Page 104 of Hate You More

“She’s around here someplace.” Powdering her nose. Regretting her life choices. Maybe wiping the taste of me from her lipstick.

“Well, don’t lose her already. Investors like a settled founder.”

“Oh, I have no intention of letting her get away.” Until at least three months are up. Three months to hurt me again. If I let her.

“Excellent! The share price certainly seems to like your choice.” He gives a booming laugh.

Next to me, Max rolls his eyes, kind of Get this asshole.

“Everyone loves a wedding.”

“Your wife.” Art lowers his voice a touch. “She comes from a family that understands the market. Longevity. Horizons.” He makes an expansive motion, and I ask myself when the fuck did this turn into a geography lesson?

I give an easy smile and a considering nod. “Clara knows the game.”

“That matters,” Art says. “Especially right now.” Tell me something I don’t know, asshole. “Continuity is king.”

“I like to think so.”

“So do I!” he says, clapping my shoulder. “Congratulations again.” And then he’s gone.

Max shakes his head. “It’s fucking wrong. Your marital status shouldn’t have shit to do with Table’s success.”

I knock the neck of my bottle to the rim of his glass. “Yet here we are, Maxi. Here we are.”

Chapter 29

Clara

“And then she said, ‘I cannot believe you slept with a prostitute.’”

Around the table, snickers and smiles abound as Hugo tells his story. I force myself to smile along with them, though I feel a hundred miles removed.

Dinner is over. Dancing has been checked from the list, and I’m currently ignoring how the graveyard of glasses is making my fingers itch. I wish someone would come and clear them away.

“So Uncle Tom retorted, ‘But you haven’t been interested in bedroom activities for years.’” Hugo continues to tell his animated story, one arm draped around his date. A woman who seems bored and has barely said two words. “To which Aunt Laura replied—”

Troy slides me a questioning look. I paint on a smile as, under the table, his hand gives mine a reassuring squeeze. I’m not sure why it makes my eyes feel glossy.

“—bearing in mind this is at the dinner table,” Hugo continues, “on Christmas Day and in the presence of children. ‘Well,’” he says, mimicking his aunt’s voice, “‘I didn’t know you’d be willing to pay!’”

Everyone laughs, and I join in like an automaton. Why is Troy holding my hand when no one can see? Because he wants to or because he’s just very thorough? I don’t trust my own head right now.

Tonight has been a lot, and I’m still mentally kicking myself for panicking during our dance floor kiss. And for saying the reason I hoofed it from the dance floor like the devil was on my heels was because I was overstimulated.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

It did feel like a sensory overload. His hands on me, my heart pounding in my chest, that aching raw sound that rose from his throat. I wanted to drag him into a dark corner and make out with him—really make out. The kind of kissing that leaves a girl breathless and tingling all over.

Overstimulated or just stimulated? Either or. Maybe a little of both. But what really made me run was the way my brain began to whir.

This feels real, not like another check to the optics opportunities list.

We said boundaries. Did he mean it? Do I care?

Or did he close his eyes because he really hates my face?

My body began to burn, and my dress suddenly felt like it was clinging to my skin like wet, itchy sand. The music seemed to grow louder, and a burst of laughter from a nearby table sounded like an evil clown in a carnival house of horrors. I pulled away—got away. Tried to find the restroom and almost walked into the men’s room instead.