Page 17 of Wicked Proposal
He’s rich. I’m poor.
He’s powerful. I’m not.
He’s someone, and I’m nobody.
The rest of the night makes it even more apparent. As Yulian drags me from group to group, greeting people of importance without so much as introducing me, I realize that’s exactly the role I was meant to play: arm-candy.
Nothing but a well-dressed prop for him to show off.
See? I own her. Like I own this watch, this suit, this world.
After the fifth conversation like that, I say, “You could at least introduce me.”
Yulian flicks me a flat look. “I believe it was you who insisted on ‘no names.’”
“Right. But since you do, in fact, know my name?—”
“It sounds to me,Ms. Winters,like you’re already regretting your own rules.” He says it with the barest hint of a smirk, just enough to let me know how self-satisfied he’s feeling about this.
Asshole.
If I had a drink in my hand, it’d already be on his face. His smug, flawless, unfairly attractive face.
“I need some air,” I say. “I’m going to the bar.”
He doesn’t so much as blink. “I’ll expect you back here in five. See that you’re on time.”
I swallow the childish urge to mock his own words back at him and stomp out.
The outdoors bar is nestled into a pretty, curated garden, lit up by an odd combination of mason jars, naked bulbs, and fairy lights. Like three separate wedding planners had a fight over it and some disinterested groom just told them to do whatever.
But hey, if the bride’s happy…
“What’s the strongest drink a girl can get around here?”
The bartender laughs. He’s a tall, dreadlocked guy with an easy smile, the kind Kallie would fall head over heels for. “Depends on how bad a night you’re having. How would you rate your pain on a scale from one to ten?”
“Eleven.”
He winces. “That bad, huh?”
“Yup.” I pop thePall the way and slump gracelessly on the counter.
“Friend of the bride?” he asks as he mixes. “Or the groom?”
“Neither. You’re looking at someone’s Rolex.”
“Then I guess I finally see the appeal of those.”
The casual flirtiness in his tone makes me smile. Innocent bartender ways, no doubt, but at least it’s not flat mockery like Mr. Cheese Grater Abs.
He slides my drink towards me. I take a sip and—whoa,okay, definitely on the strong side. “Would you believe that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night?”
“Then you need to find yourself a better date.”
“And I suppose that would be you?”
He grins like he’s been waiting for me to ask that exact question—which, obviously, he has. The bartender opens his mouth to deliver his knockout line.
