Page 7

Stella

I should be embarrassed to be this eager to get back to Thomas. But what can I say? The boy’s fascinating.

I’ve been enjoying slowly unwrapping him, seeing what each new layer reveals. A Formula 1 driver who apparently feels like he’s no longer living the dream, with a family breathing down his neck to get married? Fucking delicious. I don’t even need to flirt with him. I just want to sit him down for an in-depth interview like I’m Oprah. Flirting’s just an added bonus.

Moving on to the next event means we can get back to talking. Or maybe a little more than that. I didn’t mind his hands on me while we were on the bus, and the way he gripped my neck before we sat down for dinner was…Well, it was hot. Panty-wettingly hot to be precise. Prince Charming, with his perfect hair and his polished words, clearly has a darker streak underneath the shiny exterior. Another layer to peel away.

Also, I’m verging on drunk. Each course has come with a wine pairing, and even though I haven’t finished off any of the glasses, it’s been a lot. I’ve only taken a few sips of this delicious dessert wine—why the hell wasn’t I drinking this nectar of the gods while I was hiding out at home?—but I’m cutting myself off. I’ve got a pleasant buzz going, the kind where I can’t keep the grin off my face or stop the heat in my belly from dipping lower every time Thomas and I lock eyes across the table.

Fuck, he’s handsome.

Pretty boys, unfortunately, have always been my type, but Thomas is a little more rugged than étienne. Sharper jaw. Thicker neck. A certain something radiating off him that has me nearly giggling. Did I ever feel like that with étienne? I must have at some point, probably in the beginning…but for the life of me, I can’t remember. I don’t think I want to.

Mika was right. I owe him nothing. But I do owe it to myself to do whatever makes me happy after being miserable for weeks. Months. Years , even, if I’m willing to be truthful with myself. How did I ignore it for so long?

Don’t go there , the little voice in the back of my head warns. So I won’t. Instead, I’ll focus on the pretty race car driver who’s currently sitting too far away from me.

Thomas has relaxed some since the start of dinner. Like most of the men at the table, he’s ditched his tuxedo jacket, and his bow tie is hanging loose around his neck. The moment he rolled his sleeves up to show off strong, veined forearms, I nearly choked on my wine. But I’m enjoying this version of him a little too much. I almost want the buttoned-up parliament-smiling Thomas back. The Victorian gentleman. That one was easier to control myself around.

Because this one? This isn’t Prince Charming anymore. This is a rogue.

Heaven help my pussy full of cobwebs. My self-control needs to be Herculean once we leave here. And judging by the waiters clearing away plates and glasses, it’s almost time to go.

Thomas is behind me the second I push back my chair, offering a hand to help me stand. I take it without a second thought because, one, I’m already swaying. And two, I’ve kind of missed him touching me.

“That was unbearable ,” I groan as we step back and wait for the slightly drunker and slower-moving guests to finally budge. “Those guys were so boring. It’s like all they knew how to talk about was soccer. Pardon me, football .”

Thomas let go of my hand once I was standing, but our fingers brush again down by our sides. I don’t know if it’s accidental or on purpose. “At least you didn’t get stuck between Rachel and Sydney,” he mumbles in reply. “Now that was a nightmare.”

“I thought you liked them?” He at least tolerated them earlier.

“I like you better.” He pauses as the words settle like embers in my chest, but he doesn’t seem to realize the effect they’ve had on me. “Also, Rachel kept stealing food from my plate, and Sydney moaned every time she took a bite. Loudly. It was all very rude.”

I let out a less-than-flattering wheeze of a laugh, pressing a hand to my mouth to smother it, but Thomas grins down at me, apparently not minding the sound.

He’s standing incredibly close. Close enough that I can see that his eyes are ringed by a darker shade of blue and his eyelashes are even longer than I originally thought. It’s too intimate for a man I’ve essentially just met. And yet I find myself shifting toward him, leaning in, letting my shoulder rest against his. My body is inclined to believe we’ve known each other for ages. When his hand cups my hip, I get the sense that I’m not the only one who feels that way.

“Let’s go!” cries a voice from the doors to the private room, and I glance away from Thomas to see Ron waving us out.

“Oh God,” Thomas grumbles. “What fresh horror is next?”

“Strip club,” I remind him, and there’s that grimace again. “It’s gonna be a blast .”

Thankfully, our next stop is only a short walk away instead of another ride on the bus, and he keeps me pressed to his side for the journey. It’s mostly for my benefit—these heels were definitely the wrong choice for a night of drinking, plus Daphne has once again made herself known with several loud huffs from behind us—but I’m convinced that he can’t keep his hands off me. I shouldn’t be so flattered, but goddamn, I’m going to bask in it while I can.

