Hooked #3 (The Hooked Romance Series - Book 3) (4 page)

The morning of the benefit, I woke early and went
running by the lake. I had felt my muscles begin to tone up during the previous
few weeks. I assumed it was my serious distraction. I hadn’t been eating as
much; I’d been so focused on my future, on making my life work. I looked at
myself naked in the mirror, admiring the feminine way my body arched, my waist
cinched. I admired my still-large breasts as they sat, pearly-white, atop my
chest.

I parsed through my outfits, attempting to find the
perfect dress for the evening. I felt the fabrics; I tried on several in front
of the mirror, noting the way my slim shoulders arced in all the right ways as
I turned this way, then that. I was going to look good out on that dance floor
that evening, I knew. I was going to look fabulous.

Finally, I decided upon a dark maroon dress—one I
hadn’t worn in years, one I had hardly ever worn. The neckline lurched down
over my breasts, and the back was lace, allowing my taut back muscles to be
seen. I stepped into high heels, attempting to practice dancing in them a bit
over my sad wooden floor. Boomer looked at me with vague curiosity. What the
hell was I doing?

I prepared my make-up perfectly, smearing rouge over
my face, and giving myself a bit of lipstick—just enough to make me look sophisticated,
fit for a benefit. I imagined the types of people who attended benefits; old
women and men with millions, their sons and daughters with millions in equal
measure. I had to look like them, to seem like them. I would never be like
them, of course; I had too much passion, too much love for art, for dance, to
ever sell my soul to any sort of money god.

Five minutes before he was meant to, Drew knocked on
my door. I was staring at myself in the mirror, and I watched as my face took
on a sort of stressed expression. I sighed deeply, attempting to release my
anxiety. It was going to be fine, I told myself. Drew and I were simply going
as friends, and certainly he would respect that. He had to. I wouldn’t let him
accept anything else.

I walked toward the door and flung it open,
revealing my glorious dress and curly hair. My posture was perfect, holding my
breasts high into the air.

Drew looked stunning as well. He was wearing a
tuxedo, and his hair was glossed over to the side to reveal a perfect, far-left
part. He smirked at me, eyeing my dress, my body. He brought out his elbow,
offering it to me to take.
“My lady.
My friend.
May I escort you to the ball?”

I wanted to play his games; it was all I wanted, in
that moment. I swung my hand back and grasped my handbag. I dipped my arm into
his elbow, nodding in a sophisticated manner.
“Oh, darling.
My dear.
I shan’t go anywhere without you.” I laughed
in spite of myself. I couldn’t help it.

Drew cackled for a moment before leading us to the
stairwell, where we necessarily had to part and waft our way down, my heels
clacking and echoing.

Outside the apartment building sat the Porsche—the
stunning car that had taken us to Mel’s place all those evenings before.
Before I had known so much.
I turned my neck gracefully
toward Drew, eyeing his movements. He sent his arm languidly through the air,
grasping the handle of the door and pulling at it. “My lady,” he sighed, bowing
to me.

I settled into the seat and waited for him on the
other side. He fell into the driver’s seat and revved the engine, speeding off
into the Saturday Night Chicago World. My head flung back on the seat, and my
eyes scanned the horizon and the flashing lights. It had been so long since I’d
felt the world rush around me like this. I kept my lips together and simply
allowed the feeling to fall over me.

The benefit was downtown at the McCormick Place. The
glass of the beautiful building sparkled in the stunning nightlights. As we
pulled up to the convention center, a valet driver approached the car. He
opened my door and offered me his hand, escorting me from the illustrious
Porsche. I watched as the valet’s eyes lurked over the car with fits of
jealousy.
“My lady.
You are looking very beautiful
tonight,” he murmured toward me, his eyes still on the car.

Drew pushed himself from the car and tossed the keys
to the valet. “Be safe with her,” he spewed, handing the valet a tip casually
beneath the waist.

