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She’d sent Libby to sleep at her mother’s.
Her palms slicked. Soon, Damian would pick her up. She could have driven there, but he insisted on giving her a ride. She’d been driving the Land Rover for the past few days—while she tried to get a good quote on her clunker from the junkyard. Anything would help.
She heard the doorbell and took a deep breath one more time before dashing to the door and opening it to find the most magnificent male looking at her. God. Her knees nearly buckled, and she exhaled like she’d ran the annual Tulip marathon. Shiiit. “Hey.”
“Hi,” he answered. A dark grey jacket outlined his strong, broad shoulders. Inside, a high-end shirt and a tie, along with slacks, completed the look.
She picked her purse from the shelf and locked the door behind her. “How are the kids?”
“Oh, they are good. Mrs. Smith is great with them.”
“She is.”
“Yeah.”
During the drive to the party, she tried to approach a variety of subjects from the safety of weather to the dangerous spectrum of politics, but he either nodded or gave her monosyllabic answers. Could it be he’s upset he’s taking me? Mr. O’Donnell had insisted, so Damian complied. Wouldn’t he rather though go by himself so he could be a free agent and flirt with women in his league?
Ugh.She looked out the window, deciding not to overwhelm him with more attempts at a conversation. Either something bothered him or distracted him.
By the time he gave his sportscar to a valet to park, the conundrum had eased from her mind. She didn’t have this kind of opportunity every day, so she needed to make the most of it. Her stomach growled, and she coughed at the same time to distract from the sound. Now that she had fit into the damn dress, she could indulge in an appetizer or two. But what if she ate too much and the seams gave up on her?
“Brittany,” he called, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Come.”
She shook her head. He never called her by her full first name—her mother was the only person with that privilege. She clenched her purse, and tried to keep up with his long strides as they entered the glorious mansion of Bill O’Donnell.
Dozens of people gathered in the spacious living area, some milling around the dramatic, curvy set of stairs, others laughing and drinking while a catering crew made their rounds with trays of canapes.
A waiter carried a tray filled with champagne glasses, and Damian took one and chugged it down at once. Then he placed the empty flute on another tray a different waiter carried.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
“Yeah. Why do you ask?”
Because you’re acting like a jerk. “No reason,” she said.
He took her to the gardens outside, where string lights adorned the walls and in between posts. The area looked like something from a whimsical tale, with bright tents. In each tent, a bartender did tricks and fixed cocktails and drinks.
“Damian and Brit. What a pleasure,” said a male voice behind them.
Bill, impeccably dressed and with a gorgeous blonde woman at his side, walked up to them.
“Thanks for having us,” she said.
“My pleasure. Please meet my wife, Candi.”
“Hi,” she said.
“Nice to meet you. What a surprise, Damian brought a date,” Candi said, but her gaze slid up and down Damian’s form. Brit detected a trace of uneasiness in her voice, but she didn’t want to jump the gun and label it as jealousy.
Date.The word brought an ardor to Brit’s chest. She’d spent so long convincing herself tonight was not a date, but to hear it from someone else, even if not true, awakened the desire inside her. Fuck, she needed to date again. Missed male companionship.
“This is Brit,” Damian said and put his arm around her.
“Nice.”
The band played a modern remake of a good jazzy song. “This party is amazing. The band is lovely,” she said.
“Wanna put it to the test?” Bill said, offering her his arm. “Would you like to dance?”