I know we’ve reached our destination when thudding bass vibrates through the air, and then two very large bouncers appear as we turn a corner.

“We’re splitting up for this next endeavor!” Janelle calls from her place between the bouncers. She looks like a five-foot fairy princess next to them in her puff-sleeved dress. “Ladies, with me. Boys, you’re with the groom.”

Thomas’s hand tightens on my hip before falling away, and my stomach drops. It’s such a silly reaction, because this is what I wanted all along—separate parties for the bride and groom. But now that it’s presented itself, it’s no longer an appealing idea.

“See you on the other side,” Thomas says regretfully.

I nod. “Unless you get smothered by a stripper’s awesomely large bosom and don’t make it out alive.”

He considers the idea for a moment. “There are worse ways to go. Hope you enjoy your lap dance lessons.”

“Can’t wait to watch all these girls hump empty chairs.”

“If you want, you can imagine it’s me you’re giving that lap dance to,” he offers.

“Now I’m really not interested,” I protest, but his smirk tells me he can see right through me.

An arm hooking around mine prevents me from saying a proper goodbye, because the next thing I know, I’m being dragged toward the now open doors of the club by Daphne.

“What the hell has gotten into you, Stella?” she hisses in my ear as we step past the bouncers. “Why are you acting like this?”

I have to stifle a gleeful giggle as I blink at her. “Like what?” I ask innocently.

Whatever she says next is lost to the music, which pours from speakers into the dark, vast space. We’re up on a landing that encircles the outer edge of the room, with a bar on either side and a few more arched doorways like the one we just walked through. Three steps down is the main pit, where there are curved booths, standing tables with red velvet lamps on them, and wide leather armchairs. They’re all placed to have a perfect vantage of the massive stage. A few gleaming poles extend up from it and disappear into the draped black fabric that hides the ceiling with its dips and folds.

As far as strip clubs go—and I’ve seen a handful in my time—this one is luxurious. Guess I should have expected as much from Janelle. Like Mika and me, girl’s got expensive taste.

Daphne is still yapping in my ear, saying something about how I’m not being true to myself and how Janelle will be so disappointed with my behavior, but between the whiskey and the wine, I can’t bring myself to pay her any mind. I’m warm and loose and determined to make the best of this time away from the distraction of boys.

I wrangle my arm free from her grip and take a few quick steps to catch up with Janelle, who’s leading us to one of the doorways on the left. Grabbing her hand, I link our fingers together, and swing them back and forth like we’re a couple of kids.

“Hi, bride,” I greet her. Other than hugging hello when I first stepped onto the party bus earlier, we haven’t gotten a chance to spend time together tonight. “How you doin’?”

Janelle beams up at me, her big brown eyes a little glassy from whatever she’s been drinking, but otherwise she’s flawless. And she doesn’t seem disappointed in me at all, so Daphne can go suck an egg.

“Oh, Stella,” she says, and I’m starting to wonder if her eyes look that way because she’s on the verge of happy tears. “I’m so glad you came.”

I squeeze her hand tighter, emotion welling up in my throat. “I wanted to be here for you.”

“I know,” she reassures as we step through the doorway into a wide back hall decorated with tasteful black-and-white photos of models through the decades. “But you’ve been through so much lately, I would have understood.”

Janelle is like a big sister to me. Our five-year age gap meant she went through nearly everything before me and passed down that knowledge. And everything she didn’t—like marriage—we wanted to experience together, thus our closely scheduled weddings.

So much for that working out.

“Well, thanks for insisting I come along, even though your groom’s friends are kind of boring,” I tease, refusing to get lost in the ache in my chest.

Since we were planning our weddings at the same time, we agreed that we wouldn’t make each other participate in our respective bridal parties. We were both just too busy, especially with our demanding careers on top of everything. It’s why I wasn’t involved in the organization of this combined bachelor-bachelorette night, or else I would have strongly advised against it. Then again, she may not have been completely off-base with the choice.

Janelle snickers. “I swear, the only thing most of them know how to talk about is soccer.”

“I know! I was telling that to—” I cut short, not wanting to give away whatever I’ve sparked with Thomas. Even though she’s a little drunk, she’ll catch on to my interest. “To Daphne.”

She brightens. “You guys talked?”

“You could say that.”

“I’m so glad.” Janelle tugs me closer. “I know you two haven’t always seen eye to eye, but thank you for making an effort tonight. It means a lot.”

