The concierge extends his arm to the left, showing us the entrance. With red carpet sprawled up the three sets of stairs, there’s been no money spared when it comes to how grand this wedding is.
Zoey is in awe, mouth wide open as she takes in the entrance and the splashes of gold that adorn the walls. Inside, marble floors are shining with a small orchestra positioned in the center playing soft classical music in the background. There are several guests lingering beside the doors, all waiting to enter the ballroom. It dawns on me that I’ve never been to a black-tie event and wondering if my charcoal suit is formal enough–it isn’t black.
“Thank God I splurged on a decent dress for the reception,” she leans over and whispers, clutching onto my arm for support. “The invitation said formal. Do you think the low, plunging neckline is too much? I can’t even begin to tell you how much Hollywood tape is holding up these babies.”
I’ve been trying my best to ignore the low, plunging neckline. They—her tits—are staring me in the face. Begging me relentlessly with their torturous pleas, “Play with me, Drew!”
Shit, control yourself.
I stop just before the entrance to gain her attention mid-ramble. “Zoey?”
“Yeah?” she says, distracted, eyeing a lady beside us dressed in a red silk gown.
“You look stunning.”
It catches her attention, and those green eyes of hers, the ones that have this magnetic hold, stare back at me in bewilderment. She’s biting the corner of her lip, and just when I think she’ll embrace the compliment, she says, “As well as hot, sexy, the kind of ex you’d wish you didn’t screw over?”
My fingers move on their own accord, tracing her shoulder softly. “The beautiful kind of woman you’d never want to le
t go of.”
“What a line, Baldwin.” She smiles hopelessly. “You look mighty fine yourself. The kind of man every woman would want by her side.”
The moment is interrupted as a concierge requests our names in order to seat us. The young fellow escorts us to our table, and as soon as I see it in the corner of the room, there is no doubt in my mind that we’re dumped at the singles’ table.
There are ten of us at the table. A woman about our age is already sitting down, fiddling nervously with her napkin. She offers an awkward smile, and I nudge Zoey to swap places with me because she looks innocent, and hey, why not have a go at bringing her home. Single ladies are vulnerable at weddings. It’s probably the best place to pick up women. By the end of the night, she’ll be drunk on champagne and looking to get laid.
Except you’re here with Zoey.
A little harmless flirting won’t go astray, so I swap the place cards and sit beside her. She tries to ignore me, but I extend my hand, introducing myself. Kimberly, as she calls herself, turns beet red and shyly says hello back, barely speaking another word.
Zoey’s body presses against my arm as she attempts to discreetly get me to look at an older lady across the table. Damn, that’s some beard on her. I find myself in a trance, staring until Zoey nudges me for being so rude.
I shake my head, letting out a long breath. “This is going to be one long night.”
With everyone taking their places, an MC announces that the bride and groom will be making their entrance shortly. The excitement is palpable, guests wait in anticipation for the big moment, unlike Zoey, who’s sitting beside me, pale-faced and searching the room like a meerkat on crack.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What? Me? He must be here,” she says, scattered. “Just act normal.”
“I am acting normal,” I remind her. “You, on the other hand, could use some Valium.”
“I’m fine. See?” She extends her hand, and I stare at it, confused. “Steady hand. Just remember the plan.”
Right. Remember the reason why you’re here—to be her plus one, her date, her boyfriend.
My mood suddenly shifts, and Mr. Competitive is on guard. She wants a boyfriend? She’s going to get one who cannot keep his hands off her. Except then you’ll need to touch her… kiss her… fuck—
“Oh look, they’re here.” Zoey motions excitedly.
Somewhere in this room, his eyes are on her. When the hunter sees his prey, the thirst and desire drive him to commence his hunt.
He isn’t going to touch her.
Not if I have any say in it.
I place my arm on the back of her neck, bending down slightly as my lips touch her collarbone. Her excited claps slow down, and perhaps my imagination is running wild, but I think her eyes close for a brief moment.