Page 12 of Shes my 1 Try

Wiley

I don’t know how I let Ines talk me into going on this date. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d already made my way to the restaurant in the ridiculously short dress she insisted I wear. I’d be in a ride share on the way home. It’s not the only thing stopping me. I can’t lay all the blame on Ines; I know she’s only trying to help.

I’ve been…less than amenable lately. Okay, I’ve been a downright miserable bitch. Ever since meeting Asher Scott, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. He is under my skin so deep and I have no idea what to do about it.

Fighting with this stupid dress, yanking it down for the umpteenth time since I got here, I check my phone. The perfect gentleman Ines set me up with is late, and not just five minutes. People walking past keep giving me the weird eye and let’s not start on the pitying eye the people inside the restaurant are offering up.

“He’s perfect for you,” I mutter to myself, mimicking Ines. “A gentleman when you need him to be, and I’ve heard an animal in the bedroom.”

I’d settle for a kebab in my trackies right now. I don’t care if Ronald Withers can afford to take me to the fanciest place in town. And I couldn’t give two shits about how long you have to wait to get into The Stuffed Duck—stupidest name for a restaurant considering they serve only vegan food. If I’m being completely honest with myself, a certain dark-haired, green-eyed, super-sexy hottie is all I can think about.

It’s probably fair to say that I already stalked all his socials prior to the photo book shoot. He’d already captured my attention on the footy field. Saying I was devastated when the Rays ended his contract prematurely because of a scandal I could never quite bring myself to believe is an understatement. The Rays might be my team, but I could see myself swapping to follow him. And it’s not like the Dingoes are a bad team, just new, and four hours away.

Watching Asher on the field from afar is one thing. Seeing him up close, like can touch him up close, and personal, only solidified the attraction. It was more than a simple attraction, too. At least it felt like that to me. For all I know he was just being nice. Flirting with the hired help. Following him on all his socials isn’t going to make him see me. Hell, he doesn’t even know my name.

“Get a grip, Wiles. He’s outta your league and you’re nothing to him,” I berate myself under my breath, checking my phone again.

“I know, I know. I’m late.” A voice says close by and I look up to see a handsome man with chiselled features heading towards me. “I’m so sorry, I’m never usually late. That meeting took a turn I wasn’t expecting. You look beautiful, by the way.”

He leans in to kiss me on the cheek, I think, but I swat him away and take two steps backward. I must look like a stunned mullet because he slaps a hand to his forehead, sighing.

“I seem to be apologising a lot already. Can we start again? I’m Ronald. Ronald Withers the Third.” He holds out a hand for me to shake and I stare at it and back up to his face.

Ines thought it would be better if this was more like a blind date and we didn’t know what the other looked like. Obviously, Ronald Withers the Third didn’t get that memo.

“Ah, hi,” I finally manage, slipping my hand into his. “I’m?—”

“Wiley,” he rumbles, bringing my hand up to his mouth and kissing it, devouring the rest of my body with his hooded gaze. “I must say, you’re far more beautiful in person.”

“Oh, um, I’d repay the compliment, but I had no idea what you looked like to compare.” I have no idea what Ines told good old Ronny about me, but he’s already lost points with me. If he thinks that being the third anything impresses me, he’s got a lot to learn.

“Again, I’m sorry. I know Ines wanted our meeting to be a surprise, but I’m not a fan of surprises. You know?” He shrugs, as if he didn’t just insult me and I extricate the hand he hasn’t let go of.

“No, I don’t know,” I mutter, trying not to make it obvious that I want to wipe my hand.

He’s got these intense brown eyes, the colour kind of reminds me of the sherry my nanny used to enjoy after dinner. The way he looks me up and down, I can believe he’s an animal in the bedroom. Maybe just not the kind of animal I’m after.

“Well, shall we go in and eat?” he offers, waving a hand toward the door.

After a moment’s indecision and a huge smattering of doubt, I nod. “Sure.”

The ornate front doors of The Stuffed Duck are opened for us and we take the two short flights of stairs up to the actual restaurant. Ronald’s hand on the small of my back, guiding me, as if I’m gonna tumble down the stairs, sits high on my creepy meter. I admit, I enjoy touch. Small intimate caresses. Hand holding. The tentative skim of a hand down a thigh. Yes please. I’m there for that with bells on. Ronald’s touch doesn’t give me a good vibe, but I don’t want to be rude. Thankfully, a man who seems overly familiar with my date shows up as we walk through a wide, arched doorway, and he moves his hand away to shake the other’s, and I feel invisible. Maybe I can sneak away?

No such luck. The man is the owner and after a brief introduction, he personally sees us to our table, pulling my chair out for me. I have to admit; the view is amazing. Sydney Harbour is set out like a jewel before us, the sea a glittering sapphire, boats bobbing about on the surface, and I get lost in it for a moment.

“I like that look on your face,” Ronald says, interrupting my thoughts and I snap back to reality.

“Oh, and what look is that?” I ask politely, as wine I don’t remember asking for is poured into a glass in front of me.

“That dreamy wistful one.” He smiles, perfect white teeth bared like some wild animal, as he picks up his glass.

“Well, the view is dreamy.” I offer him a small smile, not wanting to be rude.

“So, Ines tells me you do make up. What’s that like?” I give him points for not being the self-centred jerk I was beginning to think he’d be.

“Actually,” I correct him, “I’m a beauty therapist. It’s more than just doing people’s makeup, but it is a large part of what I do.”

We make small talk for a while; him asking questions about my business and what my diversified portfolio is like—whatever that is. Me attempting to feign interest in what I think he does for a living. From what I can gather as he rambles on about financials, is that he works for his family’s business. The Withers family a big deal in the financial world.

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