Page 22 of How to Ruin a Wedding
I walk over and plant myself in front of him with a polite smile. “Anders.”
“Lucinda,” he greets warmly, and heat spreads at the tips of my ears.
“You can call me Lucy,” I offer as I hang my tote on the chair.
“I like Lucinda.”
I tilt my head and gaze at him. His hair is perfectly tousled, his light-brown button-up somehow makes the flecks of gold in his eyes glow a little brighter at the center of their pools of green, and he’s missing the slight five o’clock shadow that was present when we first met.
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “You look beautiful. Your hair is nice too. Different.”
“Ah.” I twirl one of the bouncy curls reflectively. I didn’t have enough time after my shower to straighten it. “I usually wear it flat.”
“Both styles look good on you.”
Wow. Three compliments back-to-back in the span of thirty seconds. Is he making good on hisfuture endeavorpromise? Or is hesweet-talking me into whatever favor he needs? I have no idea whatIcould possibly do for him.
The waitress arrives for our drink order, and Anders asks for a flight of their best wines for us to try.
“Okay,” I say when she leaves, “I am so incredibly confused by you reaching out that I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say right now. If you can get straight to the point so I don’t have to keep scrambling to try and figure that out, I’d appreciate it.”
His dimples appear. When he opens his mouth, I hold up my finger. “Actually, if this is going to be a stressful and/or confrontational conversation, do I still get dinner out of this? I’m starving.”
His small smile becomes a full-blown one. “I guarantee you can have dinner, no matter where the conversation leads. Dessert included.”
“Phenomenal.”
The waitress leaves two flights of mini wineglasses and asks for our order. Anders asks for a steak and then points to the menu laid out in front of me. “The vegan burger is supposedly very good.”
My eyebrows quirk. “Did I tell you I was vegetarian?”
“Do you not remember?”
I sigh and order the burger. When the waitress leaves, I grab one of the glasses and down the dry wine like a shot. “I don’t remember much of that night,” I confess, grabbing the next glass over. “I’m not sure of everything I rambled about to you. I only remember the beginning of the evening, not the end.”
“I see. Well, you didn’t say or do anything embarrassing, if that helps.”
I snort. “Sweet of you to lie, but I know myself, and that is absolutely what happened.”
“Not to me.”
I narrow my eyes at his sincere expression and bring the glass to my lips. His gaze briefly flickers to where my mouth presses against the glass before reaching my eyes again, and my cheeks flush.
“Did we sleep together?” I blurt out. I’m sure we didn’t. I’m sure I would rememberthat—my body would, anyway—but I need confirmation. Just in case. To be sure. “I woke up with a shirt that wasn’t mine.”
“I walked you to your room, and we ended the night.” He tilts his head in debate about whether to add the next part. Then, “You said you wanted it because I smelled nice, so I gave it to you before leaving.”
The way he frames it lets me know he’s politely omitting a more dramatic scene, one where I said something a lot more sexual, or, worse, yanked it off him before he gently turned me down.
He doesn’t sound like he’s lying about nothing happening, but drunk me is a little more adventurous—and shameless—than sober me. “Be honest, did I make a move on you?”
“If you did, it would have been more than welcome.”
Which is a polite way of saying yes. I groan and rub my hand over my face, freezing when I remember I layered on mascara. I already acted insane around him; I don’t need to look the part too.
“Why are you sitting here with me and not running away? You have at least five reasons to.”
“I don’t want to.” He grabs a napkin. He then reaches over and cups my cheek in one hand, wiping the cloth over my skin with the other. I blink as he pulls away, spotting the black mascara staining the cloth as he places it on the table and continues, “And I need a favor.”
