Page 15 of Last First Date
Holy hotness. We’ve got to get out of here immediately or I’m going to beg him to sex me up in his living room, right up against the floor-to-ceiling windows and everything.
“I don’t have any dresses,” I mutter, putting in all the effort needed to keep my voice steady under the waves of arousal that his words have caused. But damn if I don’t feel seasick, more than ready to be pulled under by the tide of lust that’s dragging me right toward him.
He nods. “I can take care of that.” He reaches for me again, but only takes my hand and wraps my fingers up in his. Even that casual sort of touch has goosebumps racing along my skin, and me worrying about whether my hands are clammy. But before I can work myself up into a full on anxiety attack, we’re out the door and in some fancy-schmancy boutique dress shop that I’d never go into ordinarily.
An impossibly tall, exquisitely beautiful woman floats toward us as the bell over the door tinkles. She’s so freakishly tall that she looks like a giraffe.
I mean, a beautiful giraffe with expensive clothes on, but she’s actually towering over me and yet she’s still so effortlessly elegant it’s more than a little bit intimidating to me. Even her hair is long and shiny and gorgeous. Like she just left her shampoo commercial job and came here specifically to air kiss Thom’s cheek.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Thomas Abernathy,” she coos at him. Even her voice sounds beautiful. I’ll bet she’s never cursed or spit a day in her life.
My hands tighten into fists, and I’m consumed by the desire to punch her right in her perfect nose. But since I can’t reach her way up there in stiletto land, I’d have to settle for punching her in her bellybutton.
She finally spares me a glance, although she hasn’t taken her hands off Abernathy yet. “Oh, another dress for afterward? Usually you send them over first thing in the morning.”
Thom’s mouth pops open, and he pulls away from her evil clutches. “Wow, Azalea, okay.”
Well if that isn’t the most nervous, awkward laughter ever to come from his mouth, I don’t know what is. He covers for it—badly—by making introductions of my behalf. “This is my friend Darcy Albrecht. Millicent von Albrecht’s daughter.”
Ugh. I practically choke on the sudden and very fake enthusiasm written all over her face when she turns her attention to me after that particular lead in.
Fucking giraffe princess who’s named after a shrub. All of the sudden I exist to her, and it’s only because of my last name, my family, and more specifically my family’s money. I hate people like this, truly and deeply. She’s all surface, and that’s the complete opposite of everything that matters the most to me.
“Well, Miss von Albrecht, I’m sure we can find you something extra special here at Fleur de Lis.” Her chirping, syrupy voice is giving me a toothache. I still want to punch her, maybe even more so now that she’s sucking up to me.
But I guess this is part of what I signed up for too, isn’t it? My mother wants me to be more of an Azalea, not the Darcy that I really am. She’s made that clear over and over again, including when she tried to basically shove me on top of Hesse Kotner the other day.
And I can’t help but feel that if I were more of a gorgeous giraffe princess with shiny hair and expensive perfume and less like me, then maybe my mother might finally be satisfied with who I am and quit making me feel so small and out of place all the time.
So I shove all my usual insecurities down and flash Azalea my best society girl smile, the one with the fuck you written in capital letters underneath. “Of course. I’m absolutely certain we will.”
Thomas
The rings of fancy suited, oily-haired men are swirling around us during the feeding frenzy happy hour at Cielo’s. The Botox-ed ladies are in little heavily made-up knots, sprinkled around the bar at strategic locations, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
Good God, I hate this place. And every time I think I’ve left this part of my life behind for good, I’m dragged back into it. First, it’s a call about a little legal advice for a friend. Then I’m supposed to take a meeting to discuss my charity and it has to be someplace people think is ritzy. Because of course it does.
And today I’ve gotten dragged into it by the woman sitting across from me. Gorgeous, frustrating, incredibly fucking hot Darcy Albrecht.
How did I go through this much of my life without paying attention to the length and muscles of her two sublime legs? Well, I’m more than making up for lost time now because I can’t keep my eyes off her.
Also, whose dumb idea was it to put all that gorgeous woman in a sexy-as-hell dress? A dress that would unwrap and reveal all of her to my hungry eyes with just one pull of that flimsy little tie.
I’m such a fucking idiot. First, I about boner-ed her to death in my loft earlier. I can’t believe she didn’t go ahead and slap me in the face after all that nipple talk. What was I thinking opening my door to her in a nothing but a towel?
Okay, lies. I know exactly what I was thinking when I did it, and it was a terrible idea. Just like every other idea I’ve had with regard to Darcy, especially tonight.
Then I took her to Fleur de Lis, where I send all my one-night-stand girls who want a change of clothes on my dime. Because that’s how the extra fancy one-night-stand types get down. Wham, bam, here’s a new dress for your walk of shame home ma’am.
So that catty salesgirl made me out to sound like a major player to Darcy and then couldn’t hardly stop kissing her ass long enough to sell her this hot as hell dress once she found out Darcy has money. Every single thing that could have gone wrong did, and it was excruciating.
Darcy looks every bit as uncomfortable as I feel. She’s fiddling with her drink, twisting her fingers around the thin glass of the stem.
“Darcy, if you’re ever going to be comfortable with Mister Moneybags, then you’re going to have to stop looking like you’re having a root canal every time you even think about drinking wine.”
Her eyes dart up to mine, guilt flashing there. “I’m just not much of a wine person, Thom.”
“Let’s cut the shit. This isn’t about the wine.” I steeple my hands in front of me and watch her squirm. “This is all about the type of rich people who come into places like this and drink wine.”
