Page 7 of Remy

The walking wet dream takes in my hair with open reverence. “The room’s dark. I’m sure he won’t see.”

I’m not as optimistic. I feel like I’m a bright beacon waiting to draw my dad’s attention.

“Here, let me help.” He pauses a few feet in front of the booth and hands me his tumbler.

I stiffen, juggling both drinks and my cell. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing untoward.” He reaches for my hair, then pauses. “Am I likely to get my hands broken for touching you?”

I balk. “No, why?”

“Because if you were mine I’d do far worse to any man who dared to do far less.”

All my nerves dance as he undoes the elastic holding my braid, our gazes entranced as his fingers gently loosen my hair.

My sanity blows me a kiss of farewell and flees the building, leaving attraction to grasp the controls of this high-speed train derailment.

I hold my breath, my tingles turning into tremors when his touch reaches my nape, gently massaging my scalp. I’m forced to smother a groan, but it’s still audible, the needy sound meek in my throat.

He doesn’t smirk. There’s no longer cocky confidence in his expression. What stares back at me is curiosity. Intrigue.

He continues to undo my braid until the shoulder-length strands of my brown hair are tangled waves around my cheeks, my heart a rampant vulture beneath my ribs.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

The words steal my thoughts. My composure.

I swallow to alleviate the ache in my throat. “How long have you had sight problems?”

“How long have you had self-esteem issues?” he counters.

“I don’t. I’m just smart enough to know something isn’t right here.”

He continues to massage his hand through my hair, his fingertips causing mini orgasms along my scalp. “You don’t like my attention, Ollie?”

“I don’t understand it,” I correct. “You’re an incredibly attractive gu?—

“You think I’m attractive?” His smile returns.

I roll my eyes and pull back until his hand falls to his side. “I’m sure you’re well aware of your appeal.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s always nice to receive praise from a gorgeous woman.”

“Oh, my god.” I chuckle and slide into the booth, discreetly gazing around the wall of my wavy hair as I glance behind me.

My father remains at the back of the building, his companion leaning closer as he talks.

“Who are you spying on?” Mr. Deity startles me by sliding in beside me. I would’ve assumed he’d take the opposite side of the booth, not nestle into my personal space close enough to awaken goose bumps along my thighs. “A boyfriend? Your husband?”

“Who says it’s a guy?”

“You,” he states simply. “When you said he’s going to recognize me.”

Shit. This man is paying attention.

So much dreamy, gratifying attention.

I place his Macallan on the table, still too embarrassed to admit the truth, and chug the remainder of my champagne.

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