Down to You (8 page)

It worries how much I like the sound of that,
the thought of that.

Her grin fully forms and she releases my
wrist to salute me. “Sir, yes sir.”

I love how playful she is. Such a nice change
from Marissa, who’s always…well…who’s just
not
.

“Now
that’s
what I’m talkin’ about,” I
say with a nod. “A woman who knows her place is beneath me. Oh,
wait. That didn’t sound right,” I tease.

She laughs. “I’m beneath no man!” she replies
harshly. Then, with a mischievous quirk to her mouth, she adds, “At
least not without dinner and a drink first.”

“Ohhhh, so that’s how it’s gonna be! Because
there’s a McDonald’s right across the street.”

I offer her my arm and she curls her fingers
around the inside of my elbow. I know it’s ridiculous and juvenile,
but I flex my bicep hoping she notices.

“Is that all it takes to get you to, ahem,
come to attention?” she asks, suggestively sliding her eyes over
me.

“I’m a twenty-five year old completing an
internship at one of the most influential law firms in all of
Atlanta. McDonald’s would never do it for me.” I stop at the door
and open it, gesturing for her to precede me. “But now a look like
the one you just gave me…”

Her cheeks turn a delicate pink and she drops
her eyes shyly. It makes me want to tear that dress off her with my
teeth.

“Colonel, just what is it you’re
insinuating?”

“Colonel? A salute like that and all I get is
a Colonel?”

“I don’t know. Have you earned enough stripes
to be a General?”

We stroll leisurely to my car. “Depends on
how you think someone earns their stripes.” Two little dimples pop
out on either side of her mouth where she’s trying to control her
smile.

“Oh, I guess the same way most guys earn
their stripes,” she says, swinging the red purse attached to her
wrist, trying to act nonchalant.

“Baby, if that’s your definition, I’d be a
four-star General.”

She bursts into laughter. I can tell she
wasn’t expecting me to say that. But I’m so glad I did. Hearing her
laugh is like listening to the best kind of symphony.

I’m a little disappointed when we reach the
car. I could really just walk and talk and tease her all night
long.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN- Olivia

The silence in the car is only slightly
tense. Well, maybe “tense” is the wrong word. For me, it
feels…charged. Sexually charged. I wonder if Nash feels the same
way.

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he flirts with all
the girls like this.

I think on that for a second. The prospect is
both disappointing and aggravating. But I honestly don’t think
that’s the case. It could just be my ego talking, but I don’t think
he’s like that with just anybody.

At least I hope not.

For some reason, Nash seems like the faithful
sort.

I’d be genuinely surprised if he’s ever
cheated on Marissa.

I bet he’s an actual
good
guy. The
kind that I desperately need in my life. The thing of it is, he’ll
never be mine
because
he’s a good guy. By nature alone, a
good guy would never cheat on his girlfriend, hence the
impossibility of anything happening between Nash and me. Even if
they were to break up, he’d probably be too nice a guy to hurt her
like that, by dating her cousin.

As Shawna would say, that sucks major
ass!

“Did you solve it?”

Nash’s deep, heavenly voice interrupts my
troubled thoughts.

“Solve what?”

“World hunger.”

I know I must be looking at him like he’s
sprouted wings or a third eye. He looks from the road to me a
couple of times before he starts laughing.

“Yes, in case it isn’t apparent at this
point, I’m completely lost.”

“So it would appear,” he teases with a grin.
“I just meant that you were thinking awfully hard. Is everything
okay?”

I lean my head back against the padded
leather headrest and I stare at Nash’s handsome profile. With his
hair combed smoothly to the side, unlike his brother’s messed up
‘do, and his summer-tan skin, he looks like James Bond in his tux.
And I fell victim to his charms as if he really were the dashing
MI6 agent.

He’s got me shaken
and
stirred
.

“You belong in a tux, you know that?” He
frowns over at me, but smiles. I straighten my head and face the
windshield. “Ohmigod, could I
be
any more random?”

What has gotten into you?

He chuckles. “Actually, I think the answer to
that is ‘yes’.”

“You know me well, Bond.”

He chuckles again. “Bond? As in James Bond?
Where did that come from?”

