Just Like That

Chapter 2

MEL

There’s a tinkling bell. Time to sit down. The men slowly find their seats, laughing and joking crudely. I make my way around the table, taking my time to introduce myself to all of them. They’re all over forty, except one. He’s maybe in his late twenties.

“Hi, I’m Mel. I’m your hostess tonight. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

“Pete Rampwood.”

Nodding, I smile absently, turning to the guy next to him, the one who is somehow making me feel like my dress is see-through at the chest.

“Hi, I’m Mel. I’m your hostess tonight. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

“Oh darlin’, I’ll let you know, don’t you worry about that.”

I catch Pete Rampwood grinning into his whiskey at his companion’s gross remark. Ugh. At least he didn’t try to hit on me.

Finishing back at my seat, I sink into it, my eyes drifting longingly to the full glass of champagne. Swallowing a sigh, I pick up my water glass, taking a sip. Ugh. I’m going to need wine when I get home tonight.

“So, what are you studying?”

The first old guy - the lucky one - is talking to me again, sipping at his fourth glass of whiskey in less than an hour.

“Art history.”

I know this is an event for law school alumni, so my admission leads to much amusement and jokes about a ‘pretty little thing like me’ being a good trophy wife.

“Which era most interests you?”

I blink in surprise, my water glass halfway to my mouth. A general silence falls over the table as they all glance between Pete Rampwood and me.

“Uh. There are a few, but I’m mostly a fan of the modern era.”

“Ah… cubism.” He’s laughing at me. The asshole.

“I mean, that’s one factor. I prefer realism.”

“Is the late 1800s modern?”

Shrugging, I take another sip of water. We have the attention of the whole table now.

“If you’re talking about plumbing? No. If you’re talking about art? Very much so.”

“Ah. I stand corrected on matters of plumbing and art.”

My fingers are itching to flip him off, but I’d be forfeiting my paycheck, and I can’t risk it. No matter how tempting the idea might be.

“You can tell me all about your plumbing anytime, darlin’.”

Ugh. Gag. The old guy next to me is so inappropriately sleazy. I think I’d prefer Pete Rampwood laughing at me. At least he talked about my major, and now the table is talking about my…plumbing. I need a shower. With bleach.

Across from me, Pete’s eyes are dancing with amusement as he takes another sip of his whiskey. The corners of his lips, behind his faint stubble, are turned up. He’s definitely laughing at me. Though I think it is because of my discomfort about being flirted with by this sleazebag. Ugh. These men are all the same.

Thankfully, I’m saved – from both Pete’s art-related digs and all the flirting – by the keynote speaker. Thank god. As they all turn to listen with varying degrees of interest, I slip out of my seat.

My girl from table two is also at the bar when I get there.

“Two cokes,” she says, sliding one to me when the bartender places them on the wooden panel in front of us.

“How is your table, girl?” she asks. Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head. “Ugh. Same. At least you have one young one.”

Stealing a look over my shoulder, I can see she is eyeing up Pete Rampwood. Unlike some of the other men at table eight, he appears to be giving his full attention to the speaker, toying with his whiskey glass with long fingers.

Objectively, he’s a good-looking man. He has a confident aura around him – like he comes from money – which compliments his clean-cut good looks. His stubble doesn’t fit with his crisp suit and expensive-looking cufflinks, but it suits him.

He has a thatch of thick, light brown hair, swept sideways off his forehead, and when he laughs at something the speaker says, I can see he has a dimple in his left cheek, but not his right one. It makes his smile look lopsided in the sexiest way.

Ugh. He’s a rich prick. Did I just think of his smile as sexy? I need to get laid. Clearly, I have spent too long being distracted by Bee and her dickwad fiancé Philip that I have neglected my poor vagina’s needs.

Pete turns his head, his dark brown eyes locking with mine. One eyebrow arches the tiniest amount – god, that’s a condescending look I’d like to smack off his smug, rich face – and he lifts his now-empty whiskey glass, tapping the lip with one long finger.

“Duty calls,” I sigh to table two, gesturing to the bartender.

Picking up the whiskey he sets down, I walk back over to the table, placing it in front of Pete with two raised eyebrows. He smirks at the challenge in my eye, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the whiskey. I snatch up the empty glass, bringing it back to the bar before someone else can ask me for another drink. I can’t wait for the night to be over.

There is applause, and I sigh with relief. The speeches are over. That means some port or coffee, and then I’m officially off-duty. I move back over, walking around the table and stopping to chat with each attendee, laughing off three requests for my phone number. Two of the men asking are wearing wedding rings. Ugh.

The emcee thanks everyone for attending, reminding them to watch for the next emailed event list to RSVP. That’s me done. Smiling blandly, I dodge the wandering hands of the old guy interested in my plumbing and make my way through in search of my coat and bag.

Shrugging into it, I jump when someone fixes the collar, which has tucked under the back.

“Relax. It’s only help with your coat.”

Spinning, I raise my eyebrows at Pete Rampwood as his dark brown eyes laugh at me.

“Not going to ask for my phone number?”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he snickers.

“You’re not my type, Tinker Bell, and I highly doubt I’m yours.”

Uh, Tinker Bell? Tinker Bell?

“And what’s your type then?” I taunt, suckered into it by his confident assertion that I’d be so wrong for him.

“The type who wouldn’t get upset by an offer of a lift home late at night.”

“Damsel in distress stuff, huh?”

“From memory, Tinker Bell wasn’t exactly holding out to be saved.”

“Neither am I, but I’m also not about to turn down an opportunity not to take the bus.”

Fuck. The words are out of my mouth before realizing I said them aloud. He’s grinning at me again, holding open the door.

“I’m always willing to play the gentleman. I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

Well, since I kind of already told him to offer, I can’t really turn him down flat. At the same time, I don’t want to give him my address. An idea flashes through my mind, and I grin, walking out of the building into the brisk wind.

Pete Rampwood leads me past the expensive cars parked in the parking lot outside the building, off into the night. Uh, okay?

Just when I’m starting to regret my impulsive decision to accompany him away from the crowds and… you know… streetlights, Pete speeds up his footsteps.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he groans, moving toward a fancy car in the process of being clamped. Ouch. Maybe I will be taking the bus.

I trail after him as he approaches the guy down on one knee, clamping his tire. I expect the wallet to come out but blink in surprise when Pete grins his sexy, crooked smile.

“Come one, man. Don’t suppose you want to cut us a break?”