The Crush (7)

If I’d declined Molly’s offer to attend and thanked her for the opportunity, I wouldn’t have been in this quiet exhibit, away from the noise and away from … you know … witnesses.

“I saw you at the bar.” Not the best opening line I’d heard. “You look like you could use a refill.”

I groaned. Honestly, there was no stopping that sound from exiting my mouth, nor was there any hiding the annoyance buried deep, deep within it. At the age of twenty-six, I’d had just enough experiences with creepy old men who thought it was okay to follow a young woman to a quiet, dark place. No, sir, this was not a great place to chat me up.

In my hand was a champagne flute, and as I stared at a small, framed painting in front of me, enclosed in glass, I wondered what would happen if I knocked the glass over.

Would an alarm go off? Would the space be swarmed with security?

Because as I glanced over my shoulder at Mr. Gray Hair and fought a shiver of disgust, the thought of being swarmed with security guards didn’t sound so awful.

But I managed a polite smile. “No, thank you. I’m just fine with what I have.”

When I turned my back to him, I whispered a silent plea that he’d get the hint, take the champagne bottle he’d tucked into his grip, and walk the hell in the opposite direction.

“Nonsense,” he boomed. “Allow me.”

He set the bottle down onto a bench to my left and crowded behind me, attempting to take the flute from my hand. I sidestepped him with a tight smile while maintaining a firm grip on the stem of the flute. “I said no, thank you. I don’t need any more to drink.”

He paused, licking his lips. “I’m Dick,” he said.

“Of course, you are,” I muttered against the rim of the glass.

His head cocked to the side, eyes tracking the skintight sweetheart neckline of the ball gown I borrowed from Molly. My chest was bigger than hers, something we’d laughed about when she helped me try it on a few days earlier. It cinched in at my waist with a gorgeous flowing skirt that brushed the floor.

The effect was—without sounding vain—really fricken stunning. Under the lights of the art museum, the black dress looked like it was coated with diamonds, glittering and shimmering from every single angle. Paired with a burgundy lip stain, the delicate black-and-gold mask that I found online, and my dark hair pulled back in an intricate braided hairstyle anchored at the nape of my neck, I was a whole mood—mysterious and almost unbearably sexy.

Words not typically used to describe me. I was the girl who tossed a football with her brothers, went mudding in the woods where I’d grown up, who learned how to hunt from her stepdad, and had a slight addiction to buying Adidas sneakers because it was superior over just about any other kind of footwear.

So to be this woman, even just for a night, felt like slipping on another persona.

But if this woman attracted the likes of Richard and his inability to read the room, I wanted a refund and my Adidas back.

“Not gonna tell me your name?” Dick the dick asked. His eyes stayed locked on my cleavage. And it was lovely in the dress, don’t get me wrong, but even when I cleared my throat in a sharp, disapproving sound, he kept his beady little eyes right where they were.

“You know, I don’t think I am,” I said silkily.

I took a step back. He took a step forward.

The bench was only a few inches behind the flowing skirt of my dress.

The moments when I did lose my cool never came out of nowhere. There were always warning signs. My siblings, and I had a lot of those, knew exactly what those signs were.

Dick the dick didn’t, which is why he kept staring at my boobs.

The first sign of his impending demise was the way my cheeks went hot. I almost ripped off the mask, but somehow, it felt important that he didn’t know who I was. For all I knew, he was a slimy politician or a bajillionaire who’d just donated half his wealth to something important.

My eyes darted toward the hallway like I could manifest a slew of people coming around the corner. Why didn’t anyone want to look down here? This hallway was awesome.

There were just … a lot of other hallways and levels exactly like this one, and I’d wandered a bit too far away from the free alcohol.

“If you’ll excuse—” I started.

“Your tits are incredible,” he interrupted.

I froze. “Excuse me?”

Dick licked his lips. “Fucking incredible,” he whispered.

“Hey,” I snapped. “Eyes up here, Richard.”

Surprisingly, he did as I asked.

I set my hands on my hips. “You can’t just … go around telling people that. It’s not okay.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“First,” I said, voice deadly calm, “back up about six inches before I scream bloody murder.”

He rolled his eyes but complied.

“Second, all I wanted was some quiet, Dick.” I punched my finger into the air separating us. “Not some drunk stranger commenting on my chest.”

He swayed, and the valiant effort he gave to keeping his eyes on my face faltered at the mention of my chest. His eyes dropped, and the words came out on a rush. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars right now if you show me.”

My breath came out on a shocked exhale, and before I knew what I was doing, my fingers wrapped around the neck of the champagne bottle still resting on the bench next to me. It had heft, and I found myself liking that very, very much.