The valet accepted and leaped into the car, whisking
it away to some unforeseen location. I looked up at Drew with a sense of
wonder. All around us, the most beautiful people in the world were walking
toward the convention center where the benefit was held.
Women
in long dresses; men wearing tuxedos.
Everyone was a different age, a different
size. They all were sparkling with diamonds and pearls. Their smiles were fake
and bright, and their skin was perfectly
botoxed
and
tight. I shuddered, looking at the deep wealth that flitted around me.

As we entered the convention center, I heard the
whir of string instruments and the lilting of a piano. I clutched Drew’s hand
with the passion of it. He laughed. “I knew you’d like the music.
Chicago Orchestra.”
He nodded toward them, all
hundred
of them, in their position off to the side of the large
dance floor.

My heart began to race. We stepped toward the bar,
eyeing the beautiful people as they spun, as they clutched each other’s hands
and danced to the electrifying music that emanated through the beautiful hall.
“Have you ever seen anything more extraordinary,” I whispered to Drew like a
child. He handed me a glass of champagne, and the bubbles wafted over the top.

We
clinked
our glasses
together, and I steadied myself from my excitement.

“To being friends,” Drew murmured, eyeing me deeply.
I could tell from his eyes, that he longed to be much more than friends.
Much more than friends, indeed.

But I agreed with him, reminding myself that the man
before me had nearly ruined my life, taken the only good thing about my life. I
scratched the side of my face casually, feeling the cakes of make-up I had
applied. I blinked. “I don’t suppose you want to dance, do you?” I asked him. I
felt assured he wouldn’t agree to it. Certainly, he had a strong, supple
body—and I knew he knew how to use it, at least in the bedroom. But, in my
experience, men like him didn’t dance. They didn’t make it their mission to
dance. He was a corporate man with corporate money. Music and dancing and the
liveliness of it all weren’t exactly in his repertoire.

But he surprised me.

“You know. I’d love to dance.” His eyes didn’t
disconnect with mine. We held a tight connection as we tipped our heads back,
absorbing the comfortable drunk of the bubbles.

When we finished our drinks, he held out his hand and
I accepted it, feeling the tiny vibrations between us. He
whirred
me out onto the dance floor and tucked his hand behind my back, low, against my
ass. I felt his fingers tighten for a short moment against my skin, and my
heart raced.

The strings began once more—a rather fast piece. He
began spinning me around, dancing with tight, specific steps. I looked down at
his feet as I followed his lead, shocked. “Wow. You know what you’re doing!” I
laughed. My eyes were bright, happy.

He nodded, laughing along with me. He spun me in a
circle, forcing everyone to look our way. On the dance floor I realized, we
were the only dancers who knew what we were doing. It had been so long since I
had been watched as I danced, as I used my body to formulate a sort of song
alongside the music. I grinned. During a great crescendo, Drew picked me up in
the air, and I allowed my body to lengthen, to stride out into a beautiful,
romantic pose above everyone’s heads. I felt Drew’s fingers beneath me, holding
me steady. The entire crowd burst into a sea of applause.

After a few moments, Drew spun me back down and I
looked at him—nearly flustered. “What the hell?” I asked him, so curious.

“My mother had me take dance lessons, actually. You
thought you were the only dancer here, didn’t you?” Drew smirked at me once
more. A small tuft of his hair had come undone from all the dancing, all the
energy. I didn’t want to fix it. I wanted proof that it had happened.

“Well. You’re quite good,” I replied. The song had
descended into a slow, romantic song. We began to weave back and forth, holding
each other’s eyes. “Have you considered picking it back up again?”

He shook his head. “Men in my line of work don’t
tend to take dance too seriously. Of course, I do. I grew up with Mel, as you
know.”

