Down to You

Page 8

“Yes, in case it isn’t apparent at this point, I’m completely lost.”
“So it would appear,” he teases with a grin. “I just meant that you were thinking awfully hard. Is everything okay?”
I lean my head back against the padded leather headrest and I stare at Nash’s handsome profile. With his hair combed smoothly to the side, unlike his brother’s messed up ‘do, and his summer-tan skin, he looks like James Bond in his tux. And I fell victim to his charms as if he really were the dashing MI6 agent.
He’s got me shaken and stirred.
“You belong in a tux, you know that?” He frowns over at me, but smiles. I straighten my head and face the windshield. “Ohmigod, could I be any more random?”
What has gotten into you?
He chuckles. “Actually, I think the answer to that is ‘yes’.”
“You know me well, Bond.”
He chuckles again. “Bond? As in James Bond? Where did that come from?”
I turn my head to look at him again. Immediately it gets all fuzzy with hormones.
“Um, I was, uh, I was thinking about being shaken and stirred.” He looks over at me and quirks one brow. “I mean I was thinking how well you could probably shake and stir something.”
Ohmigod, somebody stop me!
“I mean, how well you could probably shake and stir a drink. Not me.” I snort.
Ohmigod, I just snorted!
“You were?” His mouth curves into a sexy grin. With that brow raised and those lips curled up at the corners, he looks exactly like his brother. Like the twins that they are.
I just stare at him, quite embarrassingly—again—for several seconds before my wits return and I begin to chastise myself.
What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t you just have him pull over so you can climb into his lap?
FYI, that’s the wrong kind of thing to think in an effort to settle hot-and-bothered thoughts. That visual sends me into another brief catatonic state as I fantasize about riding in the driver’s seat of Nash’s car. With Nash still in it.
After several seconds, I remember that he’d said something. “Um what?” I ask, literally shaking my head to get back some focus.
Nash frowns. “Olivia, are you all right?”
I sigh and turn to face straight ahead again.
Note to self: Do not expect coherent thought to be possible when staring at Nash. Motor skills may be impaired as well. Take necessary precautions.
I almost snicker when I picture myself putting on a helmet, knee pads and a mouth guard every time Nash enters the room.
Then I think of what I could do in the knee pads…
Gahhhhh!
I’m pretty relieved when Nash slows and guides the car into the parking lot of the art gallery. Even though there are no appreciable signs indicating the nature of the establishment, I know that’s where we’re at. I googled it before we left so I’d know a little bit of what to expect. I’d hate to fall down some unforeseen stairs or something. I need zero help making a fool of myself in front of this guy.
As the valet pulls away from the curb in the BMW, Nash offers me his arm again and leads me into the gallery. My first impression as I look around at all the artificially tanned skin, medically enhanced figures and bottle-blond heads is that I’ve stumbled into Barbie’s mansion. Only the black and white version, as everyone is in black formal attire. But that’s not the only thing gone awry in this Barbie-fied alternate universe. There are no Kens! I see only nerdy, ugly or just plain old men on most of their arms. That’s when I realize this must be a trophy wife convention instead.
I look down at my own red-clad, curvaceous physique and then back up at the mostly monochromatic room. As I’m debating running for the exit, Nash leans down to whisper at my ear.
“Is something wrong?”
“I feel like the only splash of color in an abstract painting.”
“You are the splash of color. But there’s nothing wrong with that.”
I look at him. He’s smiling. It appears to be genuine. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by my appearance. I can only hope he’s not.
Mentally, I put on my big girl panties. If he’s not bothered, there’s no reason for me to be. Right? Right. I take a deep breath. “All right then. Let’s go.”
The further we make our way into the room, the more heads turn in our direction. Most of the men seem to be appreciative of my attire. But the women? Eh…not so much.
Nash stops here and there to speak to several couples. It’s obvious he’s here on business. Besides the perfunctory compliment to the women, he mainly addresses the men. He makes polite chit chat, but there’s lots of measuring up going on. Thankfully, he seems to be getting nods of approval left and right.
Why do you even care? It’s not like his career or what his peers think should matter to you.
But it does.
Unfortunately, after about twenty minutes, the gloves start coming off. Or should I say that the claws start coming out. And it all begins with a girl that knows Marissa.
“Nash, where’s your better half?” the girl I’ve dubbed Catty Barbie asks. She looks me up and down with a thinly veiled sneer that says she thinks I might’ve eaten his better half.
“Last minute change of plans. I’ll be sure to tell her you asked about her.”
“Please do,” she says, not taking her eyes off me. “And who might this little peacock be?”
Peacock? Are you kidding me?
“This is Marissa’s cousin, Olivia.”
“It’s a pleasure, Olivia.” It’s so not a pleasure, her look says. “Interesting choice for the evening.” She nods her imperious head at me.
“His better half chose it,” I reply with a super bright smile, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me.
Her collagen filled lips turn up in a smirk. “Nice.”
Nash clears his throat. “I’ll tell Marissa to give you a call,” he says to Catty Barbie before he turns to her mate. “Spencer, I’m sure we’ll talk next week.”
Spencer nods to Nash then smiles at me. His expression says he’s sorry that his “better half” isn’t better at all, more like “toxic” instead. I smile in return, thinking I hope showers with her are worth it because I see only misery in his future.
I’m glad Nash doesn’t mention the interaction as we move on to the next couple. This pair is every bit as misfit as the previous one. This guy is so dorky looking all he really lacks are black-rimmed glasses with tape over the bridge piece and a pocket protector for his tux. And the girl? I’m pretty sure he got her from a movie set where the music sounds like bow chicka bow wow. That or she’s inflatable.
I think to myself that there’s no way these two are going to be nasty. They look so comical themselves, surely they won’t throw stones.
