Page 11 of Older Hotter Grumpier
There’s a beat where I’m convinced she’s going to tear from my arms and flee, but she nods. “Yes.”
“My best girl.” I kiss the top of her head gently, and draw back.
Her chin comes up and I offer her my arm. She’s a born queen, she just doesn’t realise it yet. She rests her fingertips on my sleeve, delicate as a bird, the ring in plain sight as we walk past the paparazzi, flashes going off.
They usually irritate the fuck out of me, to the point I may have threatened to kill several of them if they turn up again. They continue to take the risk because this charity event is a who’s who of London’s mafia here, with not just my brother and me, but the kingpins of Westminster, Lambeth, and a dozen or so of the smaller mafias I’m allied with. But in this case, I don’t mind them so much. I’ll be proud to have photographs of me Ella on my arm and speculation that she’s my girl.
“Mr Blackwood!” We’re not more than two feet through the door before Tom, one of the students, rushes up to us. “That photo you liked? It looks sick blown up massive.” He jerks his head and beckons us to follow him. “Come and see, Mr Blackwood.”
Ella gives me a curious glance, and I clench my jaw as I guide her into the crowd, all of whom are watching us, and clamouring for my attention.
I nod, and manage with all the charm I’m known for. I.e. None.
This was a mistake. Every man in the room is eating Ella up with their eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had to beat off wandering hands. I’ve been seen at numerous prestigious events in London’s social calendar, but I’ve never brought a date to this one, and everyone has noticed.
I scowl. I snarl. Possessiveness is in my every glance, telling them: Yes, she looks exactly the sort of woman you want to throw up her skirt and find paradise, but she’smine.
Ella is oblivious. Sweet girl.
“What is this event?” she whispers, looking around.
“A student art exhibition. And there’s a charity auction of all the art on display, in aid of the school.”
“How do you know about it?”
I shrug. “Just something I heard about.”
The space between her eyebrows puckers, and though I can see this answer doesn’t satisfy her, I’m not sure I’m willing to tell her the whole sad story of why I organise this. I don’t want her pity.
Tom stands tall next to his photograph, and he’s right. The black-and-white image of a derelict building reflected in a puddle is powerful.
“Well done,” I say, and he glows.
“This is amazing, did you take that photograph?” Ella studies the photos.
“Yeah. You like it?” Tom’s gaze flicks between the two of us, obviously conflicted as to whether he should talk to her. Natural instincts warring. Should he attempt to flirt with the gorgeous woman who is closer to his age than mine, or will self-preservation win out? Because I know I’m glowering.
“This is Ella, Tom. My fiancée.” I can’t help the possessive snarl I end on.
“Nice to meet you,” Tom mutters, glancing at me warily. He doesn’t know I’m a dangerous kingpin. All these kids are aware of is that I’m their exacting teacher for one afternoon a week.
I draw Ella closer to me. I did not think through how I would feel about anyone else looking at my girl, especially in that dress. Pride wars with jealousy—no—I’m not jealous, I’mterritorial. She’s mine—as we walk through the first room of artworks, the urge to show her off is stronger, but only just. I introduce her to each student as we look at their work, always as,my fiancée, Ella.
I keep my palm in the small of her back, or tuck her hand into the crook of my arm as I guide her through the art exhibition, and gradually, the need to keep her for myself gets under control and the enjoyment of showing her off wins out, even as people come to greet us with barely disguised interest in Ella. We look at a dozen pieces, the students eager to show me their portfolios. There’s prestige in being the highest bid item at this event. It might be only for student work, but over the years I’ve ensured art scouts, and all sorts of influential people attend.
Ella catches sight of a painting on the other side of the room, and I can feel how she wants to go. But she stays glued to my side as I talk with a student. My good little assistant.
“Now, my fiancée is desperate to see our resident bookworm’s piece,” I say when the student—one of the less talented kids in all honesty, but I give her time and attention anyway—has finished gushing. “And since Ella is a fellow reader, I’m going to indulge her.”
I look down at Ella, who blushes scarlet.
“What do you like to read?” the student asks Ella politely, and there’s a beat of silence where I wonder what Ella is going to come up with.
“Science fiction. Mostly,” she says faintly.
Sure. Is that what we’re calling it now? What she was reading was definitely nothing less than pure girl porn. “Come on, let’s take you to your home planet,science fictionfan.”
Hiding my amusement, I lead her over to the picture that caught her interest, and Ella stands and stares at the canvas.
