The Singles (16 page)

Linking my fingers together on the black tablecloth, I sucked in my cheeks. “I’m actually single.”

Her pink lips opened in surprise. “You’re such a beautiful girl that I just assumed....” Her voice trailed off as she stared behind me, her gray eyes narrowing and following someone. I turned and felt my own face harden at the sight of Finley Scott, dressed as Cleopatra.

She was talking to the company’s VP—the one who’d sexed up Margaret’s former PA in the boardroom—with her hand laid casually on his arm and her head thrown back in laughter.

From beside me, I heard Dora mutter something unmistakable. “That bitch better stay away from Oliver.” Startled, I turned around to face her, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking between her and her husband, whose back was still turned to us.

Instead of cowing, Dora’s nostrils flared. “If that look you’re giving me is because of Oliver, I can assure you it’s
not
what you think.” Sighing, she squeezed her eyes shut. “When he told me you might have the wrong idea about us, I told him to explain, but obviously he hasn’t.”

Oliver and Dora had talked about me? The thought both petrified and intrigued me, so I crossed my arms and waited for her to continue. After a few seconds of frustrating silence, she explained, “Oliver is one of our closest friends—we met in college and he introduced me to Franklin, his teammate. He helped me get this job. He was the best man in our wedding. For reasons I’d prefer not to get into, I’m not a big fan of his ex.”

I started to tell her I was pretty sure Oliver could take care of himself, but instead I cocked my eyebrow. My next question was bold, so I hoped she was deep enough in her champagne not to flip out. “Then what was with that blowout on my first day, in your office?”

She looked confused for a moment, but then her shoulders shook with laughter. “He went on a date with one of my friends. It went as expected.” Thinning her lips into a rueful smile, she shrugged. “Oliver never calls for a second date.”

Ugh. Why had I even asked? It took my mind to places it didn’t need to go.

From what Margaret had scathingly told me earlier today—“He’ll be out celebrating Halloween with one of his sluts”—Oliver wouldn’t be here at all tonight. Since that was the case, there was no reason for me to let him crawl into my thoughts. Except here I was, surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t know, letting the memory of blue eyes and a charming smile screw with me.

Dora’s husband returned, and when he directed his undivided attention to her, rubbing his nose against her neck and murmuring something, I glanced away.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I said, though I didn’t think she heard me. I tossed back the rest of my fruity cocktail. “Excuse me.”

*

A
gitated, I returned from the bathroom ready for my next drink. I was still so distracted by the conversation with Dora that I nearly mowed over the very pregnant event planner as she approached me. Reaching out, I steadied her and she shot me a grateful look.

“Oh, thank God!” she said, sliding her bra strap beneath the cap sleeve of her pink maternity dress. “Have you seen Mrs. Emerson?”

Automatically assuming she was going into labor, my brows scrunched together in concern. Margaret would have a meltdown if that happened. Then she’d tell me to tell Natalie to hold off the contractions until the end of the party.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, genuinely worried.

“She’s supposed to give a speech in twenty minutes, and I wanted to make sure she’s ready.”

Relieved, I scanned the crowd, looking for my stepmother’s red and gold
Wonderland-
inspired dress that must have cost a fortune. When I finally saw her, at the same table as Michael Scott, I fisted my hands. Seeing those two together, letting those awful memories assault me yet again, tore me up inside. 

“Right over there.” I calmly pointed Natalie in their direction, despite that old familiar monster—anger—flaring through me.

She clasped her fingers together gratefully. “You are a lifesaver. Thanks, Liz.”

“Of course.” As she walked away, I called her name and she paused, resting her hands supportively on her stomach. “Thank you for your hard work on all this.” I gestured at the lovely darkness that lingered at every corner of the ballroom and the celebrity DJ in the booth. “This is
incredible
. And I’m sure that the kids this night was intended for will appreciate all your hard work just as much as I do.”

Natalie beamed. “Enjoy your night, Ms. Connelly.”

Humming the song that was playing—“Radioactive”—I continued toward the bar. When Stella and I made eye contact through the crowd, I mouthed
Getting a drink
to which she responded to with a nod that screamed
Told you so.

