Blurred (Connections, #3.5)(27)

Her eyes close when my skin makes contact with hers.

“You seem flustered.” I breathe against her neck, as my fingers trace a path from her ear to her jaw. I’m hoping in some way she’ll give me the green light to carry on with our flirtation.

“No,” she says, stepping back, clearly affected by our closeness.

When I stifle my chuckle with one hand in front of my mouth, she drops her eyes then turns away and sashays off, her hair bouncing as she goes. I swear if I didn’t know any better I might think she wants me just as much as I want her. My eyes devour the sight of her red waves against her back and her bare skin below her skirt hem to her high heels clicking against the glossy tile floor. When they land on the ground, another thought comes to mind: Her wearing just those heels and prancing in front of me while we are alone.

I try to shake it off and grab another glass of champagne for distraction, but I still can’t stop following her every move. She’s talking to some brute of a guy in a gray pinstriped suit. He pulls the pencil from her ear and I notice his thumb graze her cheek as he does. She pulls away. He points to her clipboard with the eraser and seems annoyed as he taps it. Every time she steps back, he takes a step forward. If I thought the faces she made at me were disgust, the expression she offers him is one of repulsion. I keep my eye on them, just to make sure whoever that * is stays in check.

“Ben, there you are.” It’s Tike with a hand on my shoulder, gripping a little too tight.

I turn around to face him. “Just the man I needed to see. We need to finish this up so I can leave you and your beautiful wife alone.”

He waves a hand. “Oh, no need to rush. We have time to talk. Come with me, let’s grab a drink.”

As we walk to the bar I have a f*cked-up thought—what if he wants . . . Fuck, if the word “ménage” leaves his lips, I’m so f*cking gone. We spend fifteen minutes talking about bullshit and the whole time I’m waiting for him to say something out of line, but thank you, Jesus, he doesn’t.

“Tike, Sloan is waiting for you in the hall. It’s time to officially introduce you as husband and wife. I’d like you both to enter the room together.” We turn in unison to the sweet voice commanding our attention, then I notice that while I’m looking at her he looks at me.

“Of course, darling,” he responds to her or maybe to me. I don’t know because all he does is wink and walk off.

My eyes slide to S’belle. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She looks around the crowded bar area and then at the empty bar stool. She slides into it and looks at me quizzically, scrunching her nose. “Why would you ask me that? It’s an open bar.”

Fuck, she’s adorable. She really is. “Let me rephrase. Would you like to have a drink with me?”

She bites her lips. “First, I don’t drink while I’m working and neither should you.”

“Right, Red, I’ll keep that in mind. And second?”

Her lips form a sexy pout again that I can’t resist. They’re so pink and full and my mind keeps wandering to. . . . “You said first, and that’s usually followed by a second.” I hold up my glass and drink the entire thing down. “There, now I won’t be drinking on the job.”

Her mouth forms a straight line that I think will be turning upside down at any second but she surprises me when instead she smiles at me. I think I might be in—she’s warming up to me, I can tell.

“Bell,” a stern voice calls from behind me.

In a huff she says, “I have to go.”

I turn to see the pinstriped * glaring at her as she hops off the stool. The hint of citrus she leaves in her wake tickles my nose as she spins around and walks away. I breathe it in before pulling out my notebook. Time to finish the checklist. Two things left.

Information needed to write the Rodale Wedding Piece

How did Tike propose to Sloan

Where are they going on their honeymoon

Details of the ceremony

Comments from the parents

Wedding venue details

I push through the crowd of people waiting to congratulate the new husband and wife and search for the second to last item on my list—comments from the parents of both the bride and groom. They’re easy to spot as they’re sitting together at a table in the center of the room. When I approach, cautiously, not sure how receptive they’ll be to being interviewed, they exuberantly plead with me to join them. They offer me a drink, not that I need any more right now, and eagerly discuss the marriage of their children.

While jotting down their thoughts and memories, I allow them to blab on and take the opportunity to glance over at S’belle. Again the guy in the suit is standing a little too close and when she shakes her head at him, he reaches around and pats her ass. She steps back but he corners her and puts his hands on her hips. I start to stand, ready to intervene, but they part ways before I can break away. Once my interview is complete, I politely excuse myself. All I have left is to find out the vendor details and then I’m out of there. In order to complete my checklist, I need the wedding coordinator to give me that information. I contemplate skipping out without it, but regardless of how much this work sucks, I would never half-ass a job. So I go in search of the spitfire, but she’s nowhere to be found.

The lights dim and the dance floor fills with people. The strains of a popular love song play as the couple takes their spot front and center. Maybe it’s too much booze, maybe it’s the thought of this make-believe marriage passing for something real, but I suddenly need some air.