Page 6 of The Invitation
“It’s your lucky day,” I say through semi-gritted teeth.
With a deliberate casualness that’s really a smug victory celebration, Ripley shifts his attention to a table of women across the room. They swoon beneath his gaze.
Despite my inherent dislike for the man and my frustration that no one ever sees beyond the exterior, I get it. Muscled thighs, a narrow waist, and shiny, copper-colored hair that looks like it’s had fingers run through it all day—itistextbook appealing. And his whole approachable-gentleman-with-a-glimmer-of-bad-boy vibe is alluring—if you don’t know better.
I get it.
I understand it.
I hate it.
He towers over me in tailored gray pants and a crisp white button-up. His sleeves are rolled to his mid-forearms, naturally showcasing his strength from a life of sports and a career in exercise physiology. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s ridiculously good-looking. If he’d keep his mouth shut, he’d be a ten.
“Why don’t you go talk to your fan club and leave us alone?” I ask him.
He pulls his attention to me. “Are you jealous? We’ll let you join. Don’t be mad.”
“Oh, please.”
“I love it when you beg.”
His lips curve into a sardonic smile, and his eyes twinkle with mischief as he waits for me to explode.
I lean forward, ignoring the notes of his stupid cologne, and meet his stare. I give him a little smile of my own.
“Careful, Ripley. Your subconscious is slipping again.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“Of course. But it’s okay. Just a little slip of the tongue.”
The words are out before I can stop them. I flinch, knowing I just walked headfirst into a trap of my own making.
“Now, whose subconscious is slipping?” he asks, teasing me.
Dammit.
“Can you please leave?” I ask, huffing my displeasure.
“No. I’m meeting my brother Tate here in a few minutes. If you’re not happy here, you could leave.”
“I’d hate to waste a perfectly good martini.”
He reaches down and swipes my glass. Before I can protest, he downs the entire thing—never breaking eye contact with me.
I bite back the string of profanity that’s primed on the tip of my tongue because that’s exactly what he wants.He wants me to lose control. It takes every ounce of self-restraint that I can muster to suppress my anger under an appearance of indifference.
“Why are you such a dick?” I ask.
Ripley leans down, close enough that I can smell the sweet citrus of my drink on his breath. “You really should stop thinking about my dick, Peaches.”
My blood pressure rises. I hate when he calls me that—and he knows it.
“You really should get out of my face, asshole.”
His gaze settles against mine, practically begging me to blink or to pull away. Instead, I move closer to him.
My senses spin at his proximity, fighting to stay balanced.And not to throat-punch him.
