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My chest tightens at the sting of rejection, so I wrench my elbow out of Foster’s grip as we approach our table. I didn’t recognize anyone there, but I sit before Foster can assist me, finishing what is left in my glass. When a server passes, I summon them and ask for another drink.
“I told you not to drink too much,” Foster hisses.
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
I ignore him as I strike up a conversation with the woman to my right. She is wearing a short black dress which shows off her ample cleavage. Her fire-red hair is loose around her shoulders, and she keeps pushing it off them as we speak. In a matter of minutes, I find out how her father owns one of the largest export companies in the United States. I like her immediately.
In between salads and our entrees, Foster talks me into a dance. The song is slow, and he holds me against his chest, planting kisses on the top of my head. I know it was all for show. I’m sure his father is watching us. When the song ends, I pushed out of his arms and head for the table. Even though my head is starting to spin, the rest of my third martini is calling my name.
“I don’t feel well,” I whisper as the waiter placed a plate of filet mignon in front of me. The smell is making me sick.
“You drank too much,” Foster hisses.
“Can we go?”
“I thought you would never ask.”
Foster excuses us, saying I’m not feeling well. At the coat check, he holds me steady as I try to secure the cape around myself.
“I can’t do it,” I groan.
“Leave it. Peters is waiting out front.”
“I’m dizzy.”
“It doesn’t surprise me with all you had to drink. What did you expect?”
I say nothing as he steers me through the lobby and to the waiting limo. Once inside, I kick off my shoes and rub my feet. I should know better than to wear new shoes before I’ve broken them in.
“Let me have them,” Foster orders.
“I don’t need your help or sympathy.”
“Christ, Paige, you’re so fucking stubborn. If I knew, I might have thought twice.”
“Fuck you, Foster. I’ve had enough acting for the night. Let’s go back to hating each other.”
His expression tightens. “Is that what you think? You think I hate you?”
“I have no other explanation for your attitude toward me.”
“I don’t hate you; quite the opposite.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I can’t let emotions cloud my judgment.”
“God forbid,” I mumble, pressing my nose against the window. The coolness of the glass feels good as I try to stop my head from spinning.
“I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t,” he says.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
I hear Foster slide across the seat, and then I feel his hand cupping my chin to turn my head toward him. “I could let myself fall for you, but I can’t. Maybe in another life or time, but not now.”
In the dim light of the limo interior, I notice that his eyes are full of sincerity. “Why?”
“I can’t deal with more heartbreak. I have too much going on.”