There were two bars set up, so I went left, to the one with fewer people waiting. Tapping my fingertips quietly together to the rhythm of the song, I wasn’t aware that someone was standing beside me until a strong hand touched mine. It closed around my fingers, sending a current through my skin.

My head popped up in surprise to take in a masked face.

Well, half a mask.

It took me a moment to catch my breath. There was something about a man in a tailored suit—especially when that man was Oliver Manning—and my eyes devoured him.

Finally, I licked my lips, causing his blue eyes to settle on my mouth. “The Phantom
didn’t
wear Tom Ford.”

He chuckled. The sound teased me, working its way into my skin, making it an effort to focus on anything else around me. God, I was a mess around him. And he knew it. “You remembered I enjoy
Game of Thrones
.”

Briefly, I glanced down at my costume and suddenly recalled the conversation in his office when he told me he was a fan of the show. I hadn’t even thought of that as I made the costume, but when I didn’t respond, he took my silence as a confirmation.

“And you’ve been ignoring my calls.” Releasing my hands, he fingered the wide, ornate gold belt of my costume, not seeming to care if anyone saw him as he brushed his thumb over the exposed skin between my breasts where the chiffon fabric met. I knocked his hand away and glowered up at him. “But, God, you’re too fucking much tonight for me to complain about anything.”

“I’ve been busy, and you have guests in town.”

“My mother has guests,” he corrected. “But I’d be happy to take you home with me and entertain you.”

Putting some distance between us, I swallowed down the pressure in my throat. “I was under the impression you had plans. Margaret said you’d be out celebrating Halloween with one of your sluts tonight.” At the amused turn of his mouth, I added, “Her words, not mine.”

“Margaret was wrong.” Splaying his hand on my back, he closed the space between our bodies again, urging me forward to the bar. “I’ll take Lagavulin, neat, and, for my beautiful companion,—”

“A black martini,” I told the bartender politely, before lifting my chin to Oliver. “And I’m
not
your companion,” I whispered furiously.

“Of course you are. You came here alone, didn’t you?”

I pulled in a breath through my teeth. “Why don’t you go—”

Whatever I was about to say was quickly forgotten when the fingers on my back dug into my skin. It wasn’t painful. No, it was promising, possessive, and it made my throat go dry. He dipped his mouth to my ear.

“Before you suggest I find another woman tonight, let me give you a small piece of advice: don’t let your pride make you say something you’ll regret. I’ve seen the way you react around me and other women—and the way my cock responds to your jealousy. The next woman I spend the night with
will
be you. Whether it’s your Khaleesi getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses you prance around Emerson & Taylor in—you and I will fuck.”

With that, he handed me my drink, leaving the bartender a generous tip before walking away without another word. I tried not to stare after him, God, I tried, but Oliver was magnetic. He was wrong for so many reasons—legitimate, disastrous reasons—and it was getting harder and harder to stay away.

But no woman in her right mind could avoid him, especially after he left her hanging with a comment like that.

Squaring my shoulders, I started in his direction, letting that force between us compel me toward him. I made it past the first couple tables, but then I felt a feminine hand on my wrist. Expecting to see my boss, I spun around wearing an accommodating look.

Instead of the Red Queen, I was staring into Cleopatra’s heavily-lined hazel eyes.

For once, I think I would have preferred Margaret.

“It’s so good to see you again, Lizzie!” Finley gushed.

“You, too. Are you enjoying your visit?” I hoped I sounded genuine. I sure as hell didn’t feel it, not when all I could think about was her hurling herself into Oliver’s arms two days ago. “When are you going back to Italy?”

“Oh, we were only there for a year. My brother was fortunate enough to study art, and I followed along. I mean, it’s Italy, after all.” She blew a stray piece of her black wig out her eyes and shrugged. “The woman renting my dad’s house will be moving out in a month, and starting next week, I’ll be looking for an apartment.”

“That’s ... great news.” Since Margaret was so adamant about Oliver being with Finley, I was sure she was over the moon right now. My stomach twisted into knots that should never have been tied as I contemplated the future between Oliver and the woman standing before me. “I’m sure you’ll find something great.”