But they do. Big ones.
In my head, I dub this one Bimbo Barbie. My assessment of her is only further reinforced when starts laughing at me the instant we stop in front of them.
“Oh my gawd! Somebody didn’t get the memo.”
She doesn’t even try to keep her voice down. My mouth drops open and my cheeks sting a little when, from the corner of my eye, I see several heads turn in our direction. I can almost feel judgmental eyes burning their way through my brightly colored dress.
I say nothing and make no move to acknowledge her in any way other than to smile, a smile I hope belies my growing humiliation.
Still, Nash doesn’t speak. And I’m grateful. I’d likely burst into tears.
We move on to the next couple. And the next. And the next. Each gets progressively worse.
Just when I think there isn’t a more rude person left in the room, I meet another one. I shall call her Vapid Barbie.
“Where did you get that dress?”
My stomach drops into my shoes. I want nothing more than to run and hide. After I hunt down Marissa and strangle her with her own dress, of course.
To make matters worse, I feel tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink quickly and force my lips up into another smile. It’s when I feel Nash stiffen at my side that anger makes an appearance. It’s bad enough that they’re doing this to me, but Nash has to work with some of these people!
I don’t bother to stifle the sharp reply that comes to my tongue. “I stole it from a homeless person,” I say, straight-faced. “She was lying right beside the stripper that gave you yours.”
Her expression is blank for several seconds before my meaning sinks in. Then her face turns red and her glossy lips drop into a nice big O of shock.
For one second, I’m satisfied. Seeing her speechless makes me feel a teensy bit better. But then I remember the guy at my side. The one I wanted to make a good impression for.
Guilt hits me in the face like a bucket of ice cold water. And I feel sick.
I smile sweetly at Vapid Barbie and her clueless mate. “Pardon me while I find the ladies’ room.” To Nash I whisper, my heart in my eyes, “I’m so sorry.”
And I make my escape.
I search the hostile environment for the universal signs of a restroom. When I spot the little silhouette of a girl in a dress, I practically run for it. I don’t, of course, mainly because I’d probably trip and fall and give everyone an even bigger laugh. But I do walk very, very quickly.
In the bathroom, I keep my head down and make a bee line for the solitude of a stall. Once inside it, I close the door, lean back against it and let the tears flow.
I’m so embarrassed. And so angry. And so embarrassed again. And for them to be so nasty in front of Nash…
My God, those girls make Marissa’s vicious bite feel like butterfly kisses! No wonder Nash doesn’t mind her.
My tears turn bitter—bitter at them for humiliating me, bitter at me for caring about someone I can never have and bitter at the reality of how ill-suited I am for a guy like that.
After several more minutes of wallowing in self-pity and the cruel why-oh-whys of life, I exit the stall. I know if I don’t get back soon, someone will think I’m in here blowing up the toilet. And that’s the last thing I need.
No, you horrid ho-bags, my stress response is not intractable irritable bowel!
Thankfully the bathroom is empty, so I get to clean up my ravaged makeup and tear-streaked face in peace. I run a few paper towels under the cold water and hold them to my eyes like compresses, hoping they’ll reduce the swelling. All they manage to do is make my already-wet lashes clump together.
I shake my head at my reflection. The only thing I can do at this point is go back out there with my head held high and a smile on my face, and try to finish the rest of the night without incident.
”You can do this, Liv. You can do this.”
I almost add for Nash, but even in my head, it sounds stupid and presumptuous. He’s not mine to care for. No matter how much I wish he was.
I take a deep breath and fling open the door to head back into the viper den. But I don’t get very far. I stop dead in my tracks when I see Nash leaning against the wall right outside the ladies’ room. His legs are crossed casually at the ankle, as his arms are crossed casually over his chest. His smile is faint. And sad.
I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. I fidget with the little wristlet purse dangling against my palm.
Finally, he straightens and steps toward me. He doesn’t stop until he is mere inches from me, forcing me to tilt my face up just to maintain eye contact.
He brushes his thumb over the ridge of my cheekbone at the corner of my eye. I wonder briefly if I missed a streak of mascara.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes as if in pain. His face is etched with regret and it tugs at my heart.
“Don’t be. You can’t control other people. I just hope I haven’t embarrassed you too badly, or ruined any important business connections you were hoping to make.”
“I don’t care about business connections. Not at this cost.”
“But you should. That was the whole point of coming tonight. It shouldn’t be ruined by some random girl that’s too much of a misfit to bring to functions like this.”
“You’re not the misfit. I am. I’m the one masquerading as something I’m not,” he says pensively.
“Not being like them is a good thing, but you have to play by their rules. It’s part of the game. It’s part of who you are and what you do.”
“It may be part of what I do, but it’s not part of who I am. I’m not this guy. Not really. This,” he says, tugging on the lapel of his tux, “serves a purpose. It’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”
I frown. “A means to what end?”
Nash’s inky eyes bore holes into mine and, for a second, I think he’s going to tell me something. But then he changes his mind and smiles another small smile.
“Nothing I want to get into right now. Come on,” he says, reaching down to take my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nash leads me to the door and we leave without a backward glance.
He doesn’t say another word as he helps me into his car, starts it up and heads toward the Northern edge of the city. I don’t ask where he’s taking me; I really don’t care. I’m just glad to be in his presence and away from all those other people. Anything else is just gravy.
I’m a little surprised when I start seeing the buildings grow taller as Nash weaves his way through the streets of downtown. He slows and pulls into a parking garage, waving a card in front of an electronic eye. A gate lifts and he drives through. He slides into the first available spot and cuts the engine.
Still, he doesn’t say a word. He helps me out of the car and leads me to an elevator.