Page 13 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Forrest

My date’s eyes dart over my shoulder to the precarious situation behind us for the millionth time.

It’s odd to see Celeste so unnerved. She owns a billion-dollar, celebrity-endorsed fashion empire.

She’s an icon amongst the Manhattan elite.

The world is at her fingertips, yet every time she sees her ex-husband, she visibly shrivels.

I’m really starting to hate that fucker.

The wedding band playing in the corner shifts to a slower song, something romantic.

I take the opportunity to unbutton my tux jacket and grab the bottom of her chair, yanking her closer to me.

With my lips grazing her earlobe, I drop my voice low.

“Celeste, honey, I’m going to need you to take a deep breath, and stop glancing over at your ex.

He’s going to notice you staring. You are blowing our cover. ”

Ignoring me, she looks over to his table and the voluptuous brunette he brought as his arm candy.

The woman laughs loudly from across the room.

Even from here, I can tell that was fake, simply a girl trying to appease her new sugar daddy.

She looks like she graduated from high school yesterday—barely legal.

That shit never used to bother me until I became a father.

“I’ll hand it to him, she’s pretty.”

“Are you jealous?” I ask her as I eye my glass, the champagne still bitter on my tongue from my last sip.

She pulls her head back, then fixes her gaze on me. “Not for the reasons you think.”

I run my thumb over her lip gently, so her deviously red lipstick doesn’t smudge. “He’s delirious with jealousy. It’s taking everything in him not to come over here and snatch you away.”

She scoffs, the corner of her mouth twitching. “He hasn’t looked at me even once?—”

“Because he’s been watching me. He’s busy sizing up his competition. Hate to say it, but he’s better at this game than you are.”

She slides me a disingenuous grin. “I take it as a compliment that Greg can easily out-petty me.”

“He accosted me at the bar while you were catching up with your friends,” I admit before taking another sip from my glass flute.

Honestly, I hate the smell and taste of champagne.

But I obediently drink whatever Celeste does without a complaint.

Getting paid four thousand dollars per night means I don’t grimace at expensive alcohol I don’t enjoy.

“Would you like another?” I ask, nodding to her empty flute.

“And have you risk another verbal lashing at the bar? No. What did Greg say to you?” She looks genuinely concerned, her forehead creasing with guilt perhaps, like she sent a puppy to a lion’s den.

“He just asked me how serious we were, and what my intentions were with his ex.”

It was actually more intense than I let on.

Twenty minutes ago, while I was dutifully fetching Celeste another glass of bubbly from the open bar, Greg cornered me.

He reeked of expensive cologne as he threatened me, whispering profanities with a clipped smile on his face, so no one would suspect his adult temper tantrum.

He called me a broke, small-dicked cabana boy—wrong on all three counts, by the way—and referred to Celeste as his spoiled leftovers. But she doesn’t need to know all that.

She lifts a well-manicured brow, surveying the wicked grin I’m wearing. “And what did you say?”

“I told him we preferred to keep our relationship status private. And as far as my intentions”—I playfully pump my brows—“I told him all I knew for certain is that I was going to tear your pretty dress to shreds before burying my face between your thighs all night.”

She roars in laughter. It’s the first authentic smile I’ve earned all night. “You did not, Forrest.”

“I most certainly did.”

“He probably doesn’t even care.” She shrugs it off, reaching for her empty glass, then sets it back down when she remembers she finished her drink.

“Let me grab you another,” I insist, scooting my chair back, but she wraps her hand around my forearm, keeping me in place. Her touch is cool against my hot skin, the tux jacket making me swelter. I can’t wait to take this thing off.

“I’m sure the server will come around shortly.

Just stay with me.” She keeps her head held high, but I see the anxiousness behind her eyes, the slight tremor in her lower lip.

Not only is Greg being here at their friends’ wedding an added stress, but over our past few dates, I’ve learned Celeste has social anxiety.

She loves being a fashion designer, but she hates being the face of her brand.

If she could do things her way, she’d stow away on a remote island.

Just her, a sketchbook, and a tropical breeze.

I weave my fingers between hers and squeeze twice, feeling the delicate bones of her hand. “I'm here. It’s okay. You’re doing great, by the way. My apologies to the bride, but you are the most captivating woman in the room tonight.”

