Obsessed

"Whatever," I say as I watch Brighton's reaction.

He grins, obviously entertained by our mindless banter about his living quarters.

"Please, ladies, come in." He motions towards a small group of people gathered across the room. I don't recognize any of them which isn’t surprising. The world of New York art is not where I spend my time. This is Liz's element.

Liz leads the way with Brighton right behind her. I study the surroundings, not particularly enthralled with the idea of meeting a bunch of people I have nothing in common with, who I'll likely never see again.

"Ivy." Jax's voice is in my ear the moment his hand touches my back.

I close my eyes, relishing in the sound. It's soft, the tone strong and vibrant.

"You look beautiful." His index finger is slowing circling a small spot on my back.

"Thank you." I turn around and look up. His face is even more arresting in this light. He has a small mole above the left corner of his lip that I didn't notice last night. I find myself staring at it.

His hand trailed my body when I turned, never losing contact with the silk of my dress. It's now resting very gently on my waist.

"You look..." I glide my eyes over the black suit, soft blue shirt and bold patterned tie he's wearing. "You look formal."

"Formal?" The mole shifts slightly as a small grin takes over his mouth.

"Formal," I repeat with a smirk.

"I'll take formal." His hand starts a path from my waist to my arm, moving sensuously and slowly up its entire length until it's resting on my exposed shoulder. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I could say the same for you." I take a deep breath. I desperately try to change the mood, certain that the thin fabric of my dress is doing little to veil my arousal. My nipples are hardening just from the gentle touch of his fingers on my skin. "Or are you a Brighton Beck fanboy?"

"A fanboy?" He cracks a wide smile. "I'm not familiar. What's a fanboy?"

"If you have to ask, you're not one," I tease, grateful for the reprieve from his seriousness.

"I take it that's a good thing?" His hand jumps from my shoulder to my chin, tilting it slightly upward so I'm looking directly into his face. The curtain of intensity that was in his eyes when I first turned is now replaced by playfulness.

I perch myself on my tiptoes, resting my hand lightly against the center of his chest. "It is a good thing," I whisper quietly. "Did you see the price of some of his paintings? Someone should tell him he's no Leonardo da Vinci."

I'm greeted with a hearty laugh. "Indeed, they should."

"Jax. Ivy." Brighton appears out of the corner of my eye, rushing towards us. "I didn't realize you knew each other." He casts a disapproving glare at my hand on Jax's chest.

"We met last night." Jax pulls back, straightening his tie.

"Isn't that nice?" Subtle sarcasm is obviously not a part of Brighton's repertoire. "Dinner is served."

Chapter 4

Dinner is delicious and the constant lull of mingled voices keeps me occupied. Jax is seated on the same side of the table as I am. The problem of the three people dividing us has been enough to quash any chance I had of engaging him in idle dinner chatter. Assigned seating is not working in my favor this evening. The only promise I can see right now is that the brunette with the Louboutins from last night is nowhere in sight.

"I said, y'all haven't seen nothing yet." Liz's voice carries above the noise. I look across the table to where she's seated next to Brighton. Her cheeks are flushed. It's no wonder given the fact that she's on her third glass of wine. Everyone around her bursts out in laughter. I smile knowing this is her realm and she's taking full advantage of the spotlight she's honed in on herself.

"What about you, Ivy?" Brighton directs his attention to me. "Any fun stories of your childhood you'd care to share?"

Liz cuts me a look. I know her well enough to realize she doesn't want any of this man's attention diverted.

"Not any like Liz's." I continue, "Liz, tell Brighton about the time you chased the man who stole your purse."

Liz launches into an embellished description of a night four years ago when she was mugged in Alphabet City. My recollection was that of a man demanding her purse which she readily handed over along with mine before she took three or four steps in his direction as he raced off on foot. Liz's memory involves some serious ninja moves on her part, half the NYPD and a very battered and bruised mugger.

"Excuse me," I say quietly as I rise from the table.