Page 8 of Unwrapped

“That’s Bane,” I tell her and spell the word out. “It’s spelled differently than my name—Bain.”

“Pity. And you look nothing like Tom Hardy.” She does her best to appear bored with our conversation, but I can tell by the sly glances she keeps giving me she’s anything but bored.

“Is he your type?” I press.

“Nah,” she says, snorting into the drink. She puts the jar down and turns her body toward mine. I do the same, putting us face-to-face. “He doesn’t exactly do it for me, if you get my meaning. He lacks a certain something.” She turns back to the bar, ignoring me.

“Oh, yeah? What’s he lacking? What is it that Miranda Moore has to have that Tom Hardy is missing?”

Instead of walking away, I take a step closer to her. She stills, not even so much as taking a breath.

“Look at me, Mr. Bain.”

“I haven’t been able to stop looking at you since I saw you standing outside of this room, Miranda. But what is it that you want me to see?” I make a point of looking over her entire body before landing on her face. She’s as still as a statue when I get to her eyes.

“Good, then in that case, you’ll notice the stark difference between us. First, blondes don’t do it for me, and let’s just say I like my men a little bit less melanin challenged.”

“We all have our preferences, I suppose, but you know what? I don’t care and neither do you. You don’t think I’ve noticed the way you’ve been looking at me? And luckily for me, I’m not blonde.”

“You’re a little sure of yourself, aren’t you? Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“I did. In fact, just an hour ago when I tied this tie.” I make a show of pulling at it. “What do you think?” I ask.

She takes the bait and looks at me again. She puts her drink down and reaches for me. My heart rate increases at the unexpected movement, and this time, I’m unable to control the tightening of my pants. She adjusts my tie, which I know was already straight, and glides her hands down to my pecs. All too soon, her touching stops and she goes back to her drink.

“It’s not all that impressive,” she says with a shrug. “You know,” she takes a sip of her drink as she looks at me over the rim of her glass, “all the talking my mother did about you, she left out one tiny, little detail.” She holds up her thumb and index finger.

“I promise you there’s nothing tiny about it.” Her eyes widen at my words, and I see a small smile on her lips.

“So you say,” she says as she arches her eyebrows and waits for me to speak.

Losing complete control of my words, I say, “Care to find out?”

I want to kick myself the minute the words are out of my mouth. Expecting her to recoil in disgust, walk away, and tell her mother what a pig I am; I’m surprised when she inches closer to me, gets on her toes and whispers in my ear, “You couldn’t handle it if I did.” Her warm breath hits the shell of my ear, catching me off guard. I turn to look at her. Her eyes are playful, but they are issuing a challenge.

“I promise you, it’s not me who wouldn’t be able to handle it. I’d probably end up pealing you off the ceiling.”

She studies me, her eyes boring into mine. After several seconds, she smirks at me and returns to her drink.

“I guess we’ll never know. Pity.”

“Right. Because of my lack of melanin. Listen, Miranda,” I say, liking the sound of her name, “I promise you,” I say as I lean down and whisper in her ear. She shudders at the movement. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Being with a man for the first time.” She twists her mouth at my words, but before she can counter, and because I know what she’s about to say, I talk first. “The boys who came before me don’t count. Melanin, or the lack thereof, is the least of our problems.”

She puts a hand in her hair and twirls a piece between her fingers.

“Wedon’t have a problem, Mr. Bain.” She gestures between us. “I’m here with my mother, and after tonight, we won’t ever see each other again. But I admit that our kitchen table talk will be a lot more interesting now that I can put a face to the name. Before tonight, I just imagined Satan. Red face. Crooked and jagged teeth. Horns or however Satan looks.”

She turns back to face the bar, and I close the space between us. I stand next to her, as close as possible without our bodies touching. I wave to the bartender, and he hands me one of the red signature drinks.

“Everything in your life is about to get more interesting, Miranda, not just dinnertime gossip.”

She flares her nostrils, and before she can give me a smart response, Mona comes over, practically dragging a young man behind her. He’s not someone who works for us, but he’s clean-cut and looks closer to Miranda’s age than I do. And according to what she just told me about her preferences, he seems like he’d be perfect for her.

“Miranda, this is Glen. He’s Sherry’s nephew. The one I told you about. Isn’t he handsome?” Mona asks, clearly embarrassing Glen and Miranda. Her eyes widen at her mother, and I do my best not to laugh as she tries to have a conversation just with her eyes. Mona seems oblivious. “He’s a bio major and will hopefully start medical school next fall,” Mona says with an exaggerated wink.

I can see the irritation in Miranda’s eyes and feel the tension radiating off her body, but she smiles politely at Glen and shakes his hand. He looks just as irritated as Miranda. Then, for the first time in weeks, Mona voluntarily speaks to me. “We should let the young kids talk, don’t you think, Mr. Bain? Why don’t you come and hang out with the folks your own age? Come on. Steve’s wife and a few other guests are dying to meet you.”

She takes my hand and practically pulls me away from the only interesting person at this party.

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