Page 71 of Sugar
I took his outstretched hand and carefully stood, offering an awkward smile to the other people at the table. He again kept hold of me as he steered us across the room.
A bombshell of a woman watched Easton’s approach and inched down the bar toward where we were headed. She fluffed her hair, pushed her shoulders back, and perfected a pose that was both open and casual.
Her effort was for nothing because he didn’t so much glance at her. Disappointment marred her face when she finally spotted our clasped hands.
She wasn’t the only one surreptitiously sneaking peeks our way.
Or outright staring.
Easton didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care—that we were clearly the topic of whispered conversation. “You okay?”
No. I feel like a fish in a tank.
I didn’t share that and simply nodded.
“Look at me.” When I did as he ordered, his gaze was intense on me. Far more intense than the moment called for. I didn’t understand why, and he didn’t shed any light on it. “They’ll get distracted by something else shiny soon.”
So he’s aware of the staring, he just doesn’t give a shit.
Must be nice.
“Why is everyone so interested?” I asked.
“LA is big, but circles are small. Most of the people attending a function like this are also invited to similar functions. That means I see the same people often. And I rarely attend with a date.”
“That would do it,” I said. What I actually wanted to do was exclaim that it was insane to me that he was ever without a woman or ten on his arm.
The bartender approached. Unlike at Gilded, he looked at me first, but Easton still ordered—even remembering the small garnish detail. “Bourbon and a Dirty Shirley with an orange slice.”
“Want the cherries, too?” the other man asked as he turned to start making the drinks.
I opened my mouth to answer, but Easton hooked a bent finger under my chin and tilted my head up. He met my questioning gaze with one of his own.
“Cherries?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Yes,” he answered for me.
What the hell was that about?
I wanted to ask, but I knew it wasn’t the time or place.
Even though my impulsivity usually would’ve made me blurt the question, any words or thoughts disappeared in a fiery explosion that shorted out my brain when his bent knuckle trailed down totouch the gold at my neck. Like that wasn’t a surprisingly tender thing to do, he took his attention and his touch away when the bartender returned with our drinks.
After dropping a folded bill into the oversized glass chalice meant for tips, Easton grabbed both drinks. He paused with his elbow out, and it took me a second to realize he wanted me to loop my arm through his again. I did, and we started back to the table.
Since no one was lingering close enough to hear more than a word or two of my uninformed question, I asked, “Why were you honored?”
“I do pro bono work for them,” he said before glancing down to meet my gaze. “It offsets the bilking.”
I’m never gonna live that insinuation down.
A polite apology hovered on the tip of my tongue, but it was unnecessary. “So your soul isn’t totally damned.”
There was a flash of something in his dark eyes that made my stomach flutter in a not entirely unpleasant way. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Thankfully for my weak knees, we were back at the table. My seat was still positioned close to his, but it wasn’t enough. Once we were both sitting, he tugged it closer still so that my side and thigh were nearly touching his.
