17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Ophelia

I can feel him around me.

Not once have I seen Jarrett since we've been back, yet I know, deep inside my skin, that he's not far, watching me, teasing me with his unseen presence. And no, it's not just my pussy being a little ho because she hasn't been thoroughly fucked in the last two weeks.

Definitely not that.

Although, maybe a little. Not that I would ever give him the satisfaction.

Right now though, I need to stop thinking of a certain evil dom who plays my body like a maestro and makes me come on demand. Must. Stop. Thinking. I'm about to walk into a meeting with a new donor for one of our most popular charity events…saving the Floridian wildlife and placing them back into their natural habitat.

The meeting is taking place in Miami Beach, where the rich and famous like to be seen and not approached. Although it's one of the most highly prized hotels, we're just having a working lunch to see if we're compatible. Work wise, of course.

"May I help you?" The hostess flashes a bright white smile almost the same shade as her knee-length strappy dress that falls around her every curve.

"Yes, I'm meeting Dexter Hamilton on the lower deck, please." I'm in socialite mode with my floor-length dress in white and gold hues that leaves my back exposed except for the criss-crossing of the straps. It's May in Miami and the sun is a permanent fixture these days. Soon enough, it'll be the rainy season and we'll have to plan around the afternoon storms. So I smile back and watch as she checks her tablet and steps around her podium when she finds the reservation.

"Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you. Please, follow me."

Miami loves white decorations. The seats, the cushions, the walls with just a hint of leather accessories. Here is no different. As we walk down the familiar walkways that lead to the poolside seating, it doesn't escape my notice that we're headed toward the more secluded tables of the outdoor restaurant where the booths are higher, granting their occupants more privacy.

"Here you go, your server will be right with you." I slip her a twenty and she bows her head in thanks. These places may cater to the rich, but the staff is far from it.

"Miss Warren, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you face to face." I recognize his voice from our multiple phone conversations. Referred by one of our long-standing donors, he contacted me last week about his newfound love of animals. Apparently, his father was a wildlife supporter all his life and in his will, he had a clause that a portion of his inheritance continue to go toward any animal charity his son chose.

Lucky for us, he chose the Warren Wildlife Foundation.

"Mr. Hamilton, thank you for meeting with me." Tall, with an understated post-war elegance about him, he reminds me of the old black-and-white movies Mom loved to watch when she was at her lowest point. Lots of drinking and smoking and dancing in those films, but life always seemed untouchable. Dexter has that timeless look about him. Square jaw, brushed back hair, and an assessing pair of blue eyes that match the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean. Yeah, for any woman, this guy is a definite catch.

"Of course. I usually let my assistant take care of all the finer details for the charities we support, but I was intrigued." I sit, then he follows by taking a seat across the table from me.

"Are you staying at the hotel?" I already know the answer to my question, because of course I researched him before meeting with him. There's no fucking way I'm wasting my time with someone who's not a serious donor. Turns out, he's one hundred percent legit.

"Yes, for the next couple of weeks since I have business here in Miami." He leans in closer, hands folded one on top of the other, and smiles all the way up to the laugh lines of his eyes. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Miss Warren."

Sitting straight with my back flush against the high back booth, I cross my legs beneath the table and grin.

"Correct. As you can imagine, I'm a busy woman. I don't have the time nor the will to have lunch with strangers who aren't serious about donating to our causes." May as well go for the direct route.

"I admire that, and yes, I can imagine and respect your position." We assess each other in silence when the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck tingle just as the waiter stops at our table.

"Welcome, my name is Levy and I'll be your server today. Can I get you a drink? Appetizer? We have a wide selection of gluten free and vegan appetizers and main entrées." To his credit, he looks at us both, not just the man at the table. I've noticed in the last few years that this is becoming the norm in these places and it makes me very happy.

Dexter graces me with an expectant look and I take his cue.

"I'll have a Brut rosé." Tilting my head at Dexter, I mirror his smirk.

"A Champagne advocate. Good choice." Turning to the server, he orders. "I'll have the same. Ruinart." The server, with his hands behind his back as he memorizes our orders instead of writing them down, just nods. "I'm guessing one glass since it's a working lunch?" My brow raised, I smile in the guise of an answer. His instincts are on point.

Hot and smart. Now, this is the kind of guy that I should be interested in dating. Not demanding, obsessive killers who train women to be submissive to powerful assholes.

Blinking away those thoughts, I give myself a tiny shake of the head to disperse all the thoughts of said wolf in designer clothing.

We order seafood appetizers and entrées after that, but as soon as Levy, our server, is gone, I'm back in business mode.

"May I ask, Mister Hamilton—"

"Please, we are breaking bread together, call me Dexter." As if by magic, the waiter brings our drinks and a basket of French bread with two servings of black olive tapenade.

"All right, Dexter, but only if you call me Ophelia." Extending my hand over our food, like we're meeting for the first time, I expect him to shake it. Instead, he rises, comes to my side and kisses the back of my hand with his gaze firmly on my eyes.

"Pleasure." It's weird in a sexy and endearing kind of way.

The rest of the meal goes by quickly as we talk about the foundation and his work-life balance. As a real-estate mogul—he inherited his father's business—he often travels around the United States and abroad to build, sell, or buy properties according to the markets.

Or some shit.

To be honest, halfway through the conversation, my eyes glaze over because, just like every other rich guy in this city, they feel the intricate description of their work is fascinating to the whole of the population.

It really isn't.

By the time we order dessert, Dexter excuses himself to go to the bathroom and I take that time to check my phone. I'm a firm believer that at the table, the no phone rule applies. Unless you're alone. Then all bets are off.

My screen shows a few missed calls from Opie, followed by a cryptic text message.

