Red tendrils creep up the skin of her chest and neck. “Well, then what? For insulting my fiance and making him feel like an idiot and making him mad at me!”
Fucking Patrick. “Wait. What did he say?” I should’ve known it would have something to do with that asswipe. He’d spent all night taking turns leering at Clarissa, me and every woman who walked past. By the end, I could barely look at him, let alone be friendly.
Her face freezes, as if she’s only just realized what she said from my short response. “I-It’s nothing.
I… didn’t mean to say that.”
I ask the question everyone wants to ask. “What are you doing with him, Clarissa?” Her mouth falls open, the tears seemingly freezing in their tracks. But it doesn’t stop me from saying what I’ve been wanting to say all night. “You’re too good for him, Rissie.”
This time she snickers and drags the back of her hand across her face. “It’s really fucking rich of you to say that.”
“What?” I throw my hands into the air. This woman is unbelievable. It was a compliment.
She jabs her fingers into my chest. “You. Of all people, saying that is utter bullshit. When everyone knows you never thought I was good enough for Damien.”
She isn’t good enough for him. She never was. I never disputed saying or thinking that.
“We’re not talking about my brother, Rissie. I’m talking about that piece of useless skin that seems to think he can hold a green card over your head to make you marry him. You are too good for him. Why are you doing this?”
She pulls away from the wall and stares me down, her jaw twitching. “I’m in this position because of you. All of you fucking Baxters. So, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t fuck this engagement up for me, too.” Her hands push against my chest with a force I wasn’t expecting and propels me a few steps back. “So, tell me, Matthias, if I’m too good for Patrick, but not good enough for Damien, then who the fuck am I good enough for?”
I open my mouth and then clamp it shut, surprised by the answer that sprang to my lips.
Why am I even having this conversation with her? If this is the life she’s chosen for herself, then what the fuck do I care? But something tugs at my brain… or somewhere in my chest. And it won’t go away. And even though it might be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, I rest my hand on my chest and say, “If you’re really going to sell your soul just to stay in the U. S., I think I might have a better offer for you…”
MATTHIAS
A
fter leaving the club, I walked around the city until almost five a. m. Somehow, I’d managed to leave my phone at the club after I’d pulled it out to let Patrick type in his number. When he was
done, I’d gestured for him to just put it on the table, not wanting to touch it when I saw it was streaked with his sweat.
I walked until the sun had slowly started to glow in a thin blue-orange line along the horizon. By that time, it was too late to go home as I had an early meeting for which I had no intention of being late.
Instead, I jogged to the office, and took a quick shower in the ensuite. But it didn’t matter what I did. Walk, run, shower… I could not shake the thoughts sprinting through my mind. Not thoughts of what had happened, so much as thoughts of… the person.
I forget the way she’d looked at me in horror after I’d said, “I could make you a better offer,” and then fled down the alley to get away from me.
I don’t know how to describe the look on her face – it was half hatred, half hope. Those two expressions together did things to her face I’d never have thought possible. She’d looked vulnerable, human. Compounded with the tears down her face, I’d almost reached out to cup her cheek and tell her everything was okay, she was going to be okay.
It all had to be because I was still reeling from the news that she was going to marry Patrick. I’d gone to the club to scope out the likelihood that she would agree to some sort of arranged relationship. Something, anything, that would help get the tabloids off my back after I’d already been photographed with her. I’d gone to see what I could offer her in return. After her experience with Damien, maybe she had been burned for life and would never consider another relationship of convenience again.
Hearing that she was in a similar agreement with Patrick was shocking. But it also offered me a glimmer of hope. Surely, I was better than that hagfish.
But after her reaction outside the club, it’s a mystery whether she would even stay in a room with me long enough to hear me out.
I guess there’s really nothing to do but try.
“Cancel my last meeting,” I call out to Hannah as I run out of my office and to the elevator.
The ride over to the club provides no inspiration for the perfect speech to get Clarissa to dump Patrick and help me instead.
I’ll just have to wing it.
Telling Kevin to wait, I jump out of the car. I could be back out with my tail between my legs in minutes. The club’s front entrance is locked and after I knock a few times, there’s still no answer. I remember Clarissa walking toward me last night with the trash bag in her hands, and figure there might be a back entrance.
The back door is closed but unlocked when I get there, and I push on it to see it open into a cramped but spotless kitchen.
“Clarissa?” I call out into the quiet and listen for her response. There’s a sound from somewhere, not close, and it doesn’t appear to be a reply to me. Maybe it’s one of her employees doing some early preps for the night.