Page 9 of Anger

Most times I smirk.

Only because the husbands’ reactions are entirely different from the wives.

I feel sorry for them, really.

How boring must your life be to become so preoccupied by the presence of one person who doesn’t fit how you see the world?

There aren’t rules in place for every person.

And not all of us were shaped from the same mold.

I’m the type who prefers to see a blend of unique styles and personalities, a rainbow of different people who add flavor to an otherwise unforgiving reality.

Not these prissy ass bitches.

The women who scowl in my direction believe I should be on the other side of some imaginary line. Probably washing their dishes or doing their laundry. Not out here among the refined and classy.

All their reactions tell me is that none of them have any taste.

Just as I finish talking myself down from flipping off one prissy bitch in particular, a man rushes by me, his foot just catching mine so that he trips but manages to stay on his feet.

He turns to me, and I peek up at him from beneath my lashes, my heart double-tapping my ribcage in a hurried jolt at the sight of him.

He’s absolutely breathtaking.

I mean that in the literal sense.

My lungs refuse to function for as long as it takes him to stare back at me, his trailing blue gaze slowing on a few key places in his assessment of my body.

I stare in return and note his perfect physique and dark brown hair. The tux he wears is perfectly tailored to a body that is strong in all the right places, and slim where it matters.

Eh, fuck it. I check out his bulge since he’s staring at my tits, and yep … he’s a definite keeper.

The man flashes me a quick smile then moves along toward the open doors at the back of the mansion, casting one last glance over his shoulder at me as he walks outside.

“Good lord,” I whisper under my breath.

I’ve counted four hotties, at least, and I haven’t yet bothered to wander out to where the largest crowd gathers.

Curious, I push away from the wall to do just that. I know Brinley told me not to wander, but I can’t help myself. I need to see just how many gorgeous men are attending this party.

I barely make it two steps before I get bumped into from behind.

Turning my head, I expect to meet eyes with some pretentious bitch, her permascowl in place simply at the thought of having touched someone like me. But instead, I’m floored again.

Stunned silent, my feet lock in place.

If the others were simply gorgeous, this man is fashioned by the gods—most definitely in their likeness. He’s the perfect specimen, despite the small scars that mark his olive skin.

Amber eyes peer over at me curiously, his head tilting just enough that I can tell he’s not quite sure about my presence at the party but doesn’t exactly mind it either.

So infatuated with his enigmatic eyes, I don’t take the time to glance anywhere but at his face. High cheekbones are blades beneath a hard stare, darkness rolling behind the beautiful color that mimics what I see in my own eyes when looking in the mirror.

He’s been through something, that’s for sure.

But I can easily guess that he’s good at hiding it behind the wicked smirk that tugs at his full lips now that he’s had time to process me.

“Sorry about that.”

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