I turn my head to look at him again.
Immediately it gets all fuzzy with hormones.

“Um, I was, uh, I was thinking about being
shaken and stirred.” He looks over at me and quirks one brow. “I
mean I was thinking how well you could probably shake and stir
something.”

Ohmigod, somebody stop me!

“I mean, how well you could probably shake
and stir a drink. Not me.” I snort.

Ohmigod, I just snorted!

“You were?” His mouth curves into a sexy
grin. With that brow raised and those lips curled up at the
corners, he looks exactly like his brother. Like the twins that
they are.

I just stare at him, quite
embarrassingly—again—for several seconds before my wits return and
I begin to chastise myself.

What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t
you just have him pull over so you can climb into his lap?

FYI, that’s the wrong kind of thing to think
in an effort to
settle
hot-and-bothered thoughts. That
visual sends me into another brief catatonic state as I fantasize
about riding in the driver’s seat of Nash’s car. With Nash still in
it.

After several seconds, I remember that he’d
said something. “Um what?” I ask, literally shaking my head to get
back some focus.

Nash frowns. “Olivia, are you all right?”

I sigh and turn to face straight ahead
again.

Note to self: Do not expect coherent thought
to be possible when staring at Nash. Motor skills may be impaired
as well. Take necessary precautions.

I almost snicker when I picture myself
putting on a helmet, knee pads and a mouth guard every time Nash
enters the room.

Then I think of what I could do in the knee
pads…

Gahhhhh!

I’m pretty relieved when Nash slows and
guides the car into the parking lot of the art gallery. Even though
there are no appreciable signs indicating the nature of the
establishment, I know that’s where we’re at. I googled it before we
left so I’d know a little bit of what to expect. I’d hate to fall
down some unforeseen stairs or something. I need zero help making a
fool of myself in front of this guy.

As the valet pulls away from the curb in the
BMW, Nash offers me his arm again and leads me into the gallery. My
first impression as I look around at all the artificially tanned
skin, medically enhanced figures and bottle-blond heads is that
I’ve stumbled into Barbie’s mansion. Only the black and white
version, as everyone is in black formal attire. But that’s not the
only thing gone awry in this Barbie-fied alternate universe. There
are no Kens! I see only nerdy, ugly or just plain old men on most
of their arms. That’s when I realize this must be a trophy wife
convention instead.

I look down at my own red-clad, curvaceous
physique and then back up at the mostly monochromatic room. As I’m
debating running for the exit, Nash leans down to whisper at my
ear.

“Is something wrong?”

“I feel like the only splash of color in an
abstract painting.”

“You
are
the splash of color. But
there’s nothing wrong with that.”

I look at him. He’s smiling. It appears to be
genuine. He doesn’t
seem
embarrassed by my appearance. I can
only hope he’s not.

Mentally, I put on my big girl panties. If
he’s not bothered, there’s no reason for me to be. Right? Right. I
take a deep breath. “All right then. Let’s go.”

The further we make our way into the room,
the more heads turn in our direction. Most of the men seem to be
appreciative of my attire. But the women? Eh…not so much.

Nash stops here and there to speak to several
couples. It’s obvious he’s here on business. Besides the
perfunctory compliment to the women, he mainly addresses the men.
He makes polite chit chat, but there’s lots of measuring up going
on. Thankfully, he seems to be getting nods of approval left and
right.

Why do you even care? It’s not like his
career or what his peers think should matter to you.

But it does.

Unfortunately, after about twenty minutes,
the gloves start coming off. Or should I say that the claws start
coming out. And it all begins with a girl that knows Marissa.

“Nash, where’s your better half?” the girl
I’ve dubbed Catty Barbie asks. She looks me up and down with a
thinly veiled sneer that says she thinks I might’ve
eaten
his better half.

“Last minute change of plans. I’ll be sure to
tell her you asked about her.”

“Please do,” she says, not taking her eyes
off me. “And who might this little peacock be?”

Peacock? Are you kidding me?

“This is Marissa’s cousin, Olivia.”

