Page 60 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
Oh boy. The idiots are begging for another knife to be thrown. But Eliza wouldn’t aim to miss.
‘I can’t deny you have flair, but you’re too showy.’
‘I’ll make no apologies for panache,’ she replies.
The two of them have been at each other for months, always trying to outdo each other. Exhausting.
‘Enough,’ Dad says. ‘After the wedding, we’ll track down the fucker and cut him into cubes to give anyone else considering it pause.’
I sigh and slouch down in my seat, wanting to get back upstairs to make sure my captive hasn’t made a run for it.
The dress is Eliza’s idea.
It’s deep green silk, cut to skim my curves. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. It’s so low at the front that I keep tugging it up, convinced that everyone can see my tits. If that’s not bad enough, the back dips low enough that I worry someone might see my arse crack.
Eliza beams. ‘You look incredible, Mags. Stop faffing with it.’
‘I feel half bloody naked.’
The dinner party is already in full swing. Filled with music from the string quartet and the chinking of glasses. I only half-recognise most of the people, all looking utterly chic, like they’d just tumbled off Savile Row. Amongst the strange faces, I see some I know. Friends of my dad, work associates, politicians and other people with more morals than money.
And then, like a god descending from Olympus, Roman appears on the stairs.
In a tux.
It’s dark and fitted and panty-wettingly snug around his muscled thighs. He looks fucking delicious. My brain feels like it glitches with every step he takes towards me.
He catches sight of me and stops for half a second, just long enough for his eyes to travel over me in a way that’s utterly salacious. By the time he’s in front of me, I may as well have flaring heart eyes jumping out of my sockets.
‘You look incredible, Princess.’
I laugh, because if I don’t, I might melt into the carpet. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
There’s a subtle shift between us. An ignition.
The night wears on in a thousand dull conversations, no one quite sure who they can talk openly with in a roomful of people.
Roman leads me to the dancefloor. The band is good, and being pressed up against Roman is even better. We’re close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear as we talk. Close enough that the line between pretending and not pretending becomes fuzzier with each sway of his hips. I can’t deny the attraction I feel towards him. This man who I yanked out of his life and dragged into mine. This man, who, despite that, doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.
It’s kinda nice.
Then Eddie cuts in.
He doesn’t ask. He just steps between us and pulls me into his arms.
‘My turn,’ he says and, before I can object, he’s guiding me around the floor, his fingers hard against my spine.
I stiffen. ‘Eddie?—’
‘Relax, my sweet pea,’ he murmurs, leaning in as if I want to dance with him. ‘People are watching.’
Of course they are.
‘I’m not your fucking sweet pea, Eddie.’
I catch sight of Roman, who stands to the side, Eliza’s hand firmly on his chest as she talks harshly into his ear.
I dance because causing a scene might upset my father. Eddie’s grip tightens, and I feel sick when he shudders against me.
