Page 122 of One Big Little Secret

“You can stop. It isn’t the dress at all. I promise you at least half of the women here would kill for your look. They shell out small fortunes trying to pretty themselves up the way you do naturally.”

No words. I turn away, hopelessly trying to hide the redness creeping into my face.

That’s serious praise I’m not sure I deserve. At least I’m grateful this getup fits flawlessly.

“I’m ready,” I say, grabbing my black purse. “Let’s go swim with the sharks.”

Patton looks me up and down one more time, a strange expression etched on his face.

“Tonight,” he says, “we’re the goddamned sharks.”

“Maybe you. Me, I’m bait,” I say with a laugh.

“When we get back, woman, we’re working on your self-esteem.” And he offers me his arm as we step into the cool night to walk the short distance to the restaurant.

Although it was warm enough during the day, the evenings are still cold, and I wish I’d thought to bring a shawl or something.

“I’m nervous,” I admit just before we head into the large well-lit entrance to the eatery. “I feel more like I should be serving these people at The Cardinal. Not pretending I’m their peer.”

“You deserve to be here more than a lot of them. Trust me.” He snorts. “Half these folks were born with money and venture capital coming out their ears. They built empires on easy mode without ever worrying about grit or debt.”

“Well… I appreciate the fact that you’re trying to make me feel better, Patton. But there’s a hard limit to what I can make myself believe.” I square my shoulders and flick him a glance as we stop near the door. “Shall we?”

“Tonight, I’m all yours,” he says, and there’s a midnight tone to his voice.

Holy Mother of God.

I don’t dare think too hard about what that means as he whisks me inside, or that cryptic remark about my self-esteem.

The place is about what you’d expect, this time decked out for a large private dinner.

It’s all the glitzy glamour worthy of a modern day Gatsby. Draped crystal chandeliers that almost touch the floor and gilded chairs. A white tablecloth and the fanciest forks known to man that require a degree in etiquette to use correctly.

Patton keeps a tight hold on my arm as we find our seats. His eyes scan over people, his smile equal parts invitation and warning.

“See that man there?” he whispers as we walk past a tan man with a creased face and a red tie. “That’s Harry Goldblum—no relation to Jeff—and last year he bought a golf course in Oklahoma that lost his company almost twenty million. His kids fucking hated him when he had to give up the private jet.”

“What?”

“And the guy one seat over, beside you? He’s been married five times, always to these supermodels from Belarus. All five girls left him before a year was up and went back to the motherland loaded.” He nods at a middle-aged woman in a black dress with gold crosses a little farther down. “And her? She was the duchess of Chicago real estate once upon a time. Then she blew herself up with bad deals by marrying a football player with the IQ of a grubworm. She’s been in and out of rehab for drinking more times than I can count.”

“Oh my God. But why are you telling me this?” I hiss into his ear.

“So you’ll understand they’re not all winners here. You think you’re out of place because you’re not as rich and you’ve stumbled a few times?”

I blink at him, my lips forming a silentOas the realization sets in.

I appreciate the point he’s trying to make.

But not as much as I’m gobsmacked by the warmth and sincerity, the way he’s trying tobuild me up.

No one’s ever done that before.

No one ever cared.

I’m choking back a lump in my throat as we sit. The serial supermodel lover introduces himself right away.

Life has taken its toll for sure with this one. His dyed black hair looks pretty odd on top of a face that sags. But it’s more telling when he shifts so his knee brushes mine.

---