Page 16

SIXTEEN

LENNON

My stomach is dancing with nerves as I pace the sidewalk in front of Commander’s Palace, my small pearl clutch tucked under my arm and the short train of my vintage Chanel dress swishing with each step.

If Saint’s late to this stupid event, I’m going to murder him. Which is unfortunate that after all of the times I’ve been tempted to, it’s all going to end here.

He promised he wouldn’t be late, and I’m the very last person waiting outside of the event aside from security, who are currently eying me like they might have to escort me off the premises.

The undeniable roar of his motorcycle echoes down the road, and my chest sags in a flood of relief.

Thank God.

Him actually being on time might be the one and only thing that goes right tonight.

I’m already preparing for the absolute worst, hence my anxiety being through the roof despite wearing this insanely gorgeous dress and having my makeup professionally done, which usually always makes nights like this slightly more bearable.

There’s no rational reason for my pulse to skitter so rapidly as I watch Saint pull up to the valet stand on his motorcycle, sleek, black, and gleaming beneath the sun that’s setting behind the clouds.

It definitely has nothing to do with the way that he looks in the custom Saint Laurent tux, tattoos crawling up his throat and painting his skin in a way that nearly feels unholy.

The dark ink peeks out from beneath his cuffs as he reaches for the key and cuts the engine, the fabric of his sleeves tightening around his biceps.

My mouth isn’t dry because of him, right? No, it’s simply because of my nerves.

I’ve never been a great liar, even to myself.

Saint Devereaux is the forbidden fruit. The very thing that tempted Eve in the garden, and I wonder, would he be as deadly as I imagine?

His dark, molten gaze connects with mine as he swings a leg off his bike and stands at full height, handing the keys to the valet attendant.

I allow myself only a few seconds to look, imagining that he’s not the asshole I know him to be, and then I’m going right back to hating him.

He makes it disgustingly easy to dislike him, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t acknowledge the very unfortunate fact that he’s hot. Ungodly hot.

With his dark hair falling in his eyes from the slick-backed style he has tonight, the dark stubble shadowing his sharp jaw, and black ink peeking out wherever his tanned skin shows, he looks more like a mafia man out of one of Maisie’s stupid romance novels than he does a hockey player.

And honestly, I’m not sure which version is worse.

The tux fits him as if it was made for him and not simply tailored to fit. He has the kind of body that fills out a three-piece suit in a way that should be a sin.

I’m still staring when he finally turns my way, his eyes finding mine and catching me in the act of shamelessly drinking him in.

Shit.

His lips tilt into a cocky smirk, and he lifts a brow as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and saunters toward me.

I steel my spine, sucking in a trembling breath while lifting my chin, hoping that my nerves aren’t written on my face.

“Golden Girl.” His voice is a low, rough, decadent timbre that unleashes a foreign feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I push it down, along with the shiver that threatens to rack my spine.

I swallow roughly. “Satan.”

His lips twitch. “Nice dress.” I feel his eyes everywhere as they travel down the length of my body in an unhurried perusal. Each place his gaze touches feels hot, like my skin would burn if I brought my fingers to it.

I’m obviously having a mental breakdown after all the stress leading up to tonight.

That’s the only reason I’m feeling so flustered and on edge right now.

Clearing my throat, I glance up at him. “Thanks. You… clean up nice.”

“Nice? Sunday school clothes are nice. There’s nothing nice about me, remember?

I look hot as fuck in this monkey suit.” He brings a hand to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart, clutching it as if he’s wounded.

“It’s okay to admit it. I won’t tell anyone the bad boy from the slums turns you on. ”

And there it is.

The cocky, self-assured ego so big it barely fits into whatever room he’s walked into.

“Your lack of humility never ceases to surprise me. You’d think that I’d be used to the stuff that comes out of your mouth by now, but yet, here we are,” I retort with an eye roll before dragging my gaze to the entrance of the restaurant.

“Are you ready? We’re going to be late, and there is nothing my father hates more than me being late. ”

His snark is immediate, his stupid grin spreading into a shit-eating smile. “What’s that saying about apples never falling far…”

My elbow connects with his ribs, and despite my sudden violence, he simply chuckles like I’ve tickled him, then turns and starts walking toward the entrance.

I catch him with my fingers curling around his thick bicep, halting him. “Wait.”

“I thought you said we’re going to be late?”

Licking my lips, I blow out an exhale, dropping my hand away from him when I realize that I’m still touching his arm. “I need you to take this seriously if we’re going to sell this.”

Slowly, he steps forward until he’s so close that the smell of his bodywash, fresh pine and cedar, surrounds me.

“And what makes you think that I’m not taking being your fake boyfriend seriously, Golden Girl?

” His lips curl around the edges, dark eyes heating until I swear they’re simmering in the depths before he dips his head down to my ear.

A wave of goose bumps scatters along my skin when his warm breath caresses the shell of my ear, and I hate that my body reacts to him when my mind wants anything but.

“I’m completely dedicated to playing my part, but the question is, are you ? ”

Driving his point home, he rubs the tip of his nose down the length of my neck, the ghost of a touch, and my heart feels like it might burst free from my rib cage and fall between us at our feet.

My God.

How am I going to pull this off when every time he’s near, I have heart palpitations just from the filthy things that leave his mouth? Add in proximity that makes my pulse pound, and I feel light-headed, nearly swaying on my four-inch Valentino heels.

“We’re going to be late,” I murmur, my words breathy, barely decipherable. It feels like they don’t even belong to me, my voice no longer my own.

“Then you better get ready to put on an Oscar-worthy performance, Golden Girl.”