Page 9 of Stuck With the Best Man

I want to gag as soon as the thought drifts across my mind.

No. Ben Hawthorne is not hot. He’s an arrogant, imperious brat who thinks he knows better than everyone else just because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

At that exact moment, as if he has access to a live feed of my unfiltered thoughts, Ben glances up from the glass of champagne in his hand and locks eyes with me.

Look away,I try to command myself. But I can’t.

He doesn’t look away either. From the other side of the room, I can’t tell if he’s surprised or amused or unbothered by the fact that he’s just caught me staring at him, but that’s probably a good thing. Still, I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift in a sideways smirk.

I really, really hate him.

With a scowl, I yank my eyes off him and turn my attention back to Eva and the girls. I pray that it’s enough to convince him that my wandering gaze was simply an accident.

To my complete and utter dismay, it’s not enough. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense two people approaching us with calm, measured gaits. When Eva turns and lets out a happy squeal, I know that means one of them is Sebastien. I also know, deep down to the very marrow of my bones, that the other man is Ben.

“Excuse me,” I say to no one in particular. “I need to use the restroom.”

I slip away, grateful for my dancer’s body when it allows me to weave through the chattering crowd without difficulty.

All I can think is that I need to get away. I try to remind myself that this is Eva’s night—Eva’s weekend—and that I shouldn’t be disappearing without warning, but I want nothing more than to run out of this fancy manor and head back to the comfort of Gram’s house.

Just as I turn the corner of the hallway and gulp down a breath of relatively fresh air, a hand closes around my forearm. The touch is somehow both gentle and firm, and surprising enough that it causes me to freeze instantly.

I whirl around, coming face-to-chest with Ben’s open shirt collar.

Miraculously, I manage not to stumble when I quickly take a substantial step away from him.

“What do you want?” It comes out way harsher than I intended, but it has the desired effect. Ben immediately drops his hand from my arm.

“I—we—are you leaving?”

“Why do you care?”

His eyebrows lift at the challenge in my tone. I wish I knew where I misplaced my dignity. I’m never this standoffish with other people.

“The others were thinking about heading into the main part of town for some drinks,” Ben says, nodding his head back toward the dining room. “As a local, maybe you could show us the best place for that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Ben. I think this town is a little too quaint and humble for your tastes. I wouldn’t want to upset your tender, aristocratic preferences.”

A flicker of shock edged with humor comes to life in his eyes. I fight the urge to clap a hand over my mouth.

I highly doubt that anyone has the guts to talk to Ben Hawthorne like this.Ishouldn’t even be doing it, considering the power he holds over my career.

“Ruby, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “It wasn’t my intention to insult you or your hometown.”

“Intention and effect are two different things. I’ll pass on the drinks.”

I walk away, holding my spine as straight as I possibly can until I round the next corner and I’m certain he’s disappeared from sight.

As soon as I’m alone, I let out a long exhale and slump against the elegantly papered wall.

Just three more days. Two and a half, really. That’s sixty hours, approximately half of which I’ll be sleeping or occupied with non-wedding things.

Which means I only have to withstand about thirty more hours of Ben’s presence before this whole thing is over and I can go back to the city. With any luck, his role on the board and my role as a soloist won’t need to overlap at all.

Or, with better luck, Ben will decide to leave the NYC Ballet alone and let me live the rest of my life in peace.

After this weekend, I never want to see him again.

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