Page 74 of Cruel Offer
“You heard the woman. Drinks before dinner. Hurry up and get ready. Can’t be late the first time I meet the notorious Cleo.”
Putting the dough in the refrigerator for later, I leave Nate to clean up my mess and run upstairs to take a shower. An hour later, Nate and I are ready and I’m actually looking forward to the date. This is the first time we’ve been out together with anybody I know, and it feels like we’re an official couple.
Nate looks so good in his suit. I know every woman in the restaurant is going to be looking at him tonight. But he’s mine. All mine. I take a lot of pleasure in that fact, even if it’s just for show.
My theory proves to be true the literal moment we step into the lounge and every female head turns his way. I hold his hand a little tighter, earning a glance from him. Normally he’s the one acting possessive over me, not the other way around. I guess I know how it feels now, to want to make sure everyone in the room knows he’s with me.
Cleo is ecstatic when she sees us and excitedly waves us over and introduces us to her flavor of the week, Jackson. He’s an artsy type, dressed sleekly in all black, which suits him. We settle into a semi-circular leather booth in the lounge just as a stunning woman in a red sequin dress begins to sing on the stage. The Sahara has an old time feel,effortlessly taking you back to a 1920s speakeasy where lounge singers offered entertainment while you sipped whiskey and cocktails out of teacups.
It's funny, but whenever I’m out with Nate, no one bothers to ask if I’m of legal age. I’m not, obviously, but no one ever questions it. So when I order a Manhattan, I get it. Cleo, on the other hand, is forced to use her fake ID, although the waiter barely even glances at it.
Nate and Jackson hit it off immediately, talking like old friends. I’m impressed by how easily Nate flows into conversation with someone he doesn’t know, not to mention someone who describes themselves as a ‘mixed media artist.’ I never realized Nate was so personable. Usually when we go out, he only has eyes for me, but seeing him slip into a more relaxed, social persona is a treat.
“He seems nice,” Cleo whispers in my ear as she sips her martini. “So handsome. My God, Piper, no wonder you’ve been hiding him. He’s the total package.”
I smile. I know, trust me. I know.
“I don’t even have to guess how he is in bed,” she goes on. “That’s a no-brainer.”
My cheeks heat. “Cleo!”
“I bet he likes to pull your hair, doesn’t he? Gives you a good slap on the ass once or twice while he’s doing it, too. Come on, you can tell me.”
“Stop,” I hiss, unable to keep the grin off my face.
She sighs. “Jackson’s not very skilled in that department. For an artist, I figured he’d have more experience, but if it’s not missionary, he’s not interested.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation where the men could easily overhear if they weren’t so engagedin talking about their favorite galleries in Chelsea and Jackson’s last installation, complete with a sculpture made of stacked vintage electronics all running at the same time.
“Maybe it’ll get better,” I tell Cleo. “Maybe he just needs to learn what you like.”
“If not, can we trade?”
My mouth falls open and I slap her arm playfully. “No way, you little hussy!”
“I’m joking!”
We move to our table inside the restaurant and the evening continues with good food and great conversation. Nate seems to be enjoying himself. He really is different tonight, easier going and less formal than he normally is when we go out. Maybe he doesn’t feel like he has to put up a façade since he’s out of his element and dining somewhere the media isn’t likely to be. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but I like it.
After dinner, we return to the lounge. Nate directs us to a table with luxurious velvet bench seats on opposite sides. He sits beside me and pulls me close as he slips his arm around my shoulders and presses his thigh against mine. Glancing at him, our eyes catch. A wave of heat dances between us. He trails his fingers lightly along my bare shoulder and toys with a strand of my hair.
I put a hand on his leg and squeeze. Something sparks between us that makes my breath hitch and my pulse rev.
More drinks are served along with a dessert selection that includes light, flaky baklava; milk toffee; and basbousa, a semolina cake soaked in sugar syrup. And then a server stops by with a board of some kind in his hands. Jacksonclaps his hands eagerly and Nate scoots forward in the seat, his face lighting up with anticipation.
“Baccarat, ladies and gentlemen?” the server asks.
The men agree. I have no idea what’s happening.
Cleo leans in and whispers in my ear. “They do these little portable casino games in the lounge on Friday nights. The host brings them right to your table and you can play all night, or until you run out of money.”
“I don’t know how to play.”
“Me neither, but it’s fun to watch.”
Our dates dive into the game like excited children and though Nate is more reserved than his counterpart, he can’t hold back his excitement. They win a few hands. They lose a few. And by the end of the evening, Cleo and I have turned into bona fide casino night cheerleaders. Nate has accumulated an impressive little pile of chips.
He draws his final hand. And wins.
