Page 10 of Risk
Our both being in the same place tonight was purely a coincidence, but I had been sitting at the bar earlier, waiting for a table to open up because I hadn’t made reservations. Then Leah walked into the restaurant, and it was like the entire establishment held its breath in awe of her.
Her little black dress hugged her body that had, earlier this morning, been concealed in her oversized T-shirt. Her tits swelled out of the top, the stilettos that I’m dying to feel dig into my back and ass defined her leg muscles, and then she sat down like a motherfucking queen and captivated her audience with some kind of animated story.
Leah’s mouth moved a mile a minute, her hands flying around as she talked, her thighs showing so much decadent skin when she crossed and uncrossed her legs that it should have been criminal. I spilled my fucking bourbon all over my tie when I took the first sip because I couldn’t get my brain to function properly with her in my orbit.
I wasn’t the only one looking, either.
The bartender and two waiters—including the one who served her table for the night—drooled over her. I loved it. I enjoy when someone admires something I have.
Except I don’t have Leah.
And though my mind raced with fantasies about how to make her mine, my ears strained to hear even one sentence of her story, seeing how enraptured her friends were as they laughed hysterically. But I was too far away to catch any of it. Even her server couldn’t drag his sorry ass away from her tale.
This woman can captivate her audience with expert skill.
I like that. A lot.
Now I’ve likely blown my chance with her before I even got out the gate. She rejected me so fast I’ll likely never recover. Or maybe not. I mean, I did make her laugh. And I saw her smiling as she looked back at me in her rearview mirror. Maybe she wants to be chased? Shit, maybe she’ll go home and rethink her answer. She knows where I live, so the ball is in her court.
“Your car, Sir.”
I stare down at a scrawny valet attendant holding the key to my Maserati. “On second thought. I’m not finished here.” Handing him a hundred-dollar bill, I clap his arm. “Keep it close. I’m heading back in for a bourbon.”
Hopefully, another drink will help take the edge off my growing tension. I’m not ready to go back to my empty, boring condo, and I sure as shit don’t feel like driving around the city looking for something to do.
My cell vibrates in my pocket as I walk through the door and head to the bar. I can only imagine who this might be or what they want from me. What I wouldn’t give to chuck my phone in a trash can and never answer it again, but that’s not how rich people maintain being rich.
One glance at the screen has me groaning before I answer. “What is it, Grace?”
“Mom wants to know if you’re still buying a table for the gala.”
“I always buy a table.” This is a manipulation tactic. I just can’t tell if it’s Grace’s doing or my mother’s. “I’m sure my secretary sent the check already, correct?”
“Oh yeah, yeah. But Mom wants you to fill the table this time. And show up yourself.”
I drop onto a bar stool and flick my finger to catch the bartender’s attention. “I’m busy that night.” I don’t even know when the damn thing is.
“Don’t be an asshole, Mase. She’s still mad about you-know-what as it is.”
“Good. That makes both of us.”
“Mason.” Grace sighs heavily, as if I’m the problem here. “Come on. This is an easy way to get back onto their good side.”
Her words make my chest tighten. Grace will bend over backwards for our parents, and so will my brother. But I’m the black sheep of the family because apparently wanting things and getting them on my own is disrespectful and rebellious to the family name.
“For me?” She asks in a sweeter tone.
Pushing back on my family is instinct, but I always cave for Grace. “Fine. I’ll come. When is it?”
“At the end of the month.”
I hang up before saying something I’ll regret. My mother is such a piece of work. If she thinks I’ve forgotten our little argument where she called me a disgrace and biggest disappointment in her life, and is now trying to use Grace to get me to step one foot back into her web…
It’s worked.
“Fuck my life.” Burying my face in my hands won’t hide my shame, but it helps keep my temper under control. I hate that I knowingly let myself just get played.
“What can I get for you?”