Page 53 of Love at First Sighting
“Trust me, there’s enough of them here thatyouwon’t draw attention. I’ll admit, the way I ended our affair was a little harsh, so let’s call it an equilibrium getting you into this party. But I can’t provide Ian Forte—I mean,Ian Forte—with damaged goods. Right now, people will see anything you do as a cry for attention or an attempt to reframe the narrative.”
Damaged goods.Despite the glittering dress I’m in, the sparkling necklace and earrings, and the way Carter looked at me like I’m the brightest thing in the room, I now feel dull. At one point, Sam saw me as a rung on the ladder to climb. Now he’s boosted himself up and, having gotten what he wanted, wants nothing to do with me, but I know he’ll saunter back around if it’ll ever benefit him again.
“Look, if I wasn’t trying to straighten out a deal to be the main entertainment act on Ian’s luxury submarines, I would be happy to. But right now, you’re a risk and I am trying to keep my precarious associations as quiet as possible. You get that, right?”
In another timeline, I would have.
“I…yeah,” I stammer out.
Sam presses a cold, bony hand to my cheek. “I knew you would understand. El, I’m happy our paths have crossed again. Please enjoy the rest of the party.”
Sam sips again at his drink and vanishes behind a curtain. When I pull it back to find him, he’s already gone.
Great. I was sawed in half for nothing in return. I’m going to have to find a new plan. I gather up my skirt and push through the stage doors, ready to find Carter and recalibrate our agenda. I’m immediately face-to-face with one of Ian’s waitresses, clad in a blue velour dress.
“Oh! Just who I was looking for. Ms. Martin, my name is Skylar, one of Mr. Forte’s associates. He’s requested to meet you.”
Oh thankgod. I’ve never been so grateful for my pageant girl skills. Clearly, my damaged goods are a special delivery for Ian.
“Of course,” I say. “I wouldloveto meet him.”
Skylar directs me to follow her into one of the private parlors, where Ian Forte is waiting with a glass of clear vodka in hand. He can best be described asbuttery. He’s not conventionally attractive by any stretch of the word, but he is a billionaire, so that might not matter. His dark hair is slicked back and his hairline is receding, even though he’s only in his mid-thirties. His suit is black with gold paisley print and his pants do not cover his ankles, naturally.
He greets me with a haughty laugh and a kiss on each cheek. Ian smells like vodka and overpowering cologne, and the look in his eyes is hungry for opportunity.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks. I’m genuinely shocked to hear anauthenticBritish accent after all of Bex’s butchering. “You’ve tried the vodka, yes?”
“I have,” I say, and I know I’m going to have to stomach more of it. “It’s delicious. I’d love another drink. Could I do it with the pineapple juice?”
Ian waves me off and saunters toward the bar. “You don’t need to mix it. I made sure of it. Terra Vodka is top-shelf quality and can be consumed on its own.”
He has the bartender pour me a glass on the rocks.
His voice drops to a posh snarl. “Tell me you’ve never tried anything like this before.”
I trace the collar of Ian’s blazer as he passes me a fresh drink. He has a sad tuft of hair on his chin that should be a beard. I take an eager sip of the vodka and utilize my most Academy Award–winning acting to not gag.
“It’s crisp. Clean. Ittasteslike prosperity,” Ian muses with a gurgling chuckle. “Doesn’t it?”
“It tastes like the future.” I clink my glass with his. It’s the corniest thing I could have said and Ian gobbles it up like Thanksgiving turkey. I’m not sure where he’s planning to take me, but as we leave the parlor, Ian opens a door disguised like a bookshelf, which leads down the hallway, and we step in. I know Houdini House has plenty of private rooms for their performers, and some are available to rent for parties. The room Ian’s taken me to is a dressing room—clearly the largest. Sam has his own, but it’snothinglike this.
Ian’s dressing room is nearly the size of Carter’s whole apartment, with a circular couch in the back corner and a canopy draped above it. The carved-oak walls give the room the feel of an old library, but, like…a kinky one. He shuts the door and the cacophony of Houdini House quiets to a dull roar.
“Come in,” he says. “Hard to talk with all those eyes around, you know?”
“Sure do,” I lie. I take a seat at the edge of the couch and arch my back to accentuate my curves. Ian follows like a desperate puppy. He sits beside me, crossing his legs and attempting to play footsie with me. Our ankles touch and I don’t pull away, but I refuse to give him more.
“Now, tell me, Eloise—”
“Ariel,” I cut him off. “My name is Ariel.”
His eyes narrow with a goofy smile. “Little Mermaid. Cute.”
“Sure is.”
“Are you enjoying the party?”
Think, El. Ian’s dressing room is full of gaudy gift baskets, and he reaches behind him to a Harry & David collection of nuts and pops a peanut into his mouth. There’s got to besomethingin here that’ll lead me to the right place, even if Ian won’t. That’d require getting rid of Ian. If this were a spy movie, I could go for sedatives, knocking him out, or tie him up somewhere, but this is not a movie and I’m just a girl in a pretty dress. I need to play with the weapons I do have.
