Page 9 of Wicked God
Then her eyes land on me. Her smile falters, and she glances over my shoulder, scanning the room. I stiffen, wondering what she’s looking for. After a beat, she shakes it off, her features softening into a charming smile. “Alexander Hawthorne. What a rare sighting. I was beginning to think you’d become an urban legend.”
“Just buried in work,” I reply with a half-smile. “You know how it is.”
“Oh, I do,” she says, studying me. “I’m guessing Cameron had to employ actual blackmail to get you here tonight.” Her tone is teasing but with an edge I can’t quite place.
I shoot Cameron a look that could curdle milk. He responds with an unrepentant grin. “Someone has to remind him there’s life outside spreadsheets.”
Cassandra’s laugh rings out, turning heads throughout the room. “Well, thank you for your service, Cameron. Though you should have completed your mission by bringing Lauren too. The Hawthorne siblings, emerging from hibernation together—now that would have been something.” She taps her champagne glass against mine. “But perhaps it’s merciful to introduce just one Hawthorne at a time. I’m not sure this crowd could handle the full effect.”
My sister Lauren is in her final year of acting school, and she’s been too busy with her auditions and rehearsals to attend events like this. I don’t blame her, I’d rather be elsewhere, too. But duty calls, and the Hawthorne name demands its due.
As Cassandra and Cameron exchange a few more pleasantries, my gaze drifts back to the woman in the red dress. She’s still standing by the statue, her attention now on a painting hanging nearby.
I’m drawn to her. It’s not rational. It’s a gravitational pull, insistent and impossible to ignore. The air is charged, as if the entire gallery has narrowed to a single point: her.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, barely aware of the words leaving my mouth. I step away from Cameron and Cassandra. My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation I haven’t felt in years.
When I’m finally within arm’s reach, I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to approach her. The woman is so engrossed in the painting that she doesn’t notice me at first. Her eyes are dark, flecked with gold, and her mouth is set in a thoughtful line as she considers the painting.
I find my voice. “Fascinating piece, isn’t it?”
She turns, and when those golden-flecked eyes meet mine, I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. There’s intelligence in her gaze, a sharpness that tells me she’s assessing me just as thoroughly as I’m drinking her in.
“It is,” she says, her voice low and melodic, with the faintest rasp at the edges. “Though I suspect most people here are more interested in being seen than actually seeing.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Guilty as charged. I’m definitely more interested in seeing you.”
Jesus.
I’m neverthisforward.
It’s as if my brain has short-circuited, leaving my mouth operating independently from my common sense. I want to close my eyes and cringe with embarrassment, but I can’t take my eyes away from the goddess in front of me.
A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “That’s quite a line, Mr...?”
“Call me Alex,” I say, taking her hand before I can second-guess myself.
“Straight to names, huh?” Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she shakes my hand, her grip firm and confident.
I’m momentarily lost for words, captivated by the warmth of her touch and the intensity of her gaze. There’s a small beauty mark just above her left eyebrow, adding a touch of asymmetry to her otherwise flawless features. “I find formalities tend to get in the way of actual conversation.”
“Lucky me, then.” She lets her hand fall away, her fingertips trailing against my palm. “I’m Olivia.”
“Olivia,” I repeat, testing how it sounds. It suits her perfectly—elegant, timeless, with just enough edge to be intriguing.
She smiles, the corners of her mouth curving upward.
This evening may not be a total loss after all.
Chapter 5
Olivia
An hour into the most tedious charity dinner of my life, and I’ve met exactly zero promising husband candidates. Just the usual Empire Heights crowd: old money in even older suits, trust fund boys who can’t hold eye contact, married men with wandering eyes, and conveniently missing wedding bands. I’m about to call it a night when he appears.
He is absolutely devastating, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark, artfully disheveled hair. His eyes catch me: grey, stormy, and intent. The black tuxedo he wears fits like sin, every seam and line sculpted to his body, and there’s an intensity about him that makes my pulse quicken.
I have to remind myself that I’m on a mission to find a husband, not to get swept up by the first beautiful man I see.-
