King of the Court

“Alright, jeez! I’m moving. I’m moving, but all these fools have to shove down too. You know if you wanted to sit by her that badly, you could have just told us.”

Leanna laughs under her breath but has enough sense to stay quiet.

I hear a few whispers, but nothing is said loud enough for me to get a grasp on what these people think of Ben’s behavior.

I would welcome a nice huge crack in the floor, or maybe a small earthquake or tornado—any distraction from the eyes shooting back and forth between Ben and me.

I don’t really have a choice but to follow his lead. It would be so awkward to insist that he move the chair down by Leanna, and the last thing I want to do is make this moment last even longer. I’ll go to him and I’ll take the seat he’s offering me so dinner can resume and everyone can forget I exist.

I avoid eye contact with everyone like my life depends on it as I force myself to start walking in his direction. I’m intensely relieved that I don’t teeter on the high heels I borrowed from Leanna. I’d never recover from the mortification if I did.

Once I’m in front of him, I sneak a quick glance up at him from beneath my lashes, and his face is impossible to read. He looks calm, but deadly. Quiet, but I’m sure there are a million thoughts hidden behind those brown eyes.

I take the seat he got for me, and he pushes it in nice and snug against his chair before he reclaims it.

I’m in his space, closer to him than I am to the guy on my right. He’s done it on purpose, I think, because he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He waves down a waiter.

“She just arrived and needs a drink. Raelynn?”

“Water is fine, please,” I squeak.

It’s annoying that I’m still the most interesting thing at the table at the moment. Normal conversation hasn’t fully resumed and I still feel people’s eyes on me, no doubt dying for information.

I stare down at the tablecloth.

“Want me to put your purse on the back of your chair?”

Oh.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and slide off the thin strap of the borrowed purse to hang it on the back of my chair myself. Nothing I’m wearing tonight is mine, and I wonder what Ben thinks about that. I wonder if he finds me more beautiful than ever. If he likes the luster and shine on my short dress and heels.

Another stolen glance reveals his attention is still on me. His dark brows are tugged together. His eyes are on my dress, my neck, my mouth. I shiver and lean in.

“What?” I whisper quietly.

His eyes widen for an instant, as if he didn’t realize he was being watched.

He shakes his head and looks away.

I hate the tension and awkwardness surrounding us. The last time he and I were together, I was shouting at him and kicking him out of my trailer. Now we’re at a table with two dozen people, forced into this civilized setting even though I’m not quite ready for it. I’ve been aware of his absence from the diner, aware of the fact that I missed him, but now that he’s right beside me, I’m at a loss for how I’m supposed to act.

Clearly, Ben’s also aware of the issue.

With a sigh, he loops his arm around the back of my chair, leans in, and tilts his face so his mouth is close to my ear.

“Relax, will you? We’re fine.”

His breath skates over my neck.

“We’re not fine,” I hiss quietly.

Not quietly enough, though, because the guy beside me chuckles.

“You’re still mad at me?” Ben presses.

“Yes.”

“For what exactly?”

He might as well be whispering sweet nothings into my ear with the way my body is reacting. My back arches ever so slightly, trying to bring me closer to him. With his arm on the back of my chair, it’s like he’s enveloping me on all sides. His hand touches my shoulder and his thumb brushes back and forth, a little nothing gesture that sends my heart careening over the side of a cliff. He can’t just touch me like this in public. He can’t touch me at all.

This image we’re presenting to the group is not at all an accurate depiction of what we are. We don’t have intimate conversations like this. We don’t whisper to each other and press our bodies close.

“Imagine if I had done that to you, looked into your life like that.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Oh, it isn’t? Why is that? Because I’m not as important as you? My secrets aren’t as valuable?”

“Birdie—”

“Don’t call me that.”

I think he’s about to really let me have it. I’m poking him in public. This is close to all-out war, but then I catch him fight a smile out of the corner of my eye. The bastard has to take the edge of his bottom lip between his teeth to keep it from spreading.