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.
No, you horrid ho-bags, my stress response is not intractable irritable bowel!
Thankfully the bathroom is empty, so I get to clean up my ravaged makeup and tear-streaked face in peace. I run a few paper towels under the cold water and hold them to my eyes like compresses, hoping they’ll reduce the swelling. All they manage to do is make my already-wet lashes clump together.
I shake my head at my reflection. The only thing I can do at this point is go back out there with my head held high and a smile on my face, and try to finish the rest of the night without incident.
”You can do this, Liv. You can do this.”
I almost add for Nash, but even in my head, it sounds stupid and presumptuous. He’s not mine to care for. No matter how much I wish he was.
I take a deep breath and fling open the door to head back into the viper den. But I don’t get very far. I stop dead in my tracks when I see Nash leaning against the wall right outside the ladies’ room. His legs are crossed casually at the ankle, as his arms are crossed casually over his chest. His smile is faint. And sad.
I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. I fidget with the little wristlet purse dangling against my palm.
Finally, he straightens and steps toward me. He doesn’t stop until he is mere inches from me, forcing me to tilt my face up just to maintain eye contact.
He brushes his thumb over the ridge of my cheekbone at the corner of my eye. I wonder briefly if I missed a streak of mascara.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes as if in pain. His face is etched with regret and it tugs at my heart.
“Don’t be. You can’t control other people. I just hope I haven’t embarrassed you too badly, or ruined any important business connections you were hoping to make.”
“I don’t care about business connections. Not at this cost.”
“But you should. That was the whole point of coming tonight. It shouldn’t be ruined by some random girl that’s too much of a misfit to bring to functions like this.”
“You’re not the misfit. I am. I’m the one masquerading as something I’m not,” he says pensively.
“Not being like them is a good thing, but you have to play by their rules. It’s part of the game. It’s part of who you are and what you do.”
“It may be part of what I do, but it’s not part of who I am. I’m not this guy. Not really. This,” he says, tugging on the lapel of his tux, “serves a purpose. It’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”
I frown. “A means to what end?”
Nash’s inky eyes bore holes into mine and, for a second, I think he’s going to tell me something. But then he changes his mind and smiles another small smile.
“Nothing I want to get into right now. Come on,” he says, reaching down to take my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nash leads me to the door and we leave without a backward glance.
He doesn’t say another word as he helps me into his car, starts it up and heads toward the Northern edge of the city. I don’t ask where he’s taking me; I really don’t care. I’m just glad to be in his presence and away from all those other people. Anything else is just gravy.
I’m a little surprised when I start seeing the buildings grow taller as Nash weaves his way through the streets of downtown. He slows and pulls into a parking garage, waving a card in front of an electronic eye. A gate lifts and he drives through. He slides into the first available spot and cuts the engine.
Still, he doesn’t say a word. He helps me out of the car and leads me to an elevator.
Still, I don’t ask questions. I’m sort of excited and very curious to see where he’s taking me. I shouldn’t be. Because he’s not mine. But I am.
He flashes his card before another red eye then punches the button for the twenty-fourth floor. The doors close with a hushed swish. We ride smoothly upward until the doors open into a luxurious, dimly lit reception area. Directional lighting sparkles like thousands of diamonds in the gold lettering that reads Phillips, Shepherd and Townsend.
We’re at the law firm where he works. With Marissa. And my uncle. Who’s a partner. He’s the Townsend in Phillips, Shepherd and Townsend.
I want to ask why we’re here, but again, I don’t. He takes my hand and tugs, leading me out of the car into the quiet of the empty office. We make our way across to another, smaller bank of elevators. We go up two more floors, but when the doors open this time, it’s to a breathtaking view of the brightly lit skyline of Atlanta.
I gasp. I can’t help it. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. It’s like a postcard. Only real.
I weave my way around groupings of expensive outdoor furniture until I reach the wall that surrounds the rooftop. The warm breeze teases the hair at my temples as I look out at the Bank of America building across the way.
“Up here, people like that don’t exist,” Nash says quietly as he comes to stand beside me. He’s so close his shoulder is brushing mine. I fight the urge to lean against him.
I can feel warmth from his body radiating toward me, teasing me with its enticing heat. I shiver in response.
“Are you cold?” he asks, turning toward me to run the backs of his fingers up and down my upper arm, as if testing the temperature of my skin. “Here,” he says, taking off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. The jacket is warm and heavy and smells just like Nash, like whatever cologne or soap he uses. I figure it must be called delicious, maybe by Armani or some other fancy designer. It almost makes my mouth water. “Is that better?” He wraps his arm around me, too, as if to ensure I won’t be cold. Of course, I won’t complain. Even if I was sweating, I wouldn’t complain.