Page 25 of Mating Theory
With Dom Perignon instead of fruit punch.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the bride and groom?”
A slow shake of her head. “You and me. Let’s dance, Mayfair.”
Her hand is warm and real. Enough to bring me back to the world. A step and a twirl. And a smile quirks my lips. “Thank you.”
Her brown eyes look bottomless. “I have some experience with people staring at me.”
Guilt fills me. “Hell.”
“I’m used to it.”
“I want to kick anyone’s ass who saw you there.”
She gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Everyone goes window shopping.”
My hands tighten. The thought of her on the streets will never be palatable to me. Wet. Cold. Jesus. “Don’t go back.”
“Should we move in together?” Her tone is mocking. “I’m not sure we know each other well enough for that. What if I don’t like the way you load the dishwasher? What if you have morning breath?”
“I wash dishes by hand. And I definitely get morning breath.”
“This is how Ky feels.”
“What?”
“With Mr. Monopoly. He convinces Ky to stay for days at a time. It’s harder for him to come back every time, the longer he’s away. He gets attached.”
I’m getting attached. “Don’t go back. Ever.”
She laughs suddenly. “Is this like men who say I love you after sex? You’re at a wedding, and now you want to get married. Such a romantic.”
It isn’t a compliment. I just look at her, because I’m not romantic. This isn’t a marriage proposal, and she knows that. I want her for one thing. I can’t pretend to be a good man, but I’m safer than the assholes driving through the west side.
“Everyone will make fun of you.”
“No one will know.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to laugh at me?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have to get my revenge somehow.” I lean down to brush my lips across her cheek. And then lower, across the shadow of her neck. Butter soft. Sweet. “I won’t have any mercy on you, Ashleigh. But you don’t want mercy, do you?”
Chapter Thirteen
Ashleigh
Three dances later we end up tucked into the corner of the ballroom, claiming an entire ten-seat table to ourselves while everyone mills around the center, finally deigning to dance. Two gold-plated appetizer plates are piled high with asparagus and prosciutto and crab puffs. We’re seated right outside the kitchen, and we’ve been using the waiters who leave as our personal buffet.
A meatball and pale liquid look rather plain in an elaborate soup spoon. I tilt my head back and pour it into my mouth. Spices and savory flavor explode on my tongue. There’s cumin and pepper—and God, that broth. Definitely fresh ginger.
Immediately I eye the soup spoon that Sutton snagged, and he laughs, handing it over to me. I eat it ravenously, as if I haven’t eaten in days, instead of just a few hours. It seems incomprehensible that I lived on two-day-old hot dogs for so long.
Guilt makes my cheeks heat. “I feel bad about all this food. Shouldn’t we save some for the other people? Surely they didn’t expect us to eat this much.”
He nods his head toward the door, where a woman stands holding a miniature, glossy Yorkie. As I watch she feeds him one of the duck lollipops. And another. Another. “Don’t be. At least we’re people. I don’t even think Mopsie was invited.”
That makes me giggle. “Maybe I should bring something back for Sugar.”
A raised eyebrow. “Sugar?”
“My cat. Well, she’s not mine. She lives on the street. Like me.”
Another waiter glides through the swinging doors, and Sutton lifts a hand in gentle but inescapable command. “What do you have, good man?”
“Cast iron-seared Wagyu beef with truffle miso,” the server says, lowering the silver tray.
“Ah, contraband. Excellent. We’ll take six.”
The server must be well trained because he doesn’t try to protest that we’re taking half his platter. Instead he produces a cocktail napkin as we transfer the pieces to my small mountain.
Only when he’s gone do I pop a piece into my mouth. The beef is still hot. It falls apart on my tongue, juicy and subtly spiced. My eyes fall closed. A low moan surrounds me, and I realize that it’s mine. God. “It’s so good,” I say, my mouth still full. I swallow and sigh. “Forget an open bar. This is what weddings should have. Food that feels like a religious experience.”
Sutton gives me an arrested expression, those blue eyes turning dark.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing too slow that a reference to the wedding would make him sad.
“No, I—” He shakes his head, as if breaking a trance. “The way you look when you ate that is the same as you look when you come. Have another one. Have three.”
My cheeks heat. I’m suddenly self-conscious. “What? No?”
He lifts a piece to my mouth, insistent. “Another one.”
It already smells like heaven. It feels warm against my lips. I open, and he presses the piece inside, the rough tip of his finger brushing against my tongue. I can’t help the loud moan.
