Once I throw back a quick one, I enter the grand ballroom and scope out the subtle signs of wealth and luxury. There are no tapestries, no grand, ornate, golden gilded mirrors, or fringed pieces of furniture that scream money. Instead S’belle did a great job of giving the couple what they wanted. Looking around I definitely feel like I’m in Nantucket—which was their wish. The elegant simplicity inherent in the wooden floors beneath the simple glass-cut chandelier at the center of the room only helps bring the blues and whites to life. Circular tables with toile tablecloths surround the dance floor with hydrangeas filling their centers in clear glass vases. Small candles are floating in water to illuminate the elegance of the fine table settings. And wicker chargers set the place setting for every guest. It’s very Ralph Lauren. Very Nantucket.
I spot the bride and groom immediately. Sloan lifts one hand in a vague gesture of hello. As I approach, her gaze meets mine and I try to ignore the familiarity in her greeting.
“Miss Bennett, how nice to see you again.” I take her hand and kiss it.
She manages to play along and seems just fine with me having paved the way to a drama-free night. “Mr. Covington, I am so glad you could make it. This is my fiancé, well, my husband now, Tike Rodale.”
I extend my hand and we exchange greetings. After a five-minute conversation with the groom I can see what the problem is—he’s definitely not into women. In fact, I’m pretty sure he wanted to make a pass at me. I retreat at the earliest opportunity and grab a glass of champagne from a waitress walking by. But Tike makes sure the circle containing the three of us stays tight. I continue to ask the questions I need answers to in order to write the column but he’s dragging out his answers and Sloan looks bored as shit.
Just as he finishes telling me how he proposed to his lucky lady, I hear the sound of throat clearing from behind me. I don’t even have to twist my head or look over my shoulder to know who it is. In an authoritative tone, she says, “Sloan, Tike, the photographer wants some photos of the two of you near the champagne fountain, if you don’t mind.” Tike pats me on the back before excusing himself. As if he forgot his bride, he doubles back to take Sloan’s hand in order to escort her to yet another picture perfect moment to memorialize the day.
S’belle’s eyes cut to mine and they seem a little softer than they did earlier today, and so does she. She’s changed and looks f**king amazing. Her low-cut green blouse highlights her eyes. Her short black skirt and matching jacket look professional, but sexy as hell. She’s holding a clipboard in one hand with a pencil tucked behind her ear and I have visions of her standing in front of me naked with those props. I quickly try to push them aside.
I can’t help but smirk at the spitfire standing in front of me. “Well, hello again.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here tonight when we were together earlier?”
“You never gave me the chance.”
She blows a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I’m really busy right now. I have a million things to do. I appreciate what you did for me but I have to get back to work.”
I take a step closer. “I promise to stay out of your way if you promise to catch up with me later.”
A small sound escapes her throat and I try to determine if it’s exasperation or attraction. When her breathing hitches I opt for the latter and try to keep my own attraction at bay.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I ask, pushing the loose tendril of hair from her face.
Her eyes close when my skin makes contact with hers.
“You seem flustered.” I breathe against her neck, as my fingers trace a path from her ear to her jaw. I’m hoping in some way she’ll give me the green light to carry on with our flirtation.
“No,” she says, stepping back, clearly affected by our closeness.
When I stifle my chuckle with one hand in front of my mouth, she drops her eyes then turns away and sashays off, her hair bouncing as she goes. I swear if I didn’t know any better I might think she wants me just as much as I want her. My eyes devour the sight of her red waves against her back and her bare skin below her skirt hem to her high heels clicking against the glossy tile floor. When they land on the ground, another thought comes to mind: Her wearing just those heels and prancing in front of me while we are alone.
I try to shake it off and grab another glass of champagne for distraction, but I still can’t stop following her every move. She’s talking to some brute of a guy in a gray pinstriped suit. He pulls the pencil from her ear and I notice his thumb graze her cheek as he does. She pulls away. He points to her clipboard with the eraser and seems annoyed as he taps it. Every time she steps back, he takes a step forward. If I thought the faces she made at me were disgust, the expression she offers him is one of repulsion. I keep my eye on them, just to make sure whoever that ass**le is stays in check.
“Ben, there you are.” It’s Tike with a hand on my shoulder, gripping a little too tight.
I turn around to face him. “Just the man I needed to see. We need to finish this up so I can leave you and your beautiful wife alone.”
