Page 81 of Cruel Offer
My fingers tremble when I put the necklace on. It’s beautiful, a perfect complement to my black dress. Some of the tension inside me lightens. Is this some kind of an apology?
Silly. I’m not going to hope that’s the case. Nate has been ambivalent towards me since we slept together. Why would anything change now? And would he really try to win me over with jewelry? I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not the type of girl who can be wooed by pricy gifts. Surely he realizes that by now.
He already has his trench coat on when I meet him in the brownstone’s entryway. His eyes rake over me, one corner of his mouth twitching upward when he spies the necklace. I touch it.
“Thank you for this.”
His eyes rise to mine, turning stormy in a way that I can’t read. “You’re welcome.”
Nate holds out my coat for me. He takes his time slipping itover my shoulders, then reaches around my waist to bring the sides together before he retreats. I want to ask why he gave me the necklace and why he hasn’t asked me back into his bed. Even if I resist him, even if I say no, I want him to want me there.
More than anything, I want to ask him why he doesn’t want me.
But I don’t say a word.
The venue is packed when we arrive. Nate helps me from the car before the valet takes it and places my hand in the crook of his arm. A blast of cold wind ruffles my hair and chills my earlobes. He pulls me closer, then ushers me inside when the doorman opens the gold-trimmed glass doors.
After we drop off our things at the coat check, Nate leads me into the ballroom and hands me a flute of champagne off a passing tray, and just like that, we’re plastering on smiles and moving effortlessly through the crowd so he can schmooze and I can look pretty. Maybe it’s the holiday spirit, but I’ve noticed that people in Nate’s social circles have begun to warm up to me. Gone are the questions about my father’s scandal, the platitudes about how unfortunate my situation could have been if I hadn’t met Nate Windemere. Yes, Nate to the rescue. I’m sure he loves that people think that.
If only they knew.
Instead, people make normal small talk about the weather, current events, who had the latest garden party, or whose child got into Yale or Stanford. Someone’s wife offers me a goldendoodle puppy from her dog’s litter, insisting that everyone who’s anyone has a doodle. They’rethe latest fashion accessory, I think, sort of like carrying a tiny dog around in a leather purse.
Nate makes the mistake of saying he’s allergic to dogs, and the woman dives into a diatribe of the doodle’s hypoallergenic coats and how Nate and I simply must come and pick out a puppy. He looks at me as if for help getting out of it.
I arch a brow questioningly because this seems to go beyond pretending.
“Actually, our maid is terrified of dogs,” I interject. “And you know how hard it is to find good help.”
The woman stops talking and makes a disappointed sound. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Nate winks at me, then turns away to talk to someone else. My heart lodges in my throat. Why did he wink? What does that mean?
The night passes as quickly as my flutes of champagne, and before I know it, the countdown to the new year has begun. Nate is nowhere to be found, so I join in the counting by myself, crushed in a crowd of people I don’t know.
“Eleven…ten…nine…eight!”
“Happy New Year.”
The deep voice behind me cuts right to my heart. Nate grips my waist and turns me around to face him. I blink, sure the alcohol is making me hallucinate. Sliding my hands over his biceps, I dig my fingers into the firm muscle beneath his jacket. So warm, so hard.
He pulls me against him and I lift my chin, angling my mouth closer to his. Our lips meet as the crowd shouts and cheers to welcome the new year. He kisses me so deeply,his hands pressed against my lower back, holding me tight. A moan escapes me as I sink into him, excitement and hope fluttering low in my belly.
Nate suddenly pulls away. Dazed, I watch as he runs a thumb over his lower lip as if to erase my taste. And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd as I kick myself for hoping, even for a second, that things could be different.
34
NATE
"I can't believewe're doing this on Valentine's Day," Sebastian gripes, checking his phone for the tenth time since he walked into the office.
Theo brushes past him and makes a beeline toward the espresso maker in the corner. "Whyarewe doing this on Valentine's Day? There are plenty of open slots on the schedule next month. Why today?”
The espresso maker hisses as it starts up and then makes a slow dribbling sound as the conference room fills with the rich sent of strong Cuban coffee. It doesn't get past me that Theo went for coffee and not alcohol. He's making two cups. One is most likely for me. Maybe he suspects that I'm going to drink myself into oblivion once this auction is over.
"There's too much complaining going on considering we’re about to make some money," I growl, sidestepping their questions.
Sebastian arches a brow. "Are we? Are we sure Piper-Lily Barclay is going to bring in any revenue at all?"