“I hope so. Maybe you and I can get together soon. I’d love to help you with the plans for Ollie’s birthday party next month.”

Ignoring the fact that hearing her call him that thoroughly irked me, I lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I was making the plans for his birthday party,” I said as I stepped out the way of a tall man headed to the bar.

When she smiled, the sheepishness she was trying to convey reminded me of a client I had briefly in the past—a man who was absolutely charming in public but calculating and almost cruel behind closed doors. I tilted my head, examining her.

“Margaret said she was going to mention it to you next week,” she clarified.

“Then I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon. I’m sure you have some fantastic ideas.” I didn’t know if it was jealousy, like Oliver had mentioned a few minutes ago, but nothing about Finley sat well with me. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Lifting the hem of my costume, I headed toward my table, scanning the massive ballroom for Oliver. Each step seemed like slow motion, my heart slowly shrinking when I couldn’t find him beneath the dim lighting.

As the DJ’s voice came over the microphone to announce Margaret would be saying a few words after the next two songs, I felt a powerful body brush against mine. I felt his hands on my hips, but his movements were so smooth and discreet that nobody seemed to realize we were touching.

“I thought you left,” I whispered.

Oliver’s breath tickled my ear, and I could feel every pulse point on my body going into a frenzy at once. “Dance with me.”

Gasping for air, I watched as he moved around me and walked casually out a side door. My eyes darted around to make sure nobody saw us. Then I followed the path he’d taken, stepping out into a narrow staircase.

“Oliver?”

But he didn’t answer. All I could hear was “Seven Devils” and my own heart. With each step, it seemed to throb louder, harder.

“Oliver?” I whispered when I reached a door at the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar, and I pulled it open to see that it was a private balcony. I glanced around, taking in the sparse furnishings—a black loveseat with a tiny table beside it. His empty Scotch glass and the
Phantom of the Opera
mask sat on that table.

At last, I looked at him.

He was leaning against the railing with his back to me.  Giving the party going on below one final look, he jerked the curtain closed. “Lock that,” he ordered.

A dance my ass,
I thought.

But I turned around, my hands trembling as I twisted the tiny lock on the doorknob. Over the sound of Florence Welch’s haunting lyrics, I heard his footsteps closing the space between us. A moment later, I felt his hands on me, one on my hip and the other resting over my collarbone. His thumb stroked my throat, and his lips skimmed my ear.

“You just don’t quit, do you?” I demanded, fighting a moan as my back arched and I molded against him. “Is this it then? That one night? What happened to making it last?”

His fingers trailed from my collarbone until he firmly cupped one of my breasts, evoking a gasp from the back of my throat. “This,” he rasped in my ear, “this is an appetizer. This is me reiterating just how bad I want you.” His firm chest nudged me forward, and I splayed my hands out on the door in front of me.

“Oliver—” I whispered over the music playing downstairs. Drenched with the promise of vengeance, the song was so fitting for this moment, it made my head spin. It was a reminder that I should walk away and pretend I never came up here. A reminder that I had so much to do, and Oliver—beautiful, confident, oblivious Oliver—was a liability if it came down to laying flames to his mother’s kingdom.

“I—”

“I want you, Lizzie.” His fingers moved from my hips, giving my ass a rough squeeze, and the desire building at the base of my spine expanded, overwhelming me. “Everywhere and every way.”

I breathed in deeply, squeezing my eyes closed and trying to find my voice. He’d stolen it right out of my body.

His lips touched my neck, and I felt his tongue flicking against my skin. “I want to taste that beautiful body of yours,” he said. Turning me around, he pushed me against the door. The wind left my body, leaving me dizzy and breathless, gasping for air. He pinned my wrists on either side of me and stared down at me with starving eyes. Painstakingly slow, he eased forward until his thick erection was cuddled up to my aching core, and my sex automatically clenched.

“But first—” he started, and I shook my head, cutting him off in gasping anticipation. 

“You play so fucking dirty, Oliver.” Beneath his grip, I fisted my hands. “So dirty it hurts.” Even saying it out loud just seemed to make the dampness forming between my thighs so much more intense.