I’ve yet to tell her my theory that Daphne was the one responsible for leaking the details about my wedding, and I’m certainly not about to spill it now, but one day I’ll share my suspicions.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I say as we approach a woman in a black latex dress who’s holding a clipboard and standing outside a closed door. “Definitely making an effort. Big effort. Huge.”

Thankfully, Janelle’s distracted by the woman in front of us, and I avoid anything more than a furrowed brow before she’s smiling again. As they chat, I look behind me to find Daphne glowering in my direction. I give her a little finger wave with my free hand. She looks like she’s tempted to say something, but a whoosh of air from a door opening has me turning back around.

The woman in the latex dress ushers us into the room with a grand wave of her arm, and Janelle tugs me in with a squeal. It’s a private suite, thankfully big enough to fit all twenty of us, with plenty of space to move about as everyone rushes in. There are a handful of white leather couches, a pole in the center of the room, and a small bar pressed against the wall that has flutes of champagne waiting for us.

Janelle drags me over to it and shoves a glass into my hands. “Down that. Right now.”

“What? Why?”

“Believe me,” she insists, taking two quick steps backward. “You’re going to want it for what’s next.”

Well, I’m not about to challenge her on that, so I chug like a champ, grab another glass, and drop down on one of the couches next to Rachel.

“Do you have any idea what’s—” I start to ask her, but I’m interrupted by the frog-croak-sounding first bars of the song blasting from the speakers.

Oh no. I know this song. It’s a classic, albeit a slightly overplayed one, but Ginuwine’s “Pony” means only one thing. My fears are confirmed when a shirtless, glistening Adonis of a man strolls through the door, followed by far too many of his equally attractive comrades.

“I know I said we were going to learn how to give lap dances,” Janelle shouts over the chaos that’s exploded all around us. “But I figured we should get them too!”

I’m in a Magic Mike hellscape, but Channing Tatum is nowhere to be found. Not to say that these men don’t have impressive…features. But nothing about oil-slick abs and banana hammocks is doing it for me tonight. An Englishman in a tux who finds me funny and would rather talk than thrust his package in my face is, shockingly, more my speed right now.

When one of the strippers sets his sights on me, I shove my drink into Rachel’s hands and then spring up from the couch, narrowly avoiding the man’s touch. This dress is far too expensive for it to end up covered in baby oil and overpowering cologne.

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom,” I shout to Janelle when she tries to push me back down. “Way too much wine at dinner! Don’t want to accidentally pee on one of these guys, you know?”

It’s a gross excuse, and I get a look of disgust, though she waves me off. “Hurry back!”

I will do no such thing, but I nod enthusiastically and then book it.

I wasn’t lying to Janelle about having to pee, so I search for signs indicating where the bathrooms are. I spot one farther down the hall and start toward it, passing by another private suite on the way, and I can’t resist the urge to peek around the ajar door. Lo and behold, I’ve found all the men from our party having their own experience with topless dancers. I’m searching for Thomas before I even register what I’m doing, more curious than I should be about how he’s handling this turn of events.

I bite my lip to keep from cackling when I spot him. He’s on one of the couches with his arms draped across the back, smiling in that powdered-wig way as a woman with the best boob job I’ve ever seen twerks in his lap. He’s barely watching her masterful ass clapping, glancing down every so often as if to confirm that, yes, it’s still happening, but otherwise he looks like he’s just waiting for it to be over.

I don’t stay long enough to see what he does next, scrambling down the hall before I pee my pants from laughing too hard. As it is, there are tears in my eyes, because of course he’s the kind of man to politely accept a lap dance and then try to act like he isn’t hating every second of it.

It’s not like I would have faulted him for enjoying it, but it’s even funnier to see him so out of place. What gets me is that he’s a professional athlete—isn’t this just a normal Friday night for his kind? It certainly seemed that way for most of the footballers in the room.

Whatever. His eccentricities shouldn’t matter to me, but I can’t deny that this has endeared him to me a little more. As much as I like the rogue I saw glimpses of, I’ve got a soft spot for the prince.

The bathroom is empty when I step inside, and I make quick work of ducking into a stall. When I’m done, I head to the sink to wash my hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I do. My mascara is a little smudged and my setting powder is working hard to hold back a glow, but I look good. I look… alive . I even look happy, if the tipsy grin is anything to go by.

I needed this night. I needed Daphne provoking me. I needed a man who laughed at all my jokes. I even needed a stripper in tiny briefs to try to dry hump me.

I needed to see that the outside world hasn’t ended even though mine has imploded.

