Page 10 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Luna

H e asked me first. I turned him down. So, really, I have no reason to bitch about how Camy is clinging to Dom like static at the overly gilded Forsyth Legacy Ball.

I lied to Dom and told him I had a date…

and technically , I do—if you count Stella, whom I dragged here as my plus-one.

Noah’s traveling, and she had dreams of spending her evening tending her garden or reading in her gazebo.

But friendship made demands, and she relented—grudgingly, and with very little grace.

The only reason I’m at this pompous event is that two of my clients are here, and Nina ordered, “ Go network .”

I hate this kind of thing. It’s overrun with Savannah’s elite, all gathered to sip champagne and pretend they’re changing the world with overpriced silent auctions and crocodile tears.

In the things I don’t hate about this thing…Dom looks good .

He always looks good, but in a tux… yummy !

Camy looks good, I’ll give her that—albeit reluctantly. Her long blonde hair is artfully tousled, her fire-engine red lipstick is still flawless. Mine disappeared after the first glass of champagne and a round of canapés.

Camy’s wearing high heels; I’m in sensible flats, even though they’re Chanel.

She’s poured into a shiny Versace number that clings to every curve like it was designed with only her in mind.

I, on the other hand, am in a cream Armani silk dress—simple, understated, elegant.

It drapes over me like a whisper, skimming the body without announcing it.

It’s not a sexpot outfit, but it looks good. Classy.

Wasn’t it Oscar de la Renta who said, “ Armani dresses the wife, Versace dresses the mistress ”? Maybe it was Anna Wintour? Either way, the sentiment seems apropos tonight.

Next time, maybe I can bring the heat. Perhaps some Versace, or go completely off-center with Gaultier. Gucci could work, too—chaotic, good with a killer heel?

I know the game. I just don’t always feel the need to play it. Or even remember to do so.

For example, I was going to wear some dangly earrings, but I forgot so I still have my small diamond studs.

And my hair? It’s washed and conditioned. Can anyone ask for more?

I watch as Dom and Camy go up the staircase of the old Savannah Cotton Exchange, a building with more ghosts than good intentions.

It’s all red brick, carved stone lions (I kid you not), and so much gold-painted shit that it feels like Midas ran amok in here.

The ballroom is dripping in crystal and candlelight.

Chandeliers sparkle overhead, throwing flattering shadows across fake smiles and old money arrogance.

Everything smells like florals and obligation.

There’s a string quartet playing near the staircase, something classical and vaguely self-important.

Mahler? Really?

The irony of hosting a philanthropic event in a place built on the back of exploitation isn’t lost on me.

But this is what we do in Savannah. We show up. We pretend. And we do it well. Oscars for everyone!

Camy rests her hand on Dom’s shoulder, and he slips his arm around her waist.

My stomach twists.

Nova whispers something beside me. I can’t hear her over the blood rushing in my ears.

“If looks could kill, Savannah would need a new architect.” Stella swipes another glass of champagne from a waiter passing by.

“I can’t believe he told me they aren’t dating,” I mutter.

Hot tears threaten to fall down my face, but I hold them back.

A girl has her pride.

No boyfriend. No Dom. But, yeah, plenty of pride.

Dom dips his head to hear something Camy says—she’s short, five-five to his six-three. I’m five-eleven.

Camy laughs and kisses Dom’s cheek .

Motherfucker! I’m going to cut the bitch.

“Now, now, darlin’, he asked you first,” Aurora warns.

“I don’t care.” I drink my champagne aggressively.

“What are you plannin’ to do?” Nova asks lazily.

“I don’t know.”

“You gonna keep it legal?” Stella wants to know.

“Maybe.” I finish the champagne and beckon a waiter.

“I don’t think you should mix drinking and homicidal intent,” Aurora notes, her eyes flashing concern.

“I thought that was alcohol and antibiotics.” I flash her a sarcastic grin.

“She’s fine.” Stella slaps my ass playfully. “Just having buyer’s remorse.”

“Or rather, avoider’s remorse,” Aurora retorts seriously, but there’s mischief in her eyes.

“Are y’all done havin’ fun at my expense?” I give them all withering looks.

“We’re laughing with you, hon, never at you,” Stella lies.

I eat dinner. I mingle. I smile. I fake it. Big time!

Then just as I’ve had enough because the dancing has begun and no fucking way am I seeing Camy and Dom dance right after he and I danced around my kitchen, I feel him behind me.

His cologne. His heat. I want to moan and lean into him, take him in.

“Dance with me,” he commands as he wraps me into him and sweeps me onto the dance floor.

He didn’t ask for permission, but I don’t care.

I don’t look at Camy. I don’t look at the crowd. I just follow his lead.

The music is slow. Our bodies fit without trying.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

“Yeah, right!”

“You are. Like a bright candle amongst all the dark suits.”

He swings me around.

I know just how to move with him. We’ve done this dance before. Many. Many. Many times .

“You said Camy isn’t your girlfriend,” I accuse him.

“She isn’t.” He whirls me.

“But—”

“I came stag. Well…with Lev. She’s here with Tommy. She’s not with me.”

I look up at him. “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

His eyes heat up. “I’ve never lied to you.”

I swallow. “But you broke me. Let me down.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“You did, I saw?—”

“No,” he repeats firmly. “I didn’t cheat on you. Haven’t touched a woman for two years since I decided I’m coming back to Savannah, to you.”

I gasp.

“Every woman I’ve been with…fuck, Luna, paled.”

I lick my lips. I can’t believe he’s saying these things. I can’t believe the things he’s saying.

“I saw you with?— ”

“No.” This time, he punctuates the word by pulling me closer.

And then, God help me, I kiss him.

The world stops. Then starts. Then moves in slow motion.

“Moonbeam.” His mouth nuzzles mine.

I open for him, taste him.

Bourbon.

Coffee.

Dom.

I know his flavors. I know how he feels. I know how he is. I know him .

He pushes his hips against mine.

He’s hard.

I’m wet.

I want.

I want.

I want.

The song stops. We stop.

I step away, shaken.

I can’t believe what happened. I can’t believe I let it happen. I can’t believe I initiated it.

I can’t believe I kissed Dominic Calder in front of all of Savannah.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I run from Dom, from the dance floor, from my hunger for him….