“Mullen,” she cuts me off. “Yeah, I heard.”
I chuckle softly and run a hand through my hair, unable to take my eyes off her. Ashton’s skin is smooth and the color of alabaster. She’s got a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that give her a girl-next-door look that's all too appealing to me. She's wearing a mint green, vintage-style dress with white polka dots, a heart-shaped bustline, and quarter sleeves. It hugs her feminine curves appealingly and doesn’t look like she’s wearing a bit of makeup. Ashton has a natural beauty that’s striking.
Beyond her physical beauty though, I can tell there’s something different about her. She doesn’t have the look of near desperation I’ve seen in the eyes of some of the women here. Ashton seems to hold herself above this whole event and looks like she wants to be anywhere but here, which is something I can relate to. It gives us at least one thing in common. There’s just an air about her though, that intrigues me. I can’t explain what it is—I can’t put my finger on it—but there’s something compelling about her.
“You don't want to be here, do you?" I ask.
“Not really,” she replies. “But if I didn’t agree to come, I never would have gotten my roommate off my back. So, in the grand scheme of things, it’s the lesser of two evils.”
“I can absolutely relate.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”
“Doubt what?”
“Guys like you never have trouble finding women,” she says. I give her a cocky smile and she rolls her eyes. “There is no shortage of shallow women who are attracted to power and money.”
“That’s… blunt.”
“I think it’s more likely that because of your name, you’re here as an advertising gimmick for your company,” she says. “This is like a playground for guys like you.”
“You seem to have me all figured out.”
“It’s not hard to see through the act. Billionaire playboys say and do whatever they want. They use people and throw them away when they’re done with them,” she goes on. “I’ve read the articles about you. You’re no different.”
“Wow. You are a very judgmental girl, aren’t you?”
She shrugs. "I just call things as I see them.”
The bell chimes and Ashton gives me a half-hearted little smile.
“Time’s up,” she says. “It’s been fun.”
I get to my feet and laugh softly. She’s abrasive, judgmental, and even a little bit rude. She's prickly and my guess, is she lashes out with those slings and arrows to keep people at an arm’s distance from her. And I think she does it because she’s afraid of getting close to anybody. At least, that’s what my armchair psychology degree tells me anyway.
She’s prickly as hell and has a personality that can best be described as caustic, but there’s something about her I like. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find her to be incredibly sexy. Just looking at her in that little dress makes my cock twitch—and makes me want to see what she’s got under it. But more than anything, it’s that spitfire of a personality that has me intrigued.
“I’ll talk to you again soon,” I tell her.
She gives me a saccharine-sweet smile. "Have a nice night.”
As I walk away though, I feel like I’m definitely going to talk to her again soon. She just doesn’t know it yet. I’ve never been the sort of man who waits and hopes that good fortune will come to me. No, when I want something, I make my own luck.
4
“What about him?”
I turn and see Emma staring back at me with a big, expectant smile on her face. She’s at the table beside me and I’ve been listening to her bantering with her “dates” all night. She’s just so smooth and natural with men. She always has something clever and funny to say, and there’s never a lag in the conversation. It’s something I'm not and probably will never be.
I just get nervous and when I’m nervous, I get prickly and abrasive. I go on the defensive. But that usually leads me to going on the attack. Which of course, leads me to think I'm the world's biggest bitch. And I can't blame them for it. It's not like I mean to be this way though. I don’t set out with the intention of being so rude and obnoxious when a man tries to talk to me. It just kind of… happens.
“Well?” Emma presses in a harsh whisper.
“Well, what?”
“You should write his number down.”
“What? No.”
