Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Is it working?” I say, mostly to give my mouth something to do.
He smiles, that easy, melting smile. “If I’m being honest, no.”
I laugh.
“Well, that’s Stella,” I say in a rueful tone. “You can’t control her, so don’t blame yourself.”
He chuckles and offers his hand. “I won’t. I’m Evan Fine, by the way. Yes, rhymes with wine.”
The handshake is warm, his grip dry and direct. His palm is callused, a little rough in a way that surprises me. “Kayleigh McEnroe,” I say, and instantly regret how stiff my own voice sounds. “No relation to the tennis player.”
He laughs. “That’s a relief. My serve is trash.” He cocks his head, leans in just enough that I catch a whiff of oceanic aftershave, and says, “Let me guess. You’re here for a friend? Or you’re a plant from the PR committee to make sure no one gets too drunk before the auction?”
“Definitely the last one,” I say with a smile, because it’s the easier lie.
He glances at my empty glass. “But you’re drinking.”
“Trying to pace myself.” Also a lie, but he seems to like it.
“I’ll get you something. What do you like?” He starts to stand before I can protest.
“Champagne,” I blurt, and he’s already in motion, waving to the bartender. Within seconds, two flutes appear on the bar, and Evan hands one to me. “It’s not Dom, but it’s the closest they have.”
I take a sip. He watches me drink.
For a few moments, we do the polite, high-octane volley that passes for conversation here: What do you do? Are you bidding tonight, or just here for the spectacle? Who here are you with? It’s easy, and I’m good at it, but I notice that with every new question, his body leans a little closer, his blue eyes a bit more intense, the shape of his jawline doing this thing that is both threatening and comforting. He asks about my job. I tell him about the plant store. He wants to know if I ever do corporate clients because his real estate brokerage is decorated in the worst way possible. I laugh and say maybe, and he leans in even more, which is actually more disconcerting than if he’d made a joke about it.
It’s very, very clear that Evan is interested in me. He has the vibe of a guy who expects the night to end in someone’s apartment, likely his, kissing and maybe more. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he already knows how to solve.
And if I were any other woman, I’d probably go for it. Evan’s gorgeous, after all, in an aristocratic, Nordic way. But my mind isn’t here.
My mind is across the room, where Trevor stands with a glass of scotch in his hand, a perfect mannequin beside him—a woman in a backless red dress, hair up, skin like a burnished coin. She has her hand on his lapel, and she’s laughing, leaning in so close her lips nearly brush his ear.
Meanwhile, Evan’s droning on about some disastrous bachelor auction in Edina that he had to participate in last year, but my laughter is all fake, and my eyes keep flicking past him to the far wall, to Trevor, to the tableau of red dress and white teeth and the way my stepbrother is acting like he doesn’t even know I exist.
I’m barely listening.
When I do look at Evan, I catch him studying me. It’s not predatory—more like curious, as if he knows there’s another story going on and he wants to figure out what it is.
“You seem distracted,” he says, not unkindly.
“Sorry,” I say with an apologetic smile. “Big day at work. Long week.”
He nods. “I get that. Sometimes these things can feel like another job. But you pull it off.”
“Pull what off?”
He shrugs, a little abashed. “Looking like you belong. Most people fake it, but you make it look real. Like you’re enjoying yourself, even.”
I almost laugh. “That’s funny,” I say, “because I don’t think I belong here at all.”
“That’s how you know you do.” Evan’s smile is slower this time, almost lazy. “The imposters never notice.”
For a second, I think about telling him. About last week. About the jail and the guard and the fact that my stepbrother has seen every inch of my body, and how it’s all I can think about even when another gorgeous man is standing right next to me.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let the silence stretch. I let the music and the glasses and the lights fill the space between us.
He reaches over, his fingers just brushing my wrist. “Listen. I’m up tonight—part of the auction.” He gives a self-deprecating smirk, but it’s clear he enjoys it. “If you want to bid, I’ll buy you drinks for the rest of the year. I shudder to think what’ll happen if I’m won by any of the ladies with fake lashes. I’m scared of spiders, you know, in case one of those lashes detaches.”