“Except for my ex-husband’s latest conquest. She’s gorgeous.”

I’m biased. All I see in Greg’s date is fake breasts, bleached teeth, and hair big enough to shelter a small family of birds.

From earlier, I caught a whiff of her perfume—way too much of it.

Is she attractive? Physically… I guess ?

I’m not sure. His date is a young woman, dressed up like a Barbie doll, begging to be noticed.

But Celeste? She’s class, grace, and humility, far too busy with all her innovation to beg so desperately for attention.

Not to mention she’s still a knockout nearing forty, making Greg the dumbest fuck on this planet.

I hate the effect he still has on her. But from what she told me, they were high school sweethearts. She loved that man for almost twenty years. Their divorce was barely six months ago. She’s more than allowed to be vulnerable at the moment.

“Her dress is nice I suppose.” I offer a shallow compliment, while dodging any further confirmation of her appearance.

I don’t praise the young woman, but I don’t insult her either.

I don’t know her story. Maybe she’s a victim of the circumstances.

Who knows? Maybe Greg hired his date the same way Celeste hired me. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

A server walks by with a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries. I silently sulk when Celeste waves them away. This woman eats like a bird, meaning, when I’m with her, I tend to also go hungry.

“It’s one of my upcoming pieces from my new fall line.”

“Pardon?” I ask, momentarily distracted as I fantasize about a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“The dress she’s wearing. I designed it.

Greg only has access to the samples because he’s still a chairman on the board of my company.

The lengths he went through to pour salt into the wound.

That lace is so delicate…” She lowers her voice.

“They massacred it. They added fabric to the sides that doesn’t match the original design to accommodate her—” Celeste cups her hands in front of her breasts, acknowledging the woman’s plentiful chest. “The back is bunching because the bodice is too small. I bet she can’t breathe in there. Poor thing.”

“Now you pity her after she stole your dress?”

Celeste smirks, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. “Absolutely, I do. She has to go home with Greg. That’s punishment enough.” Celeste holds up her pointer finger and curls it, a conspiratorial gleam lighting her face. “Four and a half inches at best, and it’s crooked. How’s that for petty?”

I smother my laugh behind closed lips, feeling my chest tighten with the effort. “Very petty. Well done.” And the asshole had the nerve to insult my manhood? Projection at its finest.

Her eyes drop to the ivory-colored linen at our small table. We were supposed to be seated with another couple tonight, but they never showed. We’ve had all the privacy we could ask for.

“Who cares who he’s with and what she’s wearing? It’s not you, so he’s already lost. Why are you looking at her?”

“She’s hard not to notice,” Celeste quips back, adjusting her earring.

“You want her number? I’m happy to be your wingman. That could be a fun twist in your breakup saga. What if Greg’s mistress left him for you?”

She narrows her eyes, the corners crinkling with suppressed amusement. “On our first date you were so docile. What happened?”

I break out in a grumbly laugh, the sound rumbling from deep in my chest. “I’m sorry. I’m getting too comfortable around you.”

I normally never do repeat clients. It’s a dangerous game to play.

It’s easy to cut ties after one salacious evening.

Once you start spending too much time together, lines get blurred.

I’m paid to be a woman’s fantasy, and I’ve become excellent at playing the part.

But it’s an act. It’s not real. And it’s not forever.

But Celeste is an exception because we don’t have sex. She made that clear from our first date. All she’s paying me for is my company.

She swipes at my nose like she’s half-heartedly disciplining a kitten, the tip of her acrylic nail barely grazing my skin. “Anyway, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not having lesbian thoughts about Greg’s date. What bothers me is the hypocrisy.”

“What do you mean?”

She exhales, pushing away her empty glass, making room to fold her hands together on top of the table.

“Before I started working on the fall line, I told the board, Greg included, I wanted to start designing based off a different body prototype. I wanted to launch dresses that were made to honor a curvy woman’s body.

Women should be proud of their breasts and hips.

They shouldn’t have to hold their breath and suck in their stomachs all night like they’re ashamed they carried children.

High fashion can be for everyone. They shouldn’t have had to frankenstein my work with cheap polyester for her to wear that dress tonight. ”