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I’m just starting to relax, glad that Lukas has moved on to torturing someone else, when I sense his presence behind me again.

Ocean.

Mint.

Smoke.

Danger.

His beard tickles my ear. “If you don’t do it yourself,” he whispers, “I’m going to swipe all the dishes off this table and strip them off you in front of everybody.” He sighs, like that’s not such a bad idea after all. “Your choice.”

Then he’s gone again.

Preston is still talking. At the very least, his mouth is moving. But his voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away.

I stare at my glass, noticing how the tremors in my hand are making the wine swish up and down the sides.

He wouldn’t.

… Would he?

That’s a very dumb question. I know for afacthe would.

Gulping, I let one hand fall to my side. I adjust in my seat, casual as anything, like I’m just trying to get comfortable after three hours of sitting on this unforgiving chair. That free hand gets a fistful of cloth and starts to hike my skirt up.

“—and the look in their eyes when I bought it out from right under their noses, Rae, you wouldn’t believe?—”

“Mhmm,” I say. “Incredible.”

Once I’ve scrunched it up high enough, my hand ducks under the hem, just like Lukas’s did in Kir’s meeting. My fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear. I work the fabric down my hips with tiny, incremental movements. A millimeter at a time. Preston gestures expansively, describing some vineyard in Napa, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m currently doing something highly inappropriate beneath this white linen tablecloth.

My face is scorching. I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks like I’ve developed a sudden, localized fever.

The lace catches on my thighs. I shift again, crossing my ankles, and use the motion to ease the fabric past my knees.

“—and the color, God, thecolor?—!”

“So beautiful,” I croak. “Colors. Love them.”

Down past my calves now. Almost there. The underwear pools around my ankles.

Then, at the last second, it catches on my heel.Fuck.

I reach down, pretending to adjust my shoe strap. My fingers fumble beneath the table as I try to blindly unhook lace from leather.

Preston pauses mid-sentence. “You okay? Drop something?”

“Just my shoe,” I say, voice strangled. “Buckle came loose.”

“Here, let me?—”

“No!” I shout. Then, softer: “No, I’ve got it. Almost… there. All good!”

The underwear finally comes free. I ball it in my fist, a tiny scrap of black lace, still warm from my body, and sit up straight.

Preston is staring at me. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Rae? You’ve gone quite red.”

“Seasonal stuff.” I start to wave a hand toward the windows as a way of explanation, then realize that hand contains my panties, so I clamp it back down. “The flowers.” I point with my chin at the blooming centerpiece of our table. “Very… pollen-y.” In my head, I wonder how much longer I can keep using that excuse to get me out of terribly painful social situations.