Page 80 of Wicked Design
She wouldn’t and couldn’t if she expected to retain her sanity or heal her heart.
“Excuse me.” A fortyish woman waved at Clover. “Can you tell me where table seven hundred is?”
Van Gogh swung his arm to the left. “That way.”
He’d pointed her in the wrong direction.
Clover didn’t correct him.
The woman smiled. “Thanks.”
“You bet.” He turned to Clover. “I know you’re mad…”
Wrong. She trembled from hurt he didn’t see. If he tried to mansplain anything to her, she’d totally lose it. “You don’t know anything about me. How could you when you’ve been busy being popular, successful, or whatever the hell it is?”
“I wasn’t any of those things. I was wrong.”
Damn right on him being wrong, but his admission wasn’t good enough. Tears stung her eyes. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
He gestured helplessly. “Get what?”
“Do you have any idea how badly you treated me at that party?”
Confusion swept his features. “You mean the one weeks ago?”
“The only one I went to with you. Good God, am I so unimportant that you don’t remember you partied alone at the others? Or did you go with someone else and you forgot they weren’t me?”
“That’s not fair. I haven’t been with anyone else. I’ve been exclusive.”
“You’ve been an insensitive jerk.” She flapped her hand to avoid crying. “When that one girl said she wanted you to meet her brother, you left with her. Just. Like. That. Didn’t say squat to me. No, ‘hey, Clover, let’s see what this is about.’ Or ‘Babe, do you want to do that or would you prefer something else?’ You wiggled your eyebrows like you were really pleased at her invitation, inclined your head for me to follow as if I were a damn pet, then freaking left me there alone like it was no big deal.”
His face reddened. “I did that?”
“Are you kidding? Do you think I’m making this up?”
“Of course not. You should have said something.”
She got in his face. “I’m saying it now, even though I shouldn’t have to tell a man how to behave like a gentleman or at least have some manners with the woman who supposedly meant something to him.”
“You did. You do. I was beyond wrong. I’m sorry.”
Not freaking good enough for what he put her through, whether he realized it or not. “I should have left. I wanted to, but I followed the program because I was worried about you. I thought maybe the booze and sex in the limo, combined with the crowd, had fried your brain, and you were having a mental breakdown or something. Wow, was I mistaken. When you got to the hot tub and stripped—”
“Hey, lady, you and your friend need to get a room.” The guy who’d bumped into her earlier shot her a nasty frown.
She gave him the finger.
He glared. “This is a family event. I’m getting you thrown out.”
“I wouldn’t advise that.” Van Gogh crowded the shorter, narrower man. “You do anything to her and you’ll answer to me.”
“Take it easy, buddy.” He put up his hands and smiled. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then get lost.”
He left.
Talk about mucho macho man.
