Page 34 of Confusing Cade
“It more than works, Bella,” he replied. His gaze lingered just long enough to make me believe it.
“Good, because I don’t want to screw up,” I said, and he gave a little nod, as if he knew he’d already set the bar impossibly high.
We stared at each other for a long moment, and another small hint of electricity zapped in my stomach. Sure, I’d had men in my life, plenty of boyfriends in high school and dates here and there, but I underestimated how much the last few months on FanZone had deadened me to the dating scene. Despite my best effort, I’d come to see sex and sex appeal as commodities, as things to be sold and used in business transactions. I was used to people leering at me online as I wore this set of lingerie or that pair of panties. But they were behind a screen, drifting on the internet, and never right in front of me, never so close to me.
Somehow, that night, as I stepped off the front stoop, the way he looked at me made me feel more naked and raw than any VIP session I’d ever done with my subscribers.
That scared me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CADE
She looked beautiful.
A bit innocent too.How was that possible?The compliment had tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it, but even after I said the words, I didn’t regret them. Inexplicably, Bella in her back-of-the-closet evening gown, was prettier and more authentic than any of the photos or videos she posted on her goddamn FanZone page.
An hour or so later, I was still mulling that fact over, its weight lingering like the humid Palm Beach air. The fundraiser was in full bloom, and the lawn stretched wide under a canopy of banyan trees, their gnarled branches draped with strings of Edison bulbs casting a soft amber glow. A turquoise infinity pool shimmered at the edge of the entertainment area, reflecting the flickering light of tiki torches staked along the perimeter. Beyond, the faint crash of ocean waves carried from the nearby shore, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional trill of a steel drum band playing something upbeat yet tasteful from a corner stage.
I was halfway through my second glass of Veuve Clicquot, the champagne’s crisp bubbles a sharp contrast to the warm, salty breeze. The glass felt cool against my palm as I stood near a high-top table draped in white linen, one of many scattered across the flagstone patio. Luke Rothschild appeared at myside, looking effortlessly polished in a lightweight linen suit, the pale blue fabric catching the glow of the lights. His flute of champagne tilted slightly as he raised it, the golden liquid sparkling like the pool nearby.
“Fantastic evening isn’t it,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar aristocratic polish, smooth as the travertine tiles underfoot. He took a sip, and I raised an eyebrow. Luke had been a health fanatic for years and now ran a series of expensive cycling studios that dotted the East Coast. Seeing him on his second glass of alcohol was as jarring as spotting a pelican in a penthouse.
“Didn’t peg you for a champagne guy tonight,” I said, swirling my glass. “Thought you were all about coconut water and clean living these days.”
Luke let out a low chuckle, the sound blending with the rustle of palm fronds overhead. “Even saints fall off the wagon sometimes. Besides, it’s for charity.” He nodded toward a sleek wooden pergola where a banner fluttered, proclaiming the evening’s cause.
“How much do you think they’ll raise tonight?” Luke asked.
I shrugged, scanning the scene. The guest list was a parade of Palm Beach’s finest: real estate tycoons, retired Wall Street types, and a few bronzed influencers who’d made their fortunes on social media. Under a cabana, silent auction tables displayed prizes like a private island getaway or a custom-designed golf cart—quintessential Palm Beach flexes. The crowd was buoyant, their laughter rising like the tide as they mingled on the lawn or clustered near the open-air bar, where a bartender in a hibiscus-printed shirt muddled mojitos with theatrical flair.
“At least two million,” I replied. The estimate felt safe, given the deep pockets in attendance and the competitive energy pulsing through the night.
Luke let out a soft whistle, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Not a bad take for a backyard bash.” He glanced toward the pergola. “Bet half these bids are just to one-up each other.”
I smirked. He wasn’t wrong. The Palm Beach society set loved an ostentatious spectacle, and this fundraiser was as much about status as it was about saving the reefs. Across the lawn, a tech billionaire loudly pledged a six-figure donation, his voice carrying over the steel drums. Nearby, a woman in a flowing kaftan whispered to her companion, probably strategizing how her contribution would land in the next issue ofPalm Beach Illustrated.
“Probably,” I said.
He raised his glass in a mock toast, the torchlight catching the edge of his smile. “Spoken like someone who’s survived too many of these parties.”
I laughed, clinking my glass against his, the sound sharp against the soft lap of the pool and the distant murmur of the ocean. But my mind was still half anchored to that earlier conversation, the champagne doing little to loosen its hold.
Luke tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Something on your mind?”
