Wherever It Leads (4 page)

“I’d like to pick you up.”

“Driving to a public spot is safer than being at your mercy, you know?”

His smirk is delicious. So delicious, in fact, I almost want to just say fuck it and be at his mercy in the middle of the produce section. But I hold my ground.

“Smart girl. I’m impressed. I’ll text you the address of the restaurant.”

“You don’t have my . . .” I start to say, but I realize he’s already taken my number.

He smirks. “I need to get my shopping done, ladies. I’ll text you when I return home, Brynne.”

“Okay.” The word falls from my lips before I can think about it.

With a final glimpse, he turns and heads down the canned soup aisle. Presley and I watch his long legs and tight ass until he’s out of sight. Then we collapse into one another, breathing for what feels like the first time in ages.

“My Lord! Did you see that man?” she asks, locking her arm through mine and leading me back out of the store. “Holy shit!”

“See him? Did you smell him? Did you hear him?”

“Cashmere,” she says, slipping her sunglasses back on. “My Hottie Radar is on point. I should charge a fee for scanning men for people. Have him call me, pay me a hundred bucks, and I’ll tell you whether he’s cute or not.”

“That was impressive, Pres. Totally impressive.”

“Right? And you have a date, my friend!”

“Fuck.” The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I have no idea what to wear. I’m not properly shaved and groomed and—

“You have me. Don’t panic. I’ll make sure you’re ready,” Presley promises.

I watch her smile and I’m certain I’ve never appreciated having Presley Bradshaw as a friend more than I do right now.

I
turn in front of the mirror, repeating Presley’s opinion over and over.

You look like a total babe. That dress was meant for you.

The bright yellow dress clings to my curves, a tiny vertical sliver cut out at my left shoulder. My blonde hair hangs in beachy curls, and Presley has highlighted, contoured, and bronzed my face like only someone that can spend hours on end playing with makeup and a trust fund can.

I feel beautiful. I’ve primped and shaved and waxed and curled and taken care of myself in a way I haven’t in a long time. It feels good. I’d forgotten what it feels like to pamper myself on this sort of level.

“Try these on,” Presley says, tossing me a pair of turquoise heels. I raise my brows and she hushes me with a twist of her head. “No. No arguing. I’m the designer here. Put them on.”

I have no clue if they match, but I’m too nervous to argue.

“He did text you where to meet him, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, standing on one foot and slipping on the second heel. “He literally just sent the address and name of the restaurant. That’s it. Nothing else. No ‘excited to see you’ or anything.”

I huff a breath and stand, not bothering to look in the mirror. Presley’s lit up face tells me I’ll be wearing these whether I like it or not.

“Is this even safe?” I ask her. “We met him
today
. A handful of hours ago, to be exact. In a grocery store. And all we know is that he’s gorgeous and cyberspace gives us nothing other than he exists.” The realization hits me hard. “Oh my God, I’m gonna die tonight . . .”

“Stop it. You’re being dramatic.”

“It’s not dramatic. It’s self-preservation.”

“It’s a date,” she laughs. She places a hand on my shoulder. “Can I just say that you have that sparkle in your eye that I used to see before we’d go out on a Friday night and dance until we had a line of boys ready to take us home?”

“It’s the bronzer.”

“No, it’s not, you jerk,” she laughs. She bumps my hip with hers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I haven’t done this in so long . . . it does feel good, Pres. I feel like me.”

“I know, and that makes me happy.”

We stand in the middle of Presley’s bathroom, my head on her shoulder, for a long time. The lights from the makeup table hit us like a spotlight and we look at ourselves in the reflection in the mirror.

“When is the last time you had a date?” she asks.

I shrug and stand straight. “I’ve had a couple since Grant. I don’t particularly remember who. Oh! One was a doctor. Connor something, I think. But he lives in Phoenix, so I’m not sure why I even agreed to that one.”

“You went on that one because nothing could come out of it,” she huffs. “There’s no way that could’ve ended up in a real relationship.”

“As always, you’re right.”

“And that’s fine. But I think you need to open up to the prospect. I’m not saying jump back into something,” she says, talking fast so I can’t interject, “But at least start heading in that direction in case Mr. Right comes along.”

“Maybe,” I say, looking for my purse. “But I feel so burned by Grant. He was literally the man of my dreams. Until he wasn’t, anyway. The thing is,” I say, wheeling around to face her, “I don’t know what happened to him. He just came home moody and needing all this time to himself. And that would’ve been fine. Even when Brady told me to back away from him, I would’ve given him the space to work through whatever it was. But to cheat on me? When, before he left, he was talking about getting engaged? If I can’t trust him, who can I trust?” Rolling my eyes, I face the mirror. The heels actually look good with the dress.

