Playing It Safe(8)

I turn on my heel and walk as briskly as possible to the nearest opening in the tent, leaving Aiden behind. The idiot in me who’s a sucker for punishment forces me to look over my shoulder at him. He’s still standing where I left him with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. God, what I wouldn’t give to smack that look off of his face. But instead, I keep walking, desperately in search of Lisette or alcohol, whichever I find first.

Luckily, she finds me first and gives me a quick once-over. She tells me in no uncertain terms that I am to go home for the night and that she’ll talk to me tomorrow. I’m not going to disagree with her for once either. So with only an hour or so left at this engagement party from hell, I decide she’s absolutely right and leave Lisette in charge.

Walking through the wall of humidity and trying my damndest to not think about Aiden, I finally reach the front of the house and hand my keys off to the valet to wait for my Land Rover to be brought around. While I wait and still not think about Aiden, which means I’m totally thinking about him, I rummage through my purse to find a ponytail holder since my long blond hair is sticking to the back of my neck.

Gathering it all in my hands, I make a messy knot on the top of my head and instantly feel cooler. The night breeze off the ocean only a couple of miles away is finally making itself useful. It would’ve been nice if it had shown up about an hour ago, but you can’t have it all. I cannot wait to get home and wash away the sweat and stink off of me. My signature scent is Christian Dior’s Miss Dior Cherie, but right now it’s more like a mixture of perfume and body odor and not at all pleasant or alluring. And oh my God, don’t even get me started on the swamp ass.

My purse is ginormous, so I can probably find more than Mary f*cking Poppins in this thing. I pull out a loose piece of paper to create a makeshift fan and then begin fanning myself as a shiny, cherry-red BMW pulls up to the valet. I snort rather unattractively at the sight, because whoever the hell is arriving to the party is almost two hours late. This I have to see.

A second valet attendant, not to be confused with the one who is currently out searching somewhere near the Sphinx for my vehicle, steps forward to open the passenger-side door. Out unfurl two very nicely shaped, tanned, long legs attached to a rather good-looking chick, if I do say so myself. Brunette, guessing about average height, on the skinny side, wearing a Marc Jacobs pleated dress that is color-blocked in black and white, showing off a lot of skin—tastefully, of course, and as only Marc Jacobs can because the man is pure genius. I was eyeing the same dress last week at Nordstrom’s. Lucky bitch.

Whatever, like you wouldn’t be thinking the same thing.

Trying not to attract any attention to myself while I stare longingly at her outfit, I scoot to my left and try to blend in with the plant life. The driver of the BMW steps out. Lo and behold, there he is, Bruce Wayne himself. Or as I know him: Alex.

Really? Now, here, of all places, when I look like shit on a shingle and I’m feeling like a complete scatterbrain thanks to Aiden?

I duck my head before he can notice me, but as luck would have it, the expedition to find my car finally ends, and it appears directly behind his. The attendant gets out of my car and starts looking for me at the same time Alex decides to walk around the hood of his car to hand his keys over to the other attendant. My sorry attempt to hide can’t last much longer when the valet guy finally spots me and whistles to get my attention.

“Dude, I can totally see you. Whistling is so not necessary,” I say quietly while clenching my teeth. Especially since everyone is now looking in my direction, Alex included.

Oh well, here goes nothing.

Craptastic fan in hand, I step out of the shadows and walk over to my car like I own the joint while keeping my eyes trained on the “Whistling Dixie” valet.

“Julia?” I hear Alex’s deep, velvety voice loud enough that I can’t even think about pretending that I don’t.

Turning my head as I unwillingly hand over a tip to the valet, I see Alex already making his way over to me in a few elegant strides. Yes, that’s right, I said elegant. The man practically glides when he walks. It’s lovely, and obviously I’ve paid too much attention to it before to be able to categorize it as such. And dear Lord, he looks delicious. He’s wearing what could only be a tailor-made black suit, but no tie, and the top button is undone on his crisp white dress shirt.

He flashes me his dimples when he steps right in front of me, crowding my personal space. “Were you really not going to say hello to me?”

“Alex! Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was you,” I say, doing my best at feigning ignorance.

“Bullshit.”

“Like I would ignore you? Please, what kind of person do you think I am?”

“The kind of person who was ignoring me,” he quickly answers.

“Did I hurt your feelings?”

His crystal-blue eyes light up in amusement, and he leans in an inch so that he’s a little closer while putting one hand over his heart. “I’m crushed.”

With him being so close, I take in the wonderful smell that is Alex: a cocktail of perfectly blended amounts of sandalwood and the beach and something else that eludes me. Whatever it is, it’s heavenly. Then it hits me—I’m sure the stink emanating from me is infiltrating his nostrils, so I take a small step backward just as I hear a woman’s annoyed voice coming from somewhere behind him.