Page 31 of Vicious Arrangement
I did the same. Picking at all our starters and shared small plates seemed easier than a full meal when it finally got ordered about three hours in. Besides, the booze did the job. Champagne, cocktails, and a couple of shots could fool anyone into feeling full. That, and sitting so close to a woman with one hell of a pair of tits she criminally seems to cover up most of the time.
Not gonna lie, I’ve been wanting to touch and lick them all day.
“I didn’t want to ruin the dress.”
“Planning on getting married again?”
“Probably not. You’ll no doubt turn me off the whole thing when this ends.”
I laugh and lead her out, my arm around her now. “I love it when you talk dirty. We both know when it ends, you’ll fight tooth and nail to keep a man like you.”
“Arrogant, big-headed?—”
“You said it,” I say, “not me.”
“An asshole.”
I pull her into the car, and get in, and we go nowhere.
“You have to let him know your address.”
She narrows her eyes and gives it.
“Hells Kitchen?”
“Sorry I’m not rich and living in some five-story apartment penthouse overlooking Central Park. Shit, you’re probably in one of those insane two hundred million dollar places. There’s one with a ball room. I bet you own that.”
“I live in SoHo. It’s only a duplex.”
“Only?” she asks. “Annulment, stat.”
This time I burst out laughing. Fuck, I like her. She’s unlike any woman I’ve met. She’s got to have wealth of her own… maybe not like me, but enough to live well and probably not work or do a rich girl job, like so many of the ones I’ve fucked. Fashionistas, influencers. Charity moguls… whatever they are. I’ve slept with career women, too.
But this one…
Is different.
Not that I’ve slept with her.
But yeah, she’s chosen to be a nurse. She disparages wealth, and I’m betting the hot wedding dress is off the rack and not one of those speed bespoke dresses. I’ve had speed bespoke suits before, when I’ve needed one almost the same day. Know the right people in Chinatown, and they’ll do it, and they’re every bit as good as some of the world-class tailors.
I digress. I’m tipsy. I’m not thinking straight.
She’s utterly fascinating, beautiful, smart, funny, and has a bite to her I find refreshing.
Aria’s not out to please me. At all.
When we pull up outside her apartment building, there’s no elevator. It’s four stories up and as she fumbles in the bag her friend had held for her during most of the day, she looks for her keys. “Where are they?”
“Let me see?”
“No, I can do it,” she snaps.
I grin. “But I’m very competent.”
“No girl wants to hear a man’s ‘very competent’,” she says, the innuendo clear, even if she doesn’t realize just how she’s contradicting herself and her crap about me being a full-of-it, arrogant asshole.
“Give me the bag.” I take hold.