“Something was definitely going on with him. There’s no denying that. I think he was on drugs or something.”

“I think Mandla, the company he and Brady contracted for, did drug testing. So it can’t be that.”

“Well, they obviously fail at other things, like bringing their employees home. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that they also failed to drug test.”

“True. They just keep saying they don’t know more than they’ve said, but Dad thinks they’re lying. He thinks they paid off the unit that was with Brady to be quiet. Hush money, he calls it. Grant came by the house and talked to my parents when he got back and whatever was said made Dad believe Mandla dropped the ball. It’s such a mess.”

“Grant’s not still going to see your parents, is he?”

“He has a couple of times. They don’t know he cheated on me or Dad would probably castrate him. But I think it helps my mom because Grant’s been around so much of our lives and was with Brady when he was taken, so she kind of latches on to that sometimes, I think.”

Presley groans and I understand the sentiment. The few times I’ve talked to Grant since he’s been back haven’t gone well. He tries everything from telling me he wants me back to needing to pass on information, which never amounts to anything, to saying he remembered something Brady said. But it’s all contrived and he’s still the new Grant and I just hold on to Brady’s recommendation to stay away.

“Fuck Grant,” Presley says, coming up behind me and squeezing my shoulders. “But not literally. Because tonight, you have a date with someone way hotter and classier than Grant Douchebag McDaniels.”

“I do,” I grin, a bubble of excitement bursting in my belly. “And if I don’t get out of here, I’m not going to make it.”

I swipe my nude clutch off of the vanity and give myself a final once-over in the mirror. My curves are on display and I can breathe since I went without the Spanx.

“Where are you going?” Presley asks as I turn to the side.

“Ruma.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously? Oh my God, Brynne. That’s the hottest restaurant right now! I was there two weekends ago when my parents were home from Rio and I saw Chris Hemsworth. Not even kidding.”

“I know! I’m way out of my league here. It’s kind of terrifying.”

“Only you would be scared of an invitation like this!” She rolls her eyes and dashes out of the room. She’s back in ten seconds. “Here,” she says, sliding a diamond bracelet on my wrist. “This gives you that extra pop.”

“I’m not wearing this. It’s probably worth more than my car!”

“That’s true. It is. And that’s also why you’ll just take my Mercedes.”

“Pres . . .”

“My best friend is not rolling up to Ruma in her rattle box. No offense.”

“None taken,” I grin. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“I do happen to know that.” She tosses me a wink and we make our way to the kitchen. She plops her keys in my hand. “When you pull up, there’ll be a valet in the front. Just drive up and get out and they’ll handle the rest.”

“Seriously?”

She laughs. “Seriously. Now scoot.”

I head to the garage and unlock the car, the new car scent hitting my nostrils.

I do a quick programming of the address into the navigation and back down the driveway and onto the street, following the British man’s robotic instructions. Presley insists it’s sexier to hear him say it with a foreign accent, but I think it’s just harder to understand.

The night sky is a brilliant spectacle in pinks and oranges and traffic is uncharacteristically light. I try to focus on those things and not the fact that I’m driving off to meet Fenton, a man I barely know—if even that—for dinner. Thinking about him and his chiseled cheekbones and intense eyes will only increase my anxiety.

I rock out to the radio for the hour drive, keeping the panic at bay until I take my final turn into the parking area for Ruma.

The sun is setting behind a line of palm trees as I pull in. My heart races as Presley’s Mercedes slows, coasting into the valet.

Vehicles, all likely worth more than I may ever make in my life, zip through the valet. No one opens their own doors, no one is dressed in less than the best. It’s unnerving.

A man dressed in a suit and tie opens my door. I grab my clutch out of the passenger seat and do a quick peek in the rearview mirror before climbing as gracefully as I can out of the car. Another man meets me with a clipboard, also dressed to the nines, and smiles.

“Reservations, Madam?”

“Yes.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Abbott.”

He tries not to look surprised, but his quick perusal of me from head to toe is obvious. “Can you please clarify?”

“Fenton Abbott.”

I swear his posture straightens as he takes a step away from me. “Right this way, Madam.”

W
e enter the restaurant through a side entrance. It’s covered with a heavy black awning, shielding us from view. The man in the suit opens the door for me and I step inside Ruma for the very first time.