Walk of Shame
Page 54

Georgie

THURSDAY MORNING, OBSCENELY EARLY Panting and thirsty as heck, I make my way to the bar. I could go up to the VIP section, where my crew has a table, but I want a club soda.
I’m also sick to death of having to fake a smile as though I’m having the time of my life. I’m not having a bad night, but honestly? It’s the first time I’ve been out with my friends since learning of my parents’ divorce plans and since my fight with Andrew, and I’m trying to get back to my happy place, I really am. But every smile feels plastic, every laugh hollow.
The bartender gives me attention immediately, probably courtesy of one of my more scandalous dresses, a V-neck black number that’s skintight and doesn’t provide much coverage up top or down below.
Marley told me to wear it. Called it a revenge dress.
And when I glance up and find a good-looking guy with brown hair and dark blue eyes making his way toward me, I realize what she means.
“Hey.”
I stifle a sigh. Such a great opening. “Hi there.”
“Jason. Dance?”
Seriously? I glance at the wall of the club, half expecting to find cave drawings etched into it. I would not at all be surprised if this guy’s next meal plan involved clubbing an animal and asking his female companion to pick berries.
But since I have no intention of being that female companion and, being perfectly sober, can stay true to that . . .
“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll dance.”
I let Jason lead me onto the dance floor, trying to ignore that his hands are both too big and too soft. Something I become even more aware of when he pulls me against him and . . . just sort of grinds.
I don’t even bother to sigh. What was I thinking, really?
Unfortunately, the song isn’t one I recognize, so I can’t gauge how much longer I have to endure the torture of his hands all over me.
I grit my teeth and run through my gamut of excuses, trying to find the one that seems the least rude.
Turns out I don’t need one.
Jason steps back so suddenly I nearly fall, but strong hands steady me.
Not Jason’s hands.
I freeze, because I know those hands. I know their strong confidence, know their tentative tenderness.
I take a breath and turn.
Because of those hands, I know who’s behind me, but it’s still a shock to see Andrew Mulroney here. In a club.
The strobe lights prevent me from seeing his face clearly, but he’s definitely not smiling.
“A moment, Georgiana?”
Jason steps forward. “Hey, man. I saw her first.”
Andrew cuts the bigger man with a glare. “No, man. You fucking didn’t.”
“Hey, guys—” I say uneasily.
“Shut up, Georgiana,” Andrew growls.
Then his fingers wrap around my wrist and he’s dragging me through the crowd with a masculine authority that, frankly, isn’t all that different from Jason’s caveman routine, but I like it a hell of a lot more.
The bouncer tries to stop us as we approach the side door. “If you go out, you don’t come back in.”
“Thank God,” Andrew mutters.
A moment later I’m blasted by cold air. It’s chillier than usual, even for early November, and my dress is, well, pretty much nothing.
Andrew releases my wrist and, glancing down at my dress, curses. “It looks even smaller out here,” he mutters. He shrugs out of his jacket and without preamble drapes it around me and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me and holding me captive.
“How’d you find me?” I ask, squirming to get away. He doesn’t relax his grip.
“I tried Hailey, but she didn’t answer. So I’ve been going from club to godforsaken club for fucking hours trying to find you.”
“Andrew, that’s nuts, you could have just—”
“Shut up, Georgiana Frances Watkins. Just shut up for one damn minute, because I have a couple of things to tell you.”
“Let me guess,” I say, pulling away more forcefully. “You’re here to tell me that I’m ridiculous. That I’ve been childish for not picking up your phone calls so that you can lecture me. That I’m overly emotional, that if I’d just calm down and listen to reason—”
“That if you’d just calm down and listen to reason, you’d see that I’m trying to win you back!” he interrupts with a shout.
I blink in surprise at the outburst, and the conversations around us dwindle to a murmur as people start to catch a whiff of the scene playing out in front of them.
I cross my arms and look at him. “And you’re pissed about it, huh?” I say, refusing to make this easy for him. “You’re angry because I’ve forced you to mess up your schedule, that I’m not doing as I’m supposed to, that this isn’t tidy.”
“Yes, a bit,” he growls.
I scoff to hide the hurt and take a step back.
“No. Damn it. Damn it, just wait a minute while I—”
“While you think?” I ask gently. Because as mad as I am, as convinced as I am that we don’t have a future, I do understand this man. I understand that in his way he does care; he just doesn’t know how to process anything that can’t be, well . . . processed.
“Go home, Andrew,” I whisper, stepping toward him and brushing my lips to his cheek.
“Wait, Georgie—” His fingers find my shoulders. “Give me a sec, I have a speech.”
I smile up at him, even as my heart breaks for both of us. “You don’t get it, Andrew. I don’t want the guy with the pretty, planned-out speech. I want the guy who’s not afraid to be spontaneous when he needs to be, who’s not afraid to get messy, because love is messy.”
His eyes flare, and he captures my chin with his fingers. “Is that what this is? Do you love me?”
The question sends a spark of pain shooting through me, and I take a step back without answering.
“Georgiana—”
I turn away, my vision obscured with tears as I scan the crowd, hoping to see Marley or a familiar face. Wanting to find someone who can whisk me away from the pain of this moment. Someone who will stop me from giving in to the temptation to settle for a guy who doesn’t believe in fairy tales.
The crowd is still quieter than usual, so the familiar lyrics hit my ears loud and clear, if not exactly on key.