Page 38 of Power Play

While I want to blow her off, I see where she’s getting at. Since Dad passed away, my life has been less about the “fun” and more about what needs to get done. Funeral arrangements, college graduations, not starving to death. I’m not entirely sure I even know how to have fun outside work.

As much as it unnerves me to even say so, I whisper, “I’ll try my best.”

She doesn’t fall for the platitudes. “Don’t just try, girl. Havefun. For once, let yourself be swept off your feet. You may enjoy it more than you would have ever thought.”

I give her a smile that’s both grateful and a little disbelieving. Because while I can certainly pretend that Duke Harrison is my Prince Charming, there’s still the fact that I’ve wrangled him into spending time with me with this interview. He’s on loan, if you will, and by Friday, Duke will just be a memory that I pull out to enjoy, just like every other good thing in my life.

Chapter Twelve

The last timeI was at the Omni Parker Hotel, it was my senior prom and my date ditched me at the last moment to take a junior instead. The junior, by the way, had a penis.

I know, I was just as surprised as you are.

While Joe and Jason danced away the night on the glossy hardwood floor like some handsome couple straight off a Ralph Lauren catwalk, I spent my evening devouring appetizers like it truly was the last supper. I smiled when my friends trotted off to dance with their dates. I shoved another éclair into my mouth when Jason, my former date, stopped by to say “hello,” and to apologize for standing me up. For the duration of prom (four hours and twenty-six minutes of pure hell), I alternated between eating and skirting the edges of the ballroom like a true wallflower. It’s a tough job, you know.

It goes without saying that I fully expected this charity event with Duke to trudge down a similar path. Or somewhat of a similar path anyway. I don’t think I have to worry about Duke making out with a guy at some point during the course of the evening. Then again, you never really know.

But Duke surprises me completely.

He sticks by my side when we gather our food from the buffet line, and merely chuckles at me when I sneak up for seconds during the heartfelt speech from the charity’s president. Duke sticks beside me when someone I recognize from college spots me within the crowd, and even goes so far as to press a hand to my lower back.

Like I belong to him.

It’s a little ridiculous how eagerly I lean in to his touch, even when it’s nothing more than a casual brush of our fingers as we clink our champagne flutes together at our table later in the evening.

He leans back in his chair, and the soft light from a wall sconce casts the lower half of his face in shadow. Not that it matters any. Duke Harrison is as hot in a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt as he is now in a sharp, black tux. I’ve always been preferential to men in uniforms—firefighters are my total catnip—but now I can see why women go nuts over guys in suits.

Particularly, Duke Harrison in a suit.

His dark blond hair is slicked back and his blue eyes glimmer like finely cut sapphires. The Omni is ostentatious by many standards, including mine, but Duke looks right at home. If anything, he looks just as at ease now as he did at The Box, which is honestly the equivalent of a dive bar.

The ridiculous urge to crawl into his lap settles over me and I slap it away like a pesky fly.

Not going to happen.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says, wrapping a strong hand around the stem of his champagne flute. I’m half-surprised that it doesn’t snap in half within his grip.

I match his movements and reach for my own champagne, just so that I have something to occupy my hands. “I probably should be thanking you, since I’m the one who’s been harassing you for almost two weeks now.”

He does nothing but grin at that. Then, his gaze heats as he gives me a slow once over. “Did I tell you how much I like that dress?”

A blush warms my cheeks. “Not in those exact words.”

“Blades’ colors,” he drawls, drumming his fingers on the bowl of the champagne flute. “Is it too presumptuous of me to think that you might be looking for forgiveness for the Detroit jersey episode?”

My eyes dart down to my dress. Blue silk. Silver shoes. I didn’t even realize that I’d dressed in support of his hockey team.Jenny. Of course. I glance at his face. “Do I need forgiveness?”

“No.”

“No?”

He shrugs. “If anything, I owe you an apology.”

My heart squeezes, and I drink from my champagne to hide my nerves. “For what?”

“I wanted to kiss you the other night.”

He says the words so matter-of-factly that it takes a solid twenty seconds for them to sink in. Another fifteen seconds for them to be adequately processed. I lift up a hand, palm facing out. “Hold on, I’m not sure I understand. You’re apologizing forwantingto kiss me?”

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