Page 91 of Plum

Eric laughs. “Nah. It’s a real thing.”

“Pass.”

“More for me then.”

That was the extent of our conversation tonight. Adam would be pissed—he always insists I get treated with the utmost respect. Anyone tries to do me like they did Julia Roberts in that snooty boutique, Adam’ll swing on ‘em. His fists, his money. Whatever.

Eric don’t mean no harm, though. He’s a fuck up, but I understand him. He’s always standing next to the most brilliant, perfect, confident man in the room, and that ain’t easy.

That’s where I am, now, standing beside my man. It’d be hard if he wasn’t lookin’ down at me like I’m the most beautiful, perfect, fascinating woman he’s ever seen.

Swells my head, every time.

“Are you ready for the speeches?” Adam tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, sending shivers down my neck. I can’t wait ‘til later. He’s been driving me crazy with these little touches all night. A brush across my knee. A kiss on my bare shoulder. I’m gonna jump his ass and ride him like a cowgirl as soon as we’re alone.

“Yeah. We can ditch after this, right?”

“Of course.” Adam chuckles as he clinks a fork to his champagne flute.

The crowd grows quiet. It takes Steel Bones a little longer than the rest—especially Creech who’s drunk and tryin’ to get lucky with a lady in a pantsuit and pearls—but then Heavy shouts, “Shut the fuck up.” Everyone more or less gets silent, giving us their full attention.

I’m used to being watched from all those years dancing, but this is somehow different. I feel shy. I sidle closer to Adam. He wraps an arm around me.

“Thanks, Heavy.” Adam tips his glass at the club president, and there’s a ripple of drunken laughter. “On behalf of Eric and I, we want to thank you all for trusting Plum Financial to manage your money. The people in this room have backed us from the beginning, and we’re not going to let you down. This is the first of many celebrations to come.” There’s applause and a few hollers from the brothers.

Then Adam clears his throat, and his voice loses some of that supernatural confidence. “But now’s the time to admit—as almost all of you know—I had ulterior motives inviting you here tonight.”

He takes two steps away, so he can face me. Oh, fuck. What is he doing?

“None of this would be possible without the woman beside me. A little over a year ago, she dressed up and came to me with her heart on her sleeve. I screwed up. Got into a fistfight. Decided to quit my job and follow my dreams. You know. Your average Saturday night.”

The crowd laughs then gets quieter, hanging onto his words almost as close as I am. You can’t help it. Adam Wade commands a room.

“Every day since then, this woman has challenged me. Surprised me. Inspired me. And tonight, I’ve got my heart on my sleeve.” He kneels, and my hands fly to my mouth. Is this happening? We’ve talked about it, but jokingly. Weren’t we joking?

He slips a ring from his pocket. It glitters in the soft light of the chandeliers.

“You look scared as shit, Jo-Beth,” he murmurs. “You’re not going to run, are you?”

“I might.” Hot tears dribble down my cheeks. “But I’d right come back.”

He holds up a gold ring with a diamond the size of a raisin and a dozen, smaller purple stones—amethysts—around it. It’s too much, and it sparkles, and it’s perfect. Everyone gasps. I swear, even Nickel and Heavy.

“Jo-Beth Connolly, will you marry me?”

I fall to my knees, throw my arms around his neck, and arch my back as I draw him down to kiss me. Then I climb onto his lap, skirts billowing, and I take that ring and slip it on.

“Yes,” I say, laughing, my eyes torn between his smiling face and my beautiful ring. Under all the layers of poofy dress, I feel him harden against my belly. “Can we go home now?”

Later, at the hotel room we booked for the night, I peel myself away from him, naked, sweat cooling, my pussy throbbing. I mince to the closet where the bell hop stowed my bags.

“You get cold feet so soon?” Adam’s voice is drowsy and satisfied. It sends a zip of awareness through my used, sore body. I should grab an Aspirin on my way back to bed.

“Nope,” I call. “Just remembered I brought us a treat.”

“Yeah?” Adam props himself up to half-sitting on the pillows.

I pause in the doorway, pose with a hip cocked, my hand with the ring positioned just so on my waist. In my other hand, I have an $18,000 bottle of champagne.

“Want some?”

Adam laughs, and he beckons me back over, arms wide, carved biceps flexing. “I want you, Jo-Beth Connolly. Get back here and give me what I want.”

And I do.

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