The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(36)

“You good?” I nod, still incapable of words. One simple brush of his fingers on delicate skin and I can’t talk. Can’t think. Can’t move. He smiles wide at my inability before looking back at the zip, trying to tug it down. Internally, I pray it moves easily, hoping it’s just the weird angle that makes it impossible to do it alone.

Of course, that’s not my kind of luck.

“Damn, you really got it stuck,” he says, getting his head closer to the zipper to inspect it. His other hand moves to the front of my thigh, cupping it as a counterbalance as he tries to tug harder. I almost lose my footing again and think about how maybe I should have gone with one of the other options. Maybe added an option four where I told him to leave and just died a slow, embarrassing death in these stupid boots. It would give him a fun story to tell at bars, the matchmaker he kissed once and who utterly lost her mind after, then died alone in her room.

God, why is my brain like this?

“Hold my shoulder to keep you steady,” he says, looking up at me once more. I do as he asks and urge the words to come.

“I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. And unprofessional. You’re here to be matched—”

“I’m not. You know it.” No, I don’t. That’s what he’s here for, to be matched. That’s what he has to be here for, I tell myself.

“Luke, I—”

“So whose wedding is that for?” He changes the subject so swiftly that it wouldn’t be noticeable if it weren’t part of my job to keep track of men avoiding topics.

Still, I take the lifeline for what it is and sigh before answering. “My dad’s.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that.” He grunts the words a bit as he tries to tug at the zipper, moving it this way and that.

“I’m… indifferent about it. It’s his third.”

“His third?”

“Yeah. And she’s like, two years older than I am.” He stops his ministrations and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah,” I say, answering the unspoken question.

“That doesn’t bother you?” I sigh. It should. But…

“Not anymore. I don’t expect much more from him.” His eyes still on mine. He’s clearly trying to read into my words, but I don’t let him. “I’m more annoyed about having to go to the wedding.”

“A Valentine’s day wedding, right?”

“Yes. As cliche as it gets.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Eh. Not really. My mom never got over him, so going to these things always ends… poorly for her. She’ll be calling me the whole time, asking questions.”

“But what about you? Will family be there? Cousins? Uncles? Aunts?” I laugh bitterly.

“None that I want to see.”

“Why not?”

“My dad’s side of the family… they come from money. And know it. It’s kind of a long story, but I didn’t know them for most of my life. And they’re not a fan of my mom because she doesn’t have the same pedigree, which makes me some kind of mutt in their eyes.” My eyes are locked on the splash of tomato sauce on the backsplash above the stove I forgot to clean up. I don’t even remember the last time I made a meal in this kitchen.

“That’s stupid. You’re not a dog.”

“Yeah, well. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous, you know?” Except then I remember he comes from money, and I bite my tongue. “Shit, I didn’t mean…” but he cuts me off with a laugh.

“Totally get it. My parents worked hard to shield us from that. Make sure we didn’t grow up to be ‘spoiled little shits,’ as my dad says.”

“Good for him.”

“So what don’t they like about you?” His head goes back down to working on the zipper.

“Mostly how I’m not from money. I add nothing to the family name, you know?” He shakes his head, but his eyes not meeting mine gives me the freedom to keep talking. “I’m not as fancy, didn’t go to the etiquette classes and cotillion. Plus, I’m not skinny.” His head pops up, eyes wide and about to argue. “I’m not fat, but they’re all skin and bones. Their lives revolve around looking good for their husbands, perfect socialite housewives. I look like my mom, curves and all. I don’t fit it.” Once more, he shakes his head and goes back to work. It seems like it’s working, the zipper slowly creeping down. “And I’m too old.” The words fly out as the zipper goes down, his hand going following, grazing down the entirety of my leg. Goosebumps cover my body.

“What?” he says with a laugh, but I’m caught up in what’s happening. One hand on my inner thigh, rough calluses scraping some of my most sensitive skin, while the other runs down the back to get the shoe off. Bare skin on bare skin. “You’re not even thirty.”

“Basically ancient in their eyes,” I say, but my voice is a whisper, and with the timbre of my words, his pupils flare. “I should have a man by now. I should be at least engaged, if not married. Maybe on my second husband. I should be social climbing instead of business building. I’m dreading it because showing up without a man on my arm will be another chance for them to tear me down.” He nods and moves my legs, switching my bare one for the booted one, and begins working on the zipper.