Page 18 of Thirst Trap
8
Whitley
There arepros and cons to being in business for yourself. One of the pros, especially this past week, has been that I don’t work with anyone, therefore no one is around to judge me for not wearing makeup or real pants, since I got back from Nashville.
Then there are the cons. Take tonight. Even though I want to just sit at home in my comfy sweatpants and eat an entire cheesecake while binge-watchingNew Girlfor the twentieth time, I can’t. Tonight is the annual Birmingham City Hospital Fundraiser—also known as the center of my life for the past six months. This is my biggest event of the year. I’ve been working every connection I’ve ever made to make this the highest-earning fundraiser in the hospital’s history.
Too bad I have no desire to be here.
I especially don’t want to be chatting up the who’s who of Alabama society—or their douchey sons.
“…And of course, we’d have to see if your dad and brother can come along.”
I wasn’t paying attention to anything this son of a someone said, but then I heard the words “dad” and “brother” and it snapped me out of my boredom.
Consider those two words my trigger warnings. If a man brings them up in conversation with me, he doesn’t want me.
He wants tickets.
Preferably to the Iron Bowl.
“I’m sorry, I missed that last part,” I say, curious as to what my dad and brother should come along to. Not because it will happen. Call it curiosity killing the cat.
“Your family and mine taking a weekend getaway down on the Gulf Shores,” he says. “It would be great.”
I give my head a little shake. “I’m sorry, but have we met before tonight?”
He’s taken aback by my question, and just for a second, I worry that I do know him.
Then he opens his mouth again.
“Not technically,” he says, his voice not as confident as it was just a minute ago. “Our daddies were in the same class at Alabama. And he’s on the board here at the hospital so I just thought maybe we could have dinner, and maybe our families could meet…”
I don’t even hear whatever else he said.
He just thought.
Of course, he did. Because, for some reason, this is how men in my circle think things operate. We go out for a date or two before the families meet. Which is all they want, to get to meet my dad.
It’s never about me.
Except last week it was.
I don’t even excuse myself from the conversation and make my way to the bar as thoughts of Jake float through my head. I’ve done pretty well tonight. I’ve only thought about him five times.
That’s much better than the rest of the week when it’s five times before I’ve even had breakfast.
It was the right idea to not give him my number. Right? It would have just dragged out the obvious. Yes, we could have seen each other on the occasional weekends. Maybe meet for a weekend in Nashville. But how long would that have lasted? His life is in Tennessee, and mine is here.
No. This was for the best. It was one amazing night that I’ll cherish forever.
Except the problem is, I can still feel his hands on me. I can still feel his lips on my neck. I can still remember the way my body reacted when he made me see stars.
I knew it then, and I know it now: The man has ruined me.
If any other single woman was in my position right now, they’d be trolling this ballroom for men. This room is stacked with the most influential and wealthy people of Alabama, and some of the most eligible bachelors in the entire state. They wear their custom tuxedos like a second skin. They have old southern money that goes back longer than any of us have been alive.
But none of that is doing it for me. All I can think about is the man in plaid and Wranglers who made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.
