Page 48 of Love Set Free

“But I was thinking that maybe we could grab some lunch first,” Phoenix replies.

That smile. Ugh, that smile. That you-know-you-want-to-give-me-anything-in-the-world smile… Fine. I may not like the cold. I may even hate the cold—this fucking New England-in-late-February cold—but I think we all know I’ll put up with it for him. Anything, and everything, if it’s what Phoenix wants.

“There’s a little place, up ahead,” he tells me. “They have some of the best seafood in the state. Super fresh. Prepared expertly by a master chef. And if you’re not in the mood for seafood… I’m sure there are some people who would, literally, willingly sell an organ for one of their steaks.”

A restaurant that has a master chef? That boasts of food so excellent that you’d turn to doing illegal shit?

I glance down at what I’m wearing. Some of it’s the new stuff the Wildings bought me—my underwear, the t-shirt I have layered under a thick sweater, the winter coat. But the rest of it is stuff I borrowed from the random stuff Phoenix left at his parents’ house. None if it’s fancy; I could’ve borrowed some of the fancy shit, he had some hanging in the ridiculously large closet. Seriously, that thing is about the size as most people’s bedrooms would be. But I didn’t want to wear any of Phoenix’s fancy, rich-boy clothes. I already felt like a fraud, like a nobody pretending to belong somewhere he doesn’t, I didn’t want to dress like one, too.

“I’m doubting that I’m dressed for some place like that,” I say, an apology in my voice for even hinting that I don’t like Phoenix’s suggestion. And for, well, for being me.

“Nonsense,” he replies, without even sparing a second to consider my concerns. “Look, it’s right up ahead.” I glance in the direction he’s pointing and, sure enough, only a few doors down from where we are, is what looks like the entrance to a restaurant. “Take a look and you’ll see that you’re dressed just fine. You look nice.” A sweeping leer at me, from head to toe, and Phoenix adds, “Mmm. You look hot.”

I’m pretty sure he’s biased about my appearance. But I go ahead and take a longer look at the restaurant Phoenix wants us to have lunch at and… All I can see is that there’s a doorman, waiting to let people in, who’s dressed in nicer clothes than I am. And the other people entering the restaurant…they’re all wearing much nicer clothes than I am. Elegantly tailored suits underneath fitted overcoats. Not bulky winter coats, like the kind I’m huddled in, but wool and suede and…and…whatever other sort of pricey fabric those things are made of. And dresses. Not that I’d be going out in a dress, but the women goinginside that restaurant… If they aren’t also wearing perfectly tailored suits, they’re in dresses—figure-hugging, tastefully sexy, sophisticated, and clearly, designer dresses.

“I look poor.” My voice is flat and blunt, even as I amend my statement with, “Well, notpoorpoor. Even though that’s actually what I am. Poor. No, these aren’t really a poor person’s clothes. More…middle class-ish? But the point stands that what I’m wearing is not fancy enough for me to be walkin’ into that kind of restaurant. Not even close.”

We’re already walking pretty slowly, and we slowed up even more as we approached the restaurant. But now, Phoenix stops altogether.

I don’t think he cares that we’re right in front of the restaurant. I don’t think he cares that we’re blocking the way for other people to get in. I don’t think he cares that we’re practically standing on top of the doorman. That guy looks unhappy about it, but I doubt Phoenix even realizes where he stopped or that it might be inconvenient for anyone else.

Grabbing hold of the slippery fabric of my bulky winter coat, Phoenix pulls at me until I’m facing him. His hands are cold as they reach up and trace feather-light arcs over my cheeks.

“Sweetheart, I promise that what you’re wearing is fine. You look fine. Perfect, you look perfect. Just as you are. But...” The sweetly gentle crooning drops from his voice. “...even if you didn’t...” His smile turns smug. No, arrogant. His smile isarrogantas he tells me, “It doesn’t matter what the fuck clothing you have on. You’re with me. You could waltz right into that fucking restaurant in your goddamn birthday suit...and they would say absolutely nothing about it. Because you’re with me. Because I could fucking buy this restaurant, and everyone in it, if I wanted to. And they all know it. So, really. Believe me when I say that, what you have on right now, is perfectly and completely fine.”

I’m positive that I’m gaping at him. Not because I don’t believe him, because I do. He is Phoenix Oliver Wilding. I don’t doubt that he does indeed have the sort of money that could do exactly what he says he could. So, I definitely believe him. It’s just…

“Would you like me to prove it?” he asks, reading something in my dumbfounded face. “Here. I’ll prove it.”

Shrugging out of his body-skimming, knee-length, camel-colored, woolen trench-coat, Phoenix turns and shoves it at the doorman to hold. His hands next drop to the waist of his charcoal-colored slacks; my eyes widen as he pops the button and slides the zipper down. My own toes curl in sympathy when Phoenix slides his feet out of his ankle-high boots, and a shiver shudders through me as Phoenix drops his pants.

Standing on a cement sidewalk, in the middle of wealthy Westerly, Rhode Island, with snowflakes drifting along the breeze, blown loose from the plowed and shoveled mounds of snow on top of the grass, Phoenix Wilding poses proudly in nothing but a snug, black, cashmere sweater, a pair of socks, and a miniscule set of vibrant-amethyst hued briefs.

I am, by far, not the only one gawking. Although, I’m possibly the only one who realizes that it’s only the cold that’s keeping that underwear from being truly obscene and showing a lot more than they already are.

It’s clear that the poor shocked doorman has absolutely no idea what to do with the spectacle that is my Phoenix. I don’t blame him at all for merely stumbling aside when Phoenix slips his boots back on and says, “Excuse us. My boyfriend and I would like to enter so that we can get some lunch.”

My mind catches on the word he just bestowed upon me, and it takes me a moment to realize that Phoenix, not waiting for the doorman, opened the restaurant’s door for himself and calmly strolled inside, cool as a cucumber, in nothing but a sweater and his underwear.

“Oh, and grab my pants, would you? One of us will collect them from you when we’re done with our lunch.”

But it only takes a moment. And then something, some part of a picture that had been fuzzy, unclear, indeterminate, snaps completely into focus.

And I, too, walk into the restaurant. Following my Phoenix.

Chapter Thirty

Jackson

“I can’t, hmm... I can’t believe you did that,” I mutter, trying to get the words out while, at the same time, trying to suck Phoenix’s tongue into my mouth. “Mmm. Sitting in a restaurant, eating lunch...nearly naked.”

“Not...not nearly naked.Ngh. Only...only half naked.”

Phoenix seems to be having the same trouble as I am in being able to speak. Namely, that neither one of us wants to detach our mouths from each other long enough to actually hold a conversation. We’re going to have to separate at some point, though. We’ll have to in order to get our clothes off, and I know we both want that. Makes me almost wish that Phoenix hadn’t retrieved his clothing after we were done eating our lunch.

As a side note, he was right. The whole time we were in the restaurant, nobody said boo to a goose about his lack of clothing. Although, I suppose, technically he was adhering to the universal dress code of most businesses. It’s always “No shoes, no shirt, no service.” Never mentions anything about not wearing any pants.

I didn’t get the joy of seeing how his driver would react to his pantlessness. Between the time Phoenix called him to swing by and pick us up and when he got there to do so, Phoenix was back to wearing pants and had redonned his coat.

---