I swallow my comments with champagne asJamesleads me around, pointing out various pieces of art. Some look like the things I’ve seen kids do. Their price tags make me scoff. He arches an eyebrow at me in response.
“The four-year-old I used to watch has the same style, but he gives them away for free.” I shrug.
James smirks and takes a drink. “Don’t let the artist hear you say that.”
After another hour, my feet hurt and I’m bored. James has been shaking hands and making conversation while I pretend to be very interested and totally in the know when I’m not saying thank-yous and dealing with jealous gazes. I’m not stupid, I can follow the conversations, but the dullness of the topics kills me. Everything seems so fake, like the smiles and compliments.
Camille texts me, asking me to stay out longer when I tell her how bored I am. She’s getting laid. Of course, she is. I roll my eyes and catch James’s disapproval. I roll them again. He excuses himself to join me at the table.
“Claire—”
“I rolled my eyes at my phone—my roommate—not you, the first time anyway.” I reach for my drink, but he takes it. I glower. “How many fucking rules do I have to follow,Daddy? I’m twenty-one. It’s legal.”
“I know. And no pouting. I can’t have you getting frisky.”
“Oh, too afraid you can’t control yourself if I’m willing?”
He takes a slow breath. “We both know this can’t happen and shouldn’t happen. I’m forty-five years old.”
“Yeah, yet you still kissed me when we got here.”
“Do as I say, not as I do. A moment of weakness doesn’t change things. Your dad and I were friends. Yourdad,Claire.”
“Were. Past tense,” I remind him.
“You know that Jeff…your dad…will murder us both if he finds out. We need to stop this. Now,” he says with clear determination. But all it takes is the slightest attention to detail to know he’s hard.
I lick my bottom lip, then bite it. “I’m not the one giving threats of unprofessional behavior.”
He leans his head to the side, grinning. “And I wasn’t the one who snuck a peek then ran away.”
I nearly choke on my spit. He leans into me, brushing my hair off my cheek. “That’s right, I know.”
“Well, you—” I sputter.
“If you weren’t interested, you would have rejected me multiple times now, but you haven’t. You play a dangerous game.”
“We work together,” I remind him.
“Yes. Another good reason to stop flirting.” But his fingers stroke down my jaw. “Just be a good fake fiancée, sweetheart, and call it a night.”
I was about to say “make me” but bit it back. But the temptation is so strong. His cologne, the bourbon on his breath, the way he’s watching me with a mix of sweetness and need. It’s intoxicating.
“Good. Silence is better than those sassy comments. Go mingle, find something to keep yourself busy.”
“I thought you would, as my future husband.”
“We both need to cool off. Look around the room and come back to me before the artist makes an entrance.” His eyes fuck me anyway. He exhales and presses his lips to my cheek, then my ear. “Restraint is an art, Claire.”
“You need more practice.”
“And you need to mingle.”
I nod and watch him leave. His suit perfectly fits his body, which makes mine ache in an unfamiliar way. I want to know what he feels like, what he really feels like when he’s not holding himself away from me, without clothes between us. I want to see if he—my fantasy of five years—can make me come when no one else has been able to.
Chewing my lip, I stand, smooth out my expensive deep-blue dress, and find a non-abstract painting. It’s pretty and interesting at least.
After I’ve cooled the blush on my face and restarted my brain, as James insisted, I turn to find him. A regal woman spies him and smiles. She walks to him and touches his shoulder, leaning into him and offering her cheek.