The Pretend Girlfriend (A Billionaire Love Story #1)(51)

And there were plenty of them around. They were dressed mostly casually: khakis and polos for the men, sundresses for the women. Gwen was sure their dresses cost more than her rent. At least. It was funny, the sheerer a piece of clothing was, the less fabric that went into making it, the more expensive it was.

She counted herself lucky for pulling out a sundress herself, and a pair of comfortable flats that were Wal-Mart knock-offs of much more expensive ones. The breeze ruffled the light fabric of the dress around her legs.

Ever since meeting Aiden, she'd been wearing dresses a lot more. She'd always been a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl before this, reserving dresses for certain events. It was nice, actually, having more reasons to put one on. No other boyfriend had given her so many excuses to do so. Dresses were pretty, and freeing. She'd never really thought about just how it felt to constantly have pant legs constantly touching your skin.

Aiden came up beside her, arriving in her peripheral vision. Her comment about money still weighed heavily on both their minds, and they hadn't really spoken except for Aiden telling her just what was going on.

"Here," he said, offering her a glass. It was lemonade, with ice cubes clinking around against the glass. It sweated in the sunlight. Gwen took a sip. Sweetened just right. And made of real lemon, too, she bet. Nothing powdered or from-concentrate for people like this.

Aiden also had a glass of lemonade. A bead of condensation dripped from the bottom to splash in an irregular circle on the floor.

"Thanks," she replied. She'd meant to turn away again, but didn't.

In the darkness of the limo, she hadn't really gotten a good look at him. And they hadn't exactly been staring at one-another after getting out.

He was attired similarly to the rest of the guys in attendance: khakis and a polo, brown shoes to match his belt. She'd seen him in casual wear once before, but this was different.

He looked good. The shirt emphasized his shoulders, the V-shape of his torso. And the cuffs of the short sleeves hugged his biceps. She wondered if he'd ever played sports at school.

"Do I have a thread?" he said, looking at his shoulders.

He was, of course, referencing their first meeting at the party in Manhattan, where the black dress she'd worn had a thread coming out of the shoulder strap. A thread he'd so kindly plucked.

Gwen set her glass down on the banister and then lightly brushed his shoulders. When she finished, she didn't take her hands away. "No," she said.

Gwen became keenly aware of the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, and then of how that action stopped when he looked down at her. The world quieted around them.

"You look good, too. Dresses suit your figure," he said.

Unconsciously, their bodies drew closer together, not quite touching. But close enough that she felt the electricity building between them, trying to draw them together.

"I dress to impress," she said, relieved. It seemed he'd moved past that little faux pas on the phone.

Then he pulled away and stood by the banister. He eyed the horses. Some big shiny black one flicked its tail and whinnied loudly as the jockey adjusted a saddle strap.

"So... You like the horses?" he said, shoving his free hand into his pocket.

Gwen picked her glass up from the banister, leaving behind a rough circle of moisture. She took another sip without really tasting it. Frustration buzzed in her chest. It was every time. Every time anything happened that felt genuine, Aiden shut it down.

That's fine, she thought, if he wants to play it this way, we can play that way. "They're okay. Very... furry? And big. Do you think they like running around with those little men on their backs?"

"It's what they were born to do," Aiden said.

"That doesn't mean they like it. Or that they should do it." Her frustration was coming out as an argumentative streak.

"If you have to do something, it doesn't matter if you like it. Besides, they get to run. Horses were born to run, whether there's something on their backs or not. The philosopher Aristotle said that a happy, good life comes from fulfilling your purpose, what you were born to do. Horses run," Aiden said.

Gwen's comeback fizzled at the back of her throat. Was Aiden trying to convince her, or himself?

"And what were you born to do?" she said.

Aiden's shoulders heaved in a sigh even a crusty old Greek philosopher would have to consider heavy with meaning. He started to speak, but someone interrupted him.

"Aiden, you dog! Is this the vision that's been gracing the tabloids? How'd you convince her to start something? I'll bet you opened your checkbook..."

Both Aiden and Gwen turned to face the newcomer. He was a young man, about Aiden's age. The two of them were of a height. In a certain light, they might have been taken for brothers. Or perhaps cousins.

Except where Aiden exuded a sort of quiet reserve, this guy was anything but. Gwen decided that "animated" was the best word to describe him. A big grin split his handsome features, and his hair was arranged just so to look as though he'd just rolled out of bed and come out this handsome.

The drink he gripped in one hand definitely wasn't lemonade. Something with vodka, if Gwen had to guess. Rich guys were above beer, apparently.

Aiden just shook his head and snorted. Gwen had been alarmed by the checkbook remark, but it didn't faze him. It was meant as a joke, apparently.