Page 11 of Whiskey Splash

“Look,” I continue. “You can stay and enjoy your dinner. Arie will still give you a complementary meal. In fact, she’ll pull out all the freaking stops when she realizes I’ve bailed on you.”

“Is this what you’re doing? Bailing?”

I open my mouth to apologize, only I’m surprisingly silent.

“Especially when things were just starting to get…” Desmond’s golden eyes peer into me and my palms go sweaty as he searches for the word. “Easy,” he tries out. “Maybe even kind of wonderful?”

I squirm in my seat. He doesn’t mean that.

“You know,” he continues, “that might be a clue concerning the ice-box vagina mystery.”

I suck my lip into my mouth, dragging a sweaty hand through my hair. “Yeah, you might be onto something there,” I say weakly, letting out a small exhale that feels like a confession.

“Might be,” he echoes, tapping a finger on the side of his drink before lifting it up to take a sip. I can’t help but wonder what that lime deliciousness would taste like if I actually stuck around long enough to taste Desmond’s lips.

“I’m sorry you got sucked into this whole ridiculous charade my sister pulled,” I say, sliding to the edge of the booth and standing up.

I try to pull the gold dress down over my bottom without flipping over in these heels and flashing him my honey girl, which at this point would pretty much be the icing on the cake.

“Honestly,” I hesitate, “I just wanted to be your waitress and make sure you had a nice evening. All the other Esme debacles, well, I suppose you can add those to your ‘crazy-shit people do in the presence of famous people’ file—a little something to laugh about when you’re older.”

“Preferably, when I’m eighty-five and I might actually have a shot with that beautiful lavender-haired girl, who’s distinctly—” Desmond pauses, his eyes skating over my body again like he’s trying to capture an image to put in that memory file. “Like no other.”

“Right,” I laugh. “I hope you enjoyed the disaster of a show.” I faux-curtsy as if taking my final embarrassing bow and head for the side door, hoping to exit as gracefully as possible.

Only, his hand shoots out to catch me.

And, he’s sitting and I’m standing—so the place in which he actually grabs me is my thigh!

His hand slips right between my legs, his fingers tangling in the fringe of my dress as they wrap around the skin right above my knee.

I almost fall over at the zip of heat that spasms just inches above where his fingers clutch me. Jesus! The warmth of his palm and the sensitivity of my skin has my heart racing as I look down at him, my whole body taught. It’s completely disarming, knowing he’d only have to move his fingers slightly upwards before he would be touching my— What was it Arie said about this dress and easy access?

“Please know,” he says in that low voice that matches the intensity of his eyes, “it doesn’t matter what they feed me. The best part of the meal left early.”

My mouth is dry.

However, if he lifted his fingers several inches, he’d know that there are other parts of me that are definitely not!

In fact, they’re completely thawed.

The edge of his thumb swirls softly, drawing a circle on the outside of my thigh. I release a soft whimper as the pulse between my legs almost bowls me over. I’m not sure if that sound is audible or completely in my mind, but Desmond’s eyes dilate and I’m pretty sure that if I was wicked and knew how to take a risk like this, he’d steal out the side exit with me if I was brave enough to ask.

But I’m not.

“It was lovely to meet you, Desmond,” I say, hardly speaking as I back away and feel the whisper of his hand brush against my knee before it’s gone.

He doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t have to. We both know what I’m walking away from. I head for the side exit, not looking back, telling myself this is the sane, healthy, right decision.

Once outside, the gold heels I’m wearing clack loudly, punctuating my cowardice as I head for the elevator. Salty air and humidity wrap a thin blanket on my exposed skin as I punch the down button on the elevator and attempt to breathe. I rub my collar bone, hoping no one in the restaurant—Olivia, or Connor, or my sister—can see me through one of the windows.

The elevator doors open and I wait politely for the guests on board to exit, suddenly feeling like it’s hard to swallow and there’s a weight caving in my chest. The patrons exit the elevator in fancy, over-dressed outfits, one of the men eyeing me in Arie’s tiny flapper atrocity. I ignore him and slip into the elevator car when it’s finally empty, hitting the button for the lobby.

The pound in my core aches, greedy and hollow, pissed I walked away from what Arie would call a sure thing. And for a second, I wonder ifthisis the big mistake. If I should actually march back into the restaurant and ask Desmond Pike to let me come on his face.

Ha! Joke’s on me!

Onlyin my fantasy world would he smile at such a suggestion and give me his room number.

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