunity never arose. At least, until now. I guess it’s a shame that this is its debut outing. Not only that but also from now on, whenever I open my closet and see it hanging there, I’ll be reminded of how awful I felt tonight, rather than be seduced by the colour and fabric into running my hands over it.
I suppose I could sell it, only I know I won’t, almost as a point of principle.
I like this dress. Everyone else can shove their opinions where the sun doesn’t shine.
“Come on, Holly.” From behind me, Griffin’s voice seems too close to my ear for comfort. Not to mention, far too self-satisfied as his fingers brush my hand.
“Drop dead,” I mutter, snatching it away as I step out into the hallway.
“Hols.” This time, my name is delivered on the tremor of a chuckle. One I’d like to punch down the back of his throat.
This isn’t me. I’m not violent or mean—not even when I’m hurt. But then again, I’m not just hurting. I’m also seething.
“Alexander, who is that girl in that awful dress?” I’d heard the elegantly blonde stick insect sitting next to him ask.
“No one,” he’d answered without even raising his gaze to me.
I’m just no one. No one in a dowdy dress, apparently.
No wonder fire seems to burn in my veins instead of blood.
“Holly?” Isla’s gaze finds mine from where she stands, waiting for me, compassion and apology shining in her gaze.
“I’m just going to . . .to . . .” I point in the opposite direction to where everyone else is going. “Visit the powder room,” I add in a moment of divine inspiration.
“Yes, of course.” She nods in acceptance. It might be rude not to join her party, but she gets it. But her sympathy does not fuel my anger. It only fuels my tears and my pace as my walk becomes a trot as I round the corner out of view.
“Holland.”
Alexander. Oh, Alexander. Fuck off.
“Just . . .just go away.”
The whole night as I’d struggled through polite conversation, through feeling the weight of the sympathy of those around me—Ivy, Dylan Duffy’s wife, of Isla, women sensing what I was feeling—I could feel his attention like a brand against my cheek. I just wouldn’t, couldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning my attention to him.
“Holland, stop.” His fingers grasp my wrist, and my feet slow. I guess he already told me what he says goes in this place.
“Haven’t you made me look bad enough already?” I hiss, swinging around to face him, clocking his arm with my closed fist. I didn’t mean to—I’ve just had enough. Enough of him. Of his brother. Enough of this day!
“I’m sorry,” he begins catching my fist in his hand, bringing both of them to his chest. “I didn’t think—I didn’t know McCain would sit you next to Griffin. My God, I’ve wanted to pull my hair out just watching you together.”
“Together? Are you crazy?” I heave my arms back, trying to pull them away. I even briefly consider kicking him in the shin, but I guess something must clue him in to that thought as he presses me back against the wall, quickly sliding his knee between my thighs. I grit my teeth, and I ignore the flare of heat this drives through me. I will not feel this way about him. I refuse to be distracted by the electricity that jumps between us, raw and weighty.
“Yes, if you want the truth,” he replies, all fiery blue eyes and fierce expression, “I think I am a little crazed. And I’ve you to thank for that.”
“Did you do a couple of lines of white paranoia before dinner?”
“Holland, stop fighting me.” His voice is husky and almost hypnotic, and he doesn’t rise to my insult, which just gets my goat a little more. “Please calm down.”
“Calm?” I cry very much the opposite of that thing he’d like me to be. “You want me to be calm after the stunt you just pulled? How could you, you asshole? Oh, I beg your pardon,” I snipe, faking a kowtowing sideways kind of bow. Without the use of my arms, you know. “How could you, your grace, you asshole!”
“I didn’t know you’d be seated next to him.”
“I didn’t want to sit next to anyone. I didn’t want to be there! What if I didn’t have something suitable to wear? Did you even think of that?”