I finish washing my hands and dry them before grabbing my phone from my clutch. I fire off a text to Mika, updating her on the strippers and promising that I’ll give her the full rundown over FaceTime once I’m back in my hotel room. After tucking it away again, I push my way out of the bathroom but stop short when the door to the men’s room swings open across the hall.

Thomas steps out a moment later, a paper towel still in his hands as he finishes drying them. There’s a flash of surprise in his eyes when he finds me standing there, but it quickly shifts to something pleased. His smile widens as he tosses the balled paper towel into the waste bin to his left, not even looking to see if he made the shot. But he did. Of course he did.

“Well,” he says, gaze flicking appreciatively over me. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“You stalking me now?” I raise a brow and tilt my head to the side, trying so hard to play it cool, but it’s taking everything in me not to grin back at him. “Should I be worried?”

“As someone who’s had a stalker before, I’d normally say you should be.” He takes a step toward me, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But I’m not stalking you. Just lucky that we keep ending up in the same place.”

“That’s exactly what a stalker would say,” I point out, but I’m closing the distance between us. “Is everyone else so boring that you had to seek me out?”

“Honestly?” We’re practically in each other’s personal space now. If I leaned in a little more, our chests would brush. “I guess I wasn’t interested in having someone shake their ass in my face.”

“Is that what Ron is doing in there?” I ask, eyes wide with false horror. When he laughs and that newly familiar thrill rushes through me, I let the act fall away. “Same, though. I know I talked a big game about loving Thunder from Down Under, but when they actually showed up, I bailed.”

“Such a coward. Are you going to go back and try to be brave?”

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Me neither.”

“I’d love to leave,” I admit, sparing a glance down the hallway to make sure no one is about to come drag us back. “But I don’t want to disappoint Janelle by ditching before the night is over.”

She’d understand if I told her it was all too much too soon, but I’m determined to put myself as far out there as I can tolerate. Sticking around is part of that.

“I could get us a private room,” Thomas offers, and as appealing as that sounds, especially with the way his voice pitches a little lower, I shake my head.

“I don’t want to risk missing the others when they leave.” Still, there’s no way I’m going back to the girls and their boy toys. “Let’s grab a booth on the main floor. We can watch whoever’s onstage from a distance instead of having asses shaken directly in our faces.”

The hand he puts on my hip to gently turn me in the right direction sends heat blooming across my body. There’s a layer of fabric between his palm and my skin, and yet it feels searing, daring me to pull away. Instead, I place my own hand on top of his, keeping it there, and match him step for step as we make our way down the hall.

When we turn the corner and move through the archway to the main floor, Thomas’s hand slips out from under mine, but just like I did earlier when he seemed almost disappointed that I’d stopped touching him, he grabs me again. This time, he holds on to my fingers and lifts them to shoulder level as he moves sideways down the steps, carefully ushering me down them like he’s both helping me not trip and showing me off at the same time. There are seminude women on the stage not twenty feet from us, and yet his eyes are on me. It’s such an ego stroke that I nearly shiver.

“Let’s grab a spot over there,” he says once we’re on level ground, nodding to my right.

He keeps a loose grip on my fingers as he walks in front of me, only dropping them when we reach an empty table. The banquette around it is curved, allowing us to sit beside each other as we gaze out onto the club’s bustling floor and the stage, drinking it all in before turning back to each other.

The lights are low, colorful strobes passing over us every so often, and I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s a true work of art.

“All right?” Thomas asks, smiling back at me, though there’s a question in his eyes.

Right. Aimlessly staring at someone and not speaking isn’t exactly normal behavior. “Fine,” I answer, and cover up the reason for my silent admiration with a sly, “I was just thinking about how you never told me your type.”

And it’s true. He didn’t. He left it at not her when that beautiful, bubbly woman called him repeatedly. Hopefully he’s turned his phone off, because as nice as her picture made her look, I don’t want to be interrupted. Especially not by someone he clearly has history with. Tonight’s for new beginnings.

Thomas considers the question, eyes drifting to the stage where women with impressive core strength are defying gravity on poles. And yet when he looks back at me, I get the sense that he barely saw them.

“I like confident women,” he says, then corrects it to, “ Over confident women. Cocky women. The ones who don’t hold their tongues. Who know what they’re worth and don’t accept less. Who go after exactly what they want.”

His hand is resting on the leather-upholstered bench in the small space between us, but I swear the side of it brushes my leg as he says the last words. I can’t be sure, because I don’t dare look down.

I heave a disappointed sigh, even though my heart is fluttering. “Shame. That doesn’t sound like me at all.”