“It’s a pleasure, Olivia.” It’s so
not
a pleasure, her look says. “Interesting choice for the evening.”
She nods her imperious head at me.

“His better half chose it,” I reply with a
super bright smile, wishing the floor would open up and swallow
me.

Her collagen filled lips turn up in a smirk.
“Nice.”

Nash clears his throat. “I’ll tell Marissa to
give you a call,” he says to Catty Barbie before he turns to her
mate. “Spencer, I’m sure we’ll talk next week.”

Spencer nods to Nash then smiles at me. His
expression says he’s sorry that his “better half” isn’t better at
all, more like “toxic” instead. I smile in return, thinking I hope
showers with her are worth it because I see only misery in his
future.

I’m glad Nash doesn’t mention the interaction
as we move on to the next couple. This pair is every bit as misfit
as the previous one. This guy is so dorky looking all he really
lacks are black-rimmed glasses with tape over the bridge piece and
a pocket protector for his tux. And the girl? I’m pretty sure he
got her from a movie set where the music sounds like
bow chicka
bow wow.
That or she’s inflatable.

I think to myself that there’s no way these
two are going to be nasty. They look so comical themselves, surely
they won’t throw stones.

But they do. Big ones.

In my head, I dub this one Bimbo Barbie. My
assessment of her is only further reinforced when starts laughing
at me the instant we stop in front of them.

“Oh my gawd! Somebody didn’t get the
memo.”

She doesn’t even try to keep her voice down.
My mouth drops open and my cheeks sting a little when, from the
corner of my eye, I see several heads turn in our direction. I can
almost feel judgmental eyes burning their way through my brightly
colored dress.

I say nothing and make no move to acknowledge
her in any way other than to smile, a smile I hope belies my
growing humiliation.

Still, Nash doesn’t speak. And I’m grateful.
I’d likely burst into tears.

We move on to the next couple. And the next.
And the next. Each gets progressively worse.

Just when I think there isn’t a more rude
person left in the room, I meet another one. I shall call her Vapid
Barbie.

“
Where
did you get that dress?”

My stomach drops into my shoes. I want
nothing more than to run and hide.
After
I hunt down Marissa
and strangle her with her own dress, of course.

To make matters worse, I feel tears prick the
backs of my eyes. I blink quickly and force my lips up into another
smile. It’s when I feel Nash stiffen at my side that anger makes an
appearance. It’s bad enough that they’re doing this to
me,
but Nash has to work with some of these people!

I don’t bother to stifle the sharp reply that
comes to my tongue. “I stole it from a homeless person,” I say,
straight-faced. “She was lying right beside the stripper that gave
you yours.”

Her expression is blank for several seconds
before my meaning sinks in. Then her face turns red and her glossy
lips drop into a nice big O of shock.

For one second, I’m satisfied. Seeing her
speechless makes me feel a teensy bit better. But then I remember
the guy at my side. The one I wanted to make a good impression
for.

Guilt hits me in the face like a bucket of
ice cold water. And I feel sick.

I smile sweetly at Vapid Barbie and her
clueless mate. “Pardon me while I find the ladies’ room.” To Nash I
whisper, my heart in my eyes, “I’m so sorry.”

And I make my escape.

I search the hostile environment for the
universal signs of a restroom. When I spot the little silhouette of
a girl in a dress, I practically run for it. I don’t, of course,
mainly because I’d probably trip and fall and give everyone an even
bigger laugh. But I do walk very, very quickly.

In the bathroom, I keep my head down and make
a bee line for the solitude of a stall. Once inside it, I close the
door, lean back against it and let the tears flow.

I’m so embarrassed. And so angry. And so
embarrassed again. And for them to be so nasty in front of
Nash…

My God, those girls make Marissa’s vicious
bite feel like butterfly kisses! No wonder Nash doesn’t mind
her.

My tears turn bitter—bitter at them for
humiliating me, bitter at me for caring about someone I can never
have and bitter at the reality of how ill-suited I am for a guy
like that.

After several more minutes of wallowing in
self-pity and the cruel why-oh-whys of life, I exit the stall. I
know if I don’t get back soon, someone will think I’m in here
blowing up the toilet. And that’s the last thing I need.