Page 77 of O Goalie Night
“And you are?” she purrs at him. The sound makes my eye twitch.
I can sense his discomfort at being the centre of attention. My instinct is to close the distance between us and reassure him, but my feet stay firmly planted in place.
“This is my best friend, Foster,” Ben supplies. “I’ll grab you a drink, Bug.”
“I’ll help,” Foster says, giving me an intense look as he follows Ben into the kitchen. Foster is not a fan of crowds, or meeting new people.
Still. He’s gone and now I’m alone with not one but four strangers.
I glance nervously up at Valentina. Her blonde hair falls in soft, golden waves that catch the light perfectly. Her skin is flawless, glowing with a natural radiance I could never achieve no matter how much money I spend on serums from Sephora. The silence between us hasstretched on too long, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know what to say to me either.
“Ben says you were travelling for work last week?”
She nods. “There was a show in Paris.”
“Paris? That sounds amazing. I’ve heard it’s really beautiful there.”
“You’ve never been?” Gwen asks from her spot on the couch. Her posh British accent combined with her platinum bob make her impossibly chic. But there is no trace of malice in her question.
“Me? No, I’ve actually never left North America.”
Xan scoffs and I feel myself shrink inwardly. When I was younger, our family vacations were mostly road trips. The rare times we flew, it was usually to watch Ben play hockey. I’d love to spend a summer travelling just for the fun of it someday, but that hasn’t happened yet.
Valentina ignores her friend’s rude reaction. “If you go, go in spring. It’s dreary this time of year.”
The others murmur their agreement.
“Are you all models?” I ask, tittering with nervous laughter. Xan laughs too, but I feel she’s laughing at me, not with me.
“Do you hear that, Dante?” Xan’s tone was mocking. “She thinks you’re a model.”
She irritated me earlier when she eye-fucked my boyfriend, but now I’m actually starting to loathe this woman.
“I’m prettier than you are,” Dante tells her before turning to me. “I’m a designer. It was my show they walked in last week.”
“Oh, that’s incredible.”
“So is your dress,” he remarks as he casts his eyes downward. “Where ever did you get it?”
I feel myself flush under the sudden interest in my clothing. Smoothing my hands down the front of my skirt, I answer, “Well, to be honest, I found it in a thrift shop this weekend.”
I expect him to judge me for wearing second-hand clothing, but he surprises me by coming in for a better look.
He’s only slightly taller than me, but his presence feels much larger. Dressed in a tailored blazer and slim-fit trousers, he moves with a natural elegance, like it’s effortless. His light hair, perfectly styled, frames his sharp features, and his glasses highlight his intense, thoughtful eyes.
“Look at this stitching…” He gives the dress a thorough examination before declaring. “It’s vintage Chanel. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Suddenly everyone in the room is a lot more interested in me, or my garment at least.
“It fits you perfectly,” Dante adds. “You look like Rita Hayworth.”
There is no suggestion in his tone or leer in his gaze. He strikes me as a man who appreciates beautiful things and he finds my dress beautiful.
Should I tell him I paid eighteen dollars for it?
No, Beth. That’s an inside thought.
My new friend is inspecting one of my sleeves as Foster steps out of the kitchen, a glass of champagne in hand. He freezes when he notices Dante’s hand on my shoulder, his usual stoic expression tightening into a deep scowl.
