It burns its way down my throat, but warmth blossoms in my stomach.
“You do realize you could be conversing with the enemy, right?” he says, taking back the bottle and downing a swig of his own.
“I’m sorry?”
“Paparazzi are rather notorious for crashing these events. Rub shoulders with the right sycophants, especially when everybody’s drunk, and you’re pretty much guaranteed to get a juicy scoop. A handful was just thrown out about an hour ago. God knows what they’d pay someone like me to get them a little dirt.”
Even though I may not have paid very close attention during my past visits, it was impossible not to overhear the uproar and outrage when clubhouse secrets were aired to the tabloids. You’ll find your family is particularly susceptible to such things when your father is a retired (and highly beloved) NFL star. Thankfully, the biggest “headlines” the paparazzi have ever gotten out of my dad only involved shirtless poolside shots. Not so thankfully, they seem to think that if the worst thing you’ve got on Everett Sharpe is a set of six-pack abs and board shorts, you clearly aren’t doing your job. The bloodsuckers are only that more determined to find some actual dirt.
I look from side to side, scanning the empty courtyard in mock contemplation. “If you really are working with a paparazzo, you’re doing a pretty awful job,” I stage-whisper. “I don’t think hiding from everyone with the plans of getting shit-faced will do you much good.”
“True.”
I can’t help but eye him up and down, either. “Not to mention the other little fact.”
That grin of his turns into an outright smirk. “Little?”
I tap my bare wrist, right where a black and white Tudor watch just so happens to rest on his. “I may not know a thing about high-end fashion, but I can read a brand name. And thatsucker easily costs three hundred times more than my dress. Youwereinvited here; you just don’t want to be.”
His answering grimace tells me everything.
He’s as uncomfortable as I suspected.
Everyone at the party through those doors is all too eager to spill on the details of their designer threads, and they all wear their clothes and jewelry like second skins. Michael, however, is the complete opposite. Sure, he checks all the boxes—tailored suit, new shoes, luxury accessories—but he can’t stop fidgeting. In just the past few minutes, he’s tugged on the collar of his shirt like it’s trying to strangle him, and he can’t resist fiddling with the position of his watch, as if he’s not used to wearing one…and isn’t particularly happy about having to now.
My scrutiny doesn’t go unnoticed, either.
“It was a gift from my sister,” he admits, “as was the suit. She knew I would’ve shown up in jeans and a t-shirt otherwise.”
“Considering the dress code standard, you wouldn’t have even made it in the building,” I laugh.
“And what a shame that would have been.” He says this with such absurd sweetness, eyelash batting and all, that I nearly spit out the tequila as I take a sip.
“Is it really that bad?”
He grimaces again. “It’s certainly not good.”
“Social leprosy, or just social anxiety?”
“Bit of both.” He doesn’t offer more than that, and when he pivots the conversation back to me, we find ourselves at a stalemate. Neither wants to talk about our apparent indiscretions, and the conversational shift toward our families only has us both locking up further.
Let the awkwardness ensue…
I set the tequila bottle down on the bench between us, prepared to stand, an excuse to leave already loaded on my tongue—
—when he grabs my wrist.
The hold isn’t remotely tight, but the contact still startles me as he pushes the silver bracelet further up my forearm. Michael rotates it ever so slightly to reveal the thin black calligraphy letters inked on the inside of my wrist.
Toute Passera.
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“It’s French,” I murmur, pulling free to shove the bracelet back into place. Yes, I know I’m acting weird, but I suddenly feel exposed. Hell, I’ve had the tattoo for nearly two years, and the only people who know I have it are Maggie, an ex-coworker, and the artist who put it there.
“Do you not like it?” Michael asks, clearly confused.
The font was beautifully rendered, so he knows it isn’t a technical issue.
