Chapter Nine

Annabel

The entire time the statuesque blonde is slinking toward the table, I am praying to any god who will listen that she isn’t heading for this table. Not here. Not now. Not when stone-faced Beau Bennett is about to tell me something I couldn’t find on Google if I’d had time to look. His entire face lit up when I asked him about his friends.

The smile melts away when the blonde utters those words, cutting him off midsentence. I don’t know who to look at—the stunning runway model who has graced us with her presence or Beau, with his sandy hair and blue eyes. My heart does a flip. If anyone belongs together, it’s these two. I feel every inch of my black work clothes, the very same outfit I was wearing the first time I saw Beau, without the blazer. What does my hair even look like?

Blondie leans down toward Beau and, honest to God, plants a kiss on his cheekbone. He doesn’t turn away, but his mouth is pressed into a thin smile, nothing like the dimpled, open expression he was wearing a moment ago. “Hello, darling,” she says.

“Kinsey,” he says, his voice not giving away even an ounce of irritation. He clears his throat, gesturing to me across the table. “This is Annabel Forester. I . . . ran into her the other day at the Pearl,” he says, and a hint of amusement creeps into his tone. “Annabel, this is my friend Kinsey.”

She drops her hand possessively onto his shoulder and smiles at me with enough chill to freeze hell. I feel it in my bones. “So nice to meet you,” she simpers, letting her eyes drag down my outfit. Does she have laser vision? Can she see my worn-in Keds underneath the tablecloth?

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, putting on a big smile. Am I dying inside? Yes. But I’ll be damned if I let Kinsey see it. Kinsey Colt. Whatever her name is.

She’s already looking away, catching Beau within the web of her gaze. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” she says, accusing him with a fuck-me smile. “With a new friend, no less!” Kinsey doesn’t bother to look at me when she says it.

“Life happens quickly, doesn’t it?” Beau’s tone is mild, but Kinsey’s smile tightens.

She narrows her eyes a fraction of an inch. “Oh, it does. It really does,” she murmurs, rubbing his shoulder.

God, this is awkward. I want to take another bite of my steak, but I don’t dare lift my fork from the plate now. I don’t want to draw her attention.

Beau doesn’t react at all, though if she was touching me like that, I’d want to flick her hand away like it was a spider. “Are you here for dinner?” He cranes his neck to look behind us. “Not alone, I hope?”

Every alarm bell in my mind is jangling. Do not invite her to sit with us, Beau. You might be from England and uptight as hell, but now is not the time to do the polite thing. If telepathy is a thing, let it work right now.

Kinsey finally takes her hand away and folds it elegantly over her purse. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she says with a laugh. “I’m meeting Roger.” Nice. Nice move, Kinsey. “You know how he is.” She rolls her eyes, waving a hand in the air. “Always wants to check up on me when he’s in the city.”

“Of course.”

She gives him one more pat—is she ever going to stop?—and looks over at me again. “I’d better take my seat,” she says, her eyes as cold as icy December rain. “It was wonderful to meet you, Annalise.”

“Annabel,” I try to say, but it comes out as more of a grumble.

“Oh, that’s right. Annabel.” She gives Beau a wink. A wink! Right in front of me. “I can’t wait to see your face, Beau.” She throws the words over her shoulder as she brushes by me in a delicate cloud of Joy by Jean Patou. I’ve smelled it once before, in a dressing room of one of the stars at the theater mom worked at. It had been a gift, so she told everyone what the scent was. Eight hundred fifty dollars a bottle. I can still hear that wafer-thin soprano saying it now.

Beau takes the bait. I can tell he doesn’t mean to, but he does. “See my face?”

Kinsey turns back, waggling a finger at him. “It’s a bit of a surprise, or I’d tell you more! If you can’t take the suspense, send me a text.” Then she sashays away toward the back of the restaurant.

Beau’s eyes are still following her when I turn around. “So,” I say with a sigh. “You and Kinsey? Are you a couple?” Tell me now, so I can push away this wild crush that’s taking over every cell in my body. Kinsey’s little display fanned the flames. I won’t even bother to deny it.

Then his eyes are back on me, and, Jesus, they’re smoldering like an inferno. “No,” he says, sounding wistful. “Not really.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Sure looked like it.”

“Who’s Roger?”

“Roger Sykes,” he says absently. “He’s one of Kinsey’s uncles.”

“And you never dated.”

He cocks his head to the side. “She was a friend from high school, in our group,” he says, searching my face. “First there was West. He was my roommate the first year at Overton. He’s still the same.”

I drop the topic of Kinsey. It’s none of my business. This is a date, not a date. I’m not planning to leave here with an engagement ring on my finger. It would probably be even better if I left without any further plans to see Beau. He’s out of my league.

No more lurking around the Pearl to see if he’s there. That’s my personal vow. Beginning right now, I will take this dinner as the very end.

The rest of the meal is perfectly pleasant, but I can feel myself pulling away, shrinking down into myself. God, I hate this feeling. Not a single one of them is any better than me. Toward the end, when the waiter clears away our plates, I fantasize about buying an Amtrak ticket to the nearest nowhere town on the map.

We get in the Town Car when it pulls up in front of the Pearl. I don’t want him coming to my place, not after that encounter with Kinsey. Then Beau says my name.

I turn away from the window. “Yeah?”

There’s something in his eyes—an apology? “I had a nice time with you tonight,” he says, and disappointment curdles in my gut. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure, but I’d like you to have this.” He presses a card into my hand, the paper thick and smooth. In the process our fingertips touch, and a spark jumps between us so sharp I pull away. “No pressure,” he says, and it sounds like a dismissal, so I thank him profusely for the dinner and step out of the car.

I’m feeling awfully dejected—that is, until I poke my head in the open car window to thank him one final time.

That’s when I notice the bulge in his pants.

The rush of victory floods my veins.

I pretend I don’t see it.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.” It was a nice dinner. It was so nice watching him in the candlelight that I might need a last-minute date with my vibrator.

“I’d like that,” he says.

I slam the door shut before I can leap back in and straddle him.