He waves a hand. “Oh, no need to rush. We have time to talk. Come with me, let’s grab a drink.”
As we walk to the bar I have a f**ked-up thought—what if he wants . . . Fuck, if the word “ménage” leaves his lips, I’m so f**king gone. We spend fifteen minutes talking about bullshit and the whole time I’m waiting for him to say something out of line, but thank you, Jesus, he doesn’t.
I spot the bride and groom immediately. Sloan lifts one hand in a vague gesture of hello. As I approach, her gaze meets mine and I try to ignore the familiarity in her greeting.
“Miss Bennett, how nice to see you again.” I take her hand and kiss it.
She manages to play along and seems just fine with me having paved the way to a drama-free night. “Mr. Covington, I am so glad you could make it. This is my fiancé, well, my husband now, Tike Rodale.”
I extend my hand and we exchange greetings. After a five-minute conversation with the groom I can see what the problem is—he’s definitely not into women. In fact, I’m pretty sure he wanted to make a pass at me. I retreat at the earliest opportunity and grab a glass of champagne from a waitress walking by. But Tike makes sure the circle containing the three of us stays tight. I continue to ask the questions I need answers to in order to write the column but he’s dragging out his answers and Sloan looks bored as shit.
Just as he finishes telling me how he proposed to his lucky lady, I hear the sound of throat clearing from behind me. I don’t even have to twist my head or look over my shoulder to know who it is. In an authoritative tone, she says, “Sloan, Tike, the photographer wants some photos of the two of you near the champagne fountain, if you don’t mind.” Tike pats me on the back before excusing himself. As if he forgot his bride, he doubles back to take Sloan’s hand in order to escort her to yet another picture perfect moment to memorialize the day.
S’belle’s eyes cut to mine and they seem a little softer than they did earlier today, and so does she. She’s changed and looks f**king amazing. Her low-cut green blouse highlights her eyes. Her short black skirt and matching jacket look professional, but sexy as hell. She’s holding a clipboard in one hand with a pencil tucked behind her ear and I have visions of her standing in front of me naked with those props. I quickly try to push them aside.
I can’t help but smirk at the spitfire standing in front of me. “Well, hello again.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here tonight when we were together earlier?”
“You never gave me the chance.”
She blows a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I’m really busy right now. I have a million things to do. I appreciate what you did for me but I have to get back to work.”
I take a step closer. “I promise to stay out of your way if you promise to catch up with me later.”
A small sound escapes her throat and I try to determine if it’s exasperation or attraction. When her breathing hitches I opt for the latter and try to keep my own attraction at bay.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I ask, pushing the loose tendril of hair from her face.
Her eyes close when my skin makes contact with hers.
“You seem flustered.” I breathe against her neck, as my fingers trace a path from her ear to her jaw. I’m hoping in some way she’ll give me the green light to carry on with our flirtation.
“No,” she says, stepping back, clearly affected by our closeness.
When I stifle my chuckle with one hand in front of my mouth, she drops her eyes then turns away and sashays off, her hair bouncing as she goes. I swear if I didn’t know any better I might think she wants me just as much as I want her. My eyes devour the sight of her red waves against her back and her bare skin below her skirt hem to her high heels clicking against the glossy tile floor. When they land on the ground, another thought comes to mind: Her wearing just those heels and prancing in front of me while we are alone.
I try to shake it off and grab another glass of champagne for distraction, but I still can’t stop following her every move. She’s talking to some brute of a guy in a gray pinstriped suit. He pulls the pencil from her ear and I notice his thumb graze her cheek as he does. She pulls away. He points to her clipboard with the eraser and seems annoyed as he taps it. Every time she steps back, he takes a step forward. If I thought the faces she made at me were disgust, the expression she offers him is one of repulsion. I keep my eye on them, just to make sure whoever that ass**le is stays in check.
“Ben, there you are.” It’s Tike with a hand on my shoulder, gripping a little too tight.
I turn around to face him. “Just the man I needed to see. We need to finish this up so I can leave you and your beautiful wife alone.”
He waves a hand. “Oh, no need to rush. We have time to talk. Come with me, let’s grab a drink.”
As we walk to the bar I have a f**ked-up thought—what if he wants . . . Fuck, if the word “ménage” leaves his lips, I’m so f**king gone. We spend fifteen minutes talking about bullshit and the whole time I’m waiting for him to say something out of line, but thank you, Jesus, he doesn’t.
