“I don’t know anything about you.” That’s a lie. Mase Stirling is famous for being Rookie of the year, and a “darlin’’’ of the tabloids, not to mention that he’s a billionaire.
At least his grandfather is, which means Mase is in line to inherit quite a lot of money.
Mase leans down. He’s even taller than Grayson. “I know things about you,” he says in a low voice.
It’s also a sexy voice, but that’s not the point. “How nice for you.”
Whatever else Mase is, he doesn’t know when to quit. “I know you’re the one who convinced Bexley to go on the show.”
“Yes, well I should be congratulated, not demeaned for my persuasive skills.”
Is Mase ever not smiling? And it’s not just the smile—the dimple is deep enough for me to stick my finger into it, and the way his blue eyes crinkle in the corners suggests wrinkles in his future.
I’m sure Mase will look even better with a few lines on his face.
“Darlin’, you read me wrong. My brother deserves all the happiness in the world, and if you played a part in that, kudos to you.”
Does he think the smile will change my opinion of him so easily? “I happen to know that Grayson has a sister but no brother, so it’s impossible for him to be yours.”
“Isn’t Bexley like a sister to you? Sister of another mister, somethin’ like that?”
“Bexley is everything to me,” I tell him. “She is my family.”
Something flashes in those blue eyes. “Nice. I’m just sayin’, you’re the one responsible forthat.” He jerks his chin to where Grayson and Bexley are wrapped around each other, sharing yet another pre-club kiss.
“I’m happy for them, so I’ll take the credit.”
“But that also means you’re responsible forthatandthat.” This time he gestures towards Biba and David, holding hands, and Rachel, who has her arms wrapped around a sheepishly smiling Boen.
This time I shake my head. “That’s not me. They did that on their own.”
“I don’t agree. I think you helped Bexley’s friends hook up with Grayson’s friends. You lookin’ for some of that yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“Cuz I’m happy to offer myself,” he continues, oblivious to the darts of death shooting from my eyes. He spreads his arms wide. “Whad d’ya think? You’re friends with Bexley; I’m tight with Grayson—”
“No, thank you,” I tell him politely and just a little too primly for my liking.
Mase laughs. “I’m just jokin’ with you.”
I don’t know what’s worse—his propositioning me, or that it was a joke.
“But, you know, if you change your mind…” Mase raises his eyebrow as he backs away. “I’m here all weekend.”
“Yes, unfortunately,” I mutter as he moves away, still laughing to work his billionaire magic to get us into the club.
A few minutes later, from the head of the line, Mase turns and waves us in, like a general ushering his troops into battle.
It’s a nightclub, not a battle against insurgents. But as I file inside, I realize it’s not like any club I’ve ever been to.
“Wow,” Bexley cries. At least I think that’s what she says because the music is so loud.
Everything is pink, from the blush of the walls, interspaced with mirrors, to the lights and the giant chandeliers hanging over the dance floor. Even the bottles behind the bar have a pink glow.
Most of the people on the dance floor are wearing some shade of pink, but because our group from Toronto had no idea this place existed, let alone that we’d be on the guest list, no one adhered to the dress code. Except for Biba, of course. From what I’ve noticed, she wears the colour a lot.
I’ve been to engagement parties before; from quiet, sedate family affairs in an event centre with everyone included from baby cousins to great-grandparents to raucous affairs in the local pub, but nothing like this. Never with a private plane flying a group down to Las Vegas for the weekend, rooms in one of those hotels that the celebrities stay at, and being put on the guest list of the hottest club in the city.