Page 15 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I lean over and kiss her cheek, catching the sweet scent of the organic coconut oil she uses to soften her skin. “Good night, Grandma.”
She cackles. “Good night, John Boy.”
I send my driver a text that I’m ready to be picked up, slide from the booth, gather my handbag and cashmere throw, and then slowly walk through the restaurant toward the front door with my head held high and my behind swaying. I don’t look back.
I’m unfamiliar with the man Parker has grown into in the past fifteen years, but my hunch, knowing men the way I do, is that he isn’t used to having women be indifferent to his advances. My other hunch is that his pride won’t like it, or let it slide. If I’m right, he’ll do something to try to catch my attention before I get in the car.
I stand just inside the door, staring out into the driving rain, pretending to be lost in thought while I’m really counting down from ten.
Four. Three. Two—
“I hope you enjoyed your meal, Ms. Price.”
One of the more difficult things I’ve done in my thirty-three years: not smirked at this moment.
I turn and look at Parker from over my shoulder. I’d forgotten how tall he is; I’m gazing quite a way up. “It was…interesting.” Dismissively, I turn back to the window.
Parker moves a step closer. He stands beside me. His shoulder is almost touching mine. I’m hyper-aware of the distance between us, of the almost-but-not-quite-ness of his proximity. It’s breathtakingly difficult to stand still, even more difficult to keep my tongue and my fists in check.
He’s still in as much unwitting danger as he has been all night. There’s no guarantee that I won’t snap at any moment, turn, and drive my thumbs into his eye sockets.
Beside me, he stares silently out into the rain. I’m startled when he says in a quiet, melancholy voice, “I’ve always loved the rain. Some of my best memories involve rainfall.”
It hangs there between us. I can’t tell if he’s baiting me or just making conversation. I hardly know up from down right now.
Because I lost my virginity to this man during a thunderstorm when I was sixteen years old. In a barn, of all places. I can still smell the hay and the horses, hear the thunder, see the brief, brilliant flicker of lightning illuminate the night. I can still see him above me, staring down at me with wonder in his eyes.
I can still feel his mouth on my skin.
Some new emotion rises up inside me. It shaves a hair off my hostility, and brings the hot prick of tears to my eyes. I don’t recognize this emotion, but I hope never to feel it again.
I swallow around the rock that’s formed in my throat. “I hate it. It’s rained on all the worst nights of my life.”
I feel his piercing sideways glance. I wish the earth would experience an extinction level event and I’d be conveniently rescued from the acute misery of this moment. A giant asteroid would do the trick.
Then—mercifully—a sleek black Mercedes pulls around the corner. It rolls to a stop in front of the curb.
“That’s me.” Grateful for the reprieve, I turn to Parker and extend my hand. “Thank you for dinner. I appreciate your generosity.”
Another trait he’s had since adolescence. And another thing I’d forgotten until now: how he was always so giving, always so thoughtful, always so concerned with everyone else.
Until he wasn’t.
Parker takes my hand and holds it. His eyes burn into mine. “Ms. Price. It’s been a singular pleasure meeting you.”
His hand is big and warm. I like the feel of it entirely too much. Coolly, I withdraw.
“Mr. Maxwell. Good evening.”
I turn for the door. Parker opens it for me before I can even reach for the handle. When he sees me exit the restaurant, my driver leaps from the car and opens the rear door.
Parker walks me from the restaurant to the car with an umbrella he’s magically procured from somewhere, held over my head, protecting me from the rain. I step carefully over a puddle. Blocking the driver, Parker takes hold of my hand as I lower myself into the car.
He bends down to look at me. Rain pours off the umbrella, soaking his lower legs, trousers and shoes. He ignores it. Looking deep into my eyes, he says in a low voice, “I want to see you again. There’s a charity gala I’m attending next Friday evening. Come with me.”
I must be coming down with something. I haven’t felt this fevered and shaky in years.
“How do you know I’m not married?”
