He’s mocking me.
Outrage surges through me, unexpectedly, at the barely contained laughter in his voice. I can feel my face turning red, twin dots of heat burning on my cheekbones. I pick up a complicated thong, with bonus straps that do nothing but torment the person looking at the wearer, probably, and I hold it up between us. “You don’t think I should do that, Scott?” I put my own mocking spin on his name. “What should I do instead? You think I should stay here in the big city, and buy these panties, maybe wear them out tonight under a little black dress? Knowing full well there’s not a chance in hell I’ll get peeled out of them at the end of the night by a hot guy? Happy birthday, Alison. Here’s to another year of bodyguard-enforced virginity.”
I’m being a whiny brat. I don’t care. It’s been months of this rock star treatment, and seriously, it’s overrated. We grew up in a wealthy family, so having private security isn’t totally out my realm of understanding, but Hailey’s relationship with one of Washington’s top crisis management guys—and getting tangled up in a human trafficking ring—has taken shit to a whole new level.
It actually doesn’t affect my everyday life. I go to school. I even have my own apartment now, having moved out of my parents’ estate at Christmas time because there’s only so much f*ck
ed-up drama one can handle and still stay on the Dean’s List.
But it does affect every “sister thing” I want to do with Hailey.
Including celebrating my birthday.
So I stare at Scott, daring him—f*ck
ing daring him—to tell me that I can do anything I want, of course I can.
Because I can’t.
He stares back, his face unreadable.
“I don’t think Cole is planning on going out for dinner with you two, if that's your concern,” he finally says gruffly, but I’m still pissed off. Anger sizzles under my skin and now I’m just thinking shit that’s not fair and doesn’t really matter. But that’s the thing about feelings, right? Once you have them, you can’t just un-have them.
Tears prick at the back of my eyelids, and no, that is not happening. I pinch the inside of my palm with my fingers and slowly roll my eyes back to the ceiling, exhaling as I tell myself to pull it together.
Let him think I’m a haughty bitch. I don’t care.
“Miss Reid,” he starts, and I drop my gaze, staring past him as I twirl the panties on the tip of my finger.
“I’m not a child. You can call me Alison, or Ms. Reid. Or nothing at all. That would be my preference.” I swing past him and hold out the lace and ribbon scrap of nothing to the sales girl. “I’ll take these with a matching 32C bra, please.”
I shake my head when she asks if I’ll need to try anything on.
While the thought of making Scott sit outside a change room would usually make me achy and wet, right now I’m not in the mood to play the tease. Not when it’s not going to get me anywhere.
I’m not a child. I told him that. I told my parents the same thing when I moved into my own apartment.
One of these days, I’m going to start believing it for myself.
And until then, I’ll fake it.
I’ve been doing that my entire life. I’m a pro.
After I pay for my purchases, I head for the door. Scott stands back, letting me move past him, but even though he hasn’t said anything, I still feel unsettled. Like maybe I haven’t had the last word.
He doesn’t get to do that to me.
I am not a child. I won’t be handled.
I stop and meet his gaze head-on. “Call the restaurant and change our reservation. Cole can join us. And you can, too.”
“I’m fine at the bar…Ms. Reid.” His jaw clenches, but that’s the only reaction.
“I understand that.” I lift my bag and wave it in the air. “But since my future brother-in-law won’t let me wear this for anyone else, tonight I’m wearing these for you. Whether you like it or not.”
—two—
Scott
After that dangerous-as-hell taunt, I give Alison a wide berth as we leave the store. She’s pissed at me and it’s my job not to react. If she needs an emotional punching bag, I guess I can be that for her—to a point.
But right now, she’s just giving me the ice-queen routine as she sweeps into the chaos of New York City. Ideally, I’d want to walk in front of her, watching for threats, but I’m not her bodyguard so I don’t get to lay down that law of protection.
Unfortunately, walking behind her comes with its own set of problems.
Like the fact that the jeans she’s wearing should be illegal, along with the panties she waved in my face. Snug as f*ck
, the denim cups her ass as if taunting me. See this, old man? You’d go to jail for touching this. But we get to stroke her all day long.
She’s not actually jail-bait. Thank Christ for that.
But she’s off-limits all the same—and not just because I work for her sister’s fiancé. Alison Dashford Reid is gorgeous, smart, and fifteen years younger than me.