“Your aunt,” I teased him. “Who is younger than
you.
”

He threw his head back. “We have a crazy family,
it’s true,” he murmured. He allowed me to spin out and back into his body. I
felt the heat emanating from his strong, muscled chest.
“A crazy
family of dancing, of laughter, of love.
It’s quite beautiful. I wish
you could meet all of them.”

I beamed my head this way, then that. “You wouldn’t
want to meet my family.” I thought of my mother, honed with such anger, such
resentment back in her Indianapolis home. She was waiting for my failure, for
my phone call demanding money—anything. But I wouldn’t give it to her.

Sensing a bit of sadness in me, Drew led me from the
dance floor and ordered us more drinks. He spent the rest of the evening
distracting me; from my money problems, from my loan. He made jokes and sang
songs; he spun me in circles in the spotlight, making everyone notice. “Who is
that stunning man and woman out on the floor, dancing so beautifully?” so many
people wondered.

I had never been such a Cinderella; I had never been
so envied, so hated by the most beautiful, richest people of Chicago. Feeling their
eyes trace my slim frame, my strong arms, I felt electric—like the rush of the
strings from the orchestra. I felt like nothing was impossible.

We stayed deep into the night. Before we left, I
noted that Drew had to make a donation. I watched as he wrote the check, but I
couldn’t quite make out how much he had donated. Quite a bit, I was sure. I
watched as the elderly woman he handed the check to nod at it with approval,
bringing her white, stark eyebrow high over her eagle eye.

Drew placed his hand on my lower back, leading me
away from the dying party. I could still hear the strings playing, but the
fingers, the arms of the musicians were tired, lackluster. My feet ached. As we
flung ourselves into the front seat of the Porsche, I removed the shoes,
feeling the way my feet throbbed in their freedom. I leaned my head back
against the seat, loving the rushing street lamps, hearing the city as it went
to sleep.

Drew helped me up the steps to our separate
apartments, taking me step by step. I could feel the champagne coursing in my
veins, and the drunkenness was putting me to sleep. When we reached our floor,
I stood by my doorway, looking up at him with earnest doe-eyes. I longed to
invite him in in that moment. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew the world we had
just visited together was his
world,
and this grim
apartment—this sad-sack place around us—was my world. I couldn’t enter into his
permanently, and he couldn’t stay in mine forever, either.

Suddenly, he leaned his face toward mine, bringing
his lips closer and closer. I lifted my fingers above my lips, halting him with
a small whisper, “Don’t.”

He reared back, his eyes a bit hurt. He cleared his
throat. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I realize this was just a friendly encounter
between two friends.” His eyes swept from left to right. He leaned toward me
again. “But I have to say, it was one of the best nights—between friends—that
I’ve ever had.”

My heart hummed with this knowledge. I slipped my
key in the lock before he stopped me one final time.

“One more thing,” he murmured. “Do you want to go on
another not-date with me, perhaps next weekend?”

I raised my eyebrow, feeling exhaustion take hold of
me from the continuous night of play, of dance.
“Next
weekend?”

“A weekend trip, actually.
Just
one night.
Not a date, of course.”

I nodded, feeling the information parse through my
brain. He had taken me on so many adventures so far; the Cub’s game, bungee
jumping, and dancing at the benefit. What harm would one more night do?
Especially if he knew we were just friends? He could behave. And so could I.
“All right. Just one more night,” I answered.

I pushed at the door, hearing it creak throughout
the hall. My eyes blinked up at him, unable to rip themselves away. His want
for me emanated on my skin; it was hot in my stomach. I longed for him to take
me, right there in the grimy hallway. But I knew it wasn’t time.

“So.
Next Friday, then,” he whispered. He started to back down the hallway, all the
while removing his bow tie, unbuttoning his tuxedo shirt.

“Next Friday!” I responded timidly. He tucked into
his apartment door, grinning out at me. I ratcheted into my own apartment,
feeling the warmth of familiarity take hold. I flounced into bed, allowing the
passion, the drive of the evening to fold around me and place me in a coma of
happiness, of hope.