Opie: The eagle is in the nest.

I blink, furrow my brow in confusion, and just when I'm about to ask her what the actual fuck she's talking about, Dexter returns to the table. Fuck it, I'll ask her later.

My smile is automatic when I raise my gaze to meet Dexter's, freezing at the sight of him. To be honest, he looks like he just got fucked. Or got into a brawl. Which would be really fucking awkward in the restroom.

"Are you all right?" I ask him the question but my eyes are roaming the restaurant for…I don't really know, but I have a sneaking suspicion, to be fair.

"Yeah, I almost ran into a busboy with his arms full of dishes. Missed a catastrophe by an inch." Rolling his eyes like it's the most embarrassing thing he's ever experienced, he runs a hand through his mussed up hair and smiles back at me. "Sorry about that. Guess I have things on my mind."

I guess he does.

"I do want to say, though, that this lunch was absolutely delightful. And that was even after you agreed to take three million from my company for your wild animals." His chuckle is warm and inviting, and for a second, I toy with the idea of seeing him again.

In fact…

"Dexter, this may be incredibly forward of me but…" I hesitate, the image of Jarrett flashing through my mind before I bitch slap my memory and tell her to fuck right off. "Would you be interested in accompanying me to the Warren Gala on Thursday night? I know I'm only giving you four days' notice but…" I'm not sure how to follow that up so I just leave the sentence hanging.

"Thursday…is that June first?" He's got his phone out, presumably to check his availability, and the longer he takes to answer, the more I feel unnerved.

"Yes, that's right."

"Perfect. Yes. I would be honored to walk in by your side." It doesn't escape my notice that he says by my side and not on my arm. That's a big point for him.

Jarrett would have carried me inside, for all I know.

But I'm not fucking thinking of him, am I?

"Wonderful. Well, I need to get going; gala planning waits for no one." The event has been planned for months and he probably knows that, but he doesn't call me out on it. Thank fuck.

"I'll send a car to pick you up. I'll be the giddy guy eagerly waiting to take the prom queen to his first dance."

As we both stand, I walk up to him and kiss his cheek. "I'll be the prom queen with the diamond tiara."

His chuckle makes me smile because, obviously, he has a sense of humor.

Jarrett would have said something about ripping the tiara off and tearing my dress until I'm naked and ready to take his cock.

I'm definitely making the right choice.

Fuck. I forgot about Logan.

Galas are our thing. We go together as a way to protect each other from the vultures. And vultures, there are. A lot. This will be the first time in…well, ever, that I'm taking someone else.

Now, how am I supposed to tell him?

"The secret to a great margarita isn't the triple sec, it's…" Logan pauses as he leads an impromptu bartending workshop, looking up at each of us as we watch him, rapt, making our margaritas. Now, this isn't the first time. In fact, it isn't even the hundredth time he's done this. It's become our tradition that whenever Logan comes around the house, his job is to make us margaritas, and every fucking time, he goes through the steps as if it's the first time.

"The freshly squeezed lime and orange juice." See? We know the deal.

"Yes, you're welcome."

His smirk says it all. He loves this attention, doing something simple and making people happy. I wonder, and not for the first time, why I'm not in love with this guy.

Inevitably, I ask myself if I'm broken somehow because this funny, caring, insanely hot guy wants me and all I see is a dear friend.

But sure, give me a control freak with a tendency to shoot and kill and I'm all spread legs and palpitating hearts. Go figure.

"What are we eating with our margaritas?" My question is directed at Tabby since she's our resident chef. Not like a five star chef but more like a let's-see-what's-in-the-fridge-and-improvise kind of chef. Which, by the way, does turn out to be a five star meal.

Tabby is rummaging through our cupboards, pushing things aside as she looks for what I'm guessing is the guacamole.

"There it is!" Victorious, with her arms raised like she's just won the Olympic gold, Tabby sets up on the other side of Logan as she pours the tortilla chips in one bowl and the guac in three separate serving cups.

Opie and I don't even wait for her to place them on the table before we're already grabbing handfuls of chips and dipping them in the thick deliciousness.

"I swear, I could literally live off of this." Opie speaks as she eats, tiny pieces of tortillas flying from her mouth. Classic.

"Same. But only if margaritas are washing it down." I give Logan a pointed look like he needs to hurry the fuck up, and he just grins as he handles the shaker like some professional bartender in the hot spots of Miami.

"Patience, young Padawan."

I snort at his comment, propelling me back to when we were kids watching the entire Star Wars saga on repeat.

"But I'm thirstyyyyyyy!" Opie and Tabby join me in our whining, making Logan roll his eyes just as he runs a lime wedge along the rim of the iconic triangle glasses.

I crunch into a chip when he presses said rim into the coarse salt and aligns all four glasses on the counter. This is like edging.

"Hurry up!" Like spoiled brats, we start banging on the counters as he pours the perfect concoction into each glass, not spilling a single drop. Then he adds a wedge of lime to each and fucking voilà !

By some kind of miracle, we don't hurl ourselves onto the drinks. Instead, we act like fucking ladies as we pop out our pinkies and clink our glasses together.

"To friendships with people who know how to make the best margaritas in South Florida." Opie takes the first sip while Logan faux pouts.

"C'mon! At least the whole of Florida." He tsks, feigning disappointment.

"I can't vouch for that, Logan. I've never tasted margaritas in the panhandle." Opie shrugs like she's won the argument and I suppose, in a way, she has.

"Fair point." Tabby and I nod but are quickly distracted by the tangy mixture with our beloved tequila.

"I'm guessing, by the look of your empty fridge, that we're ordering out?" Logan's head is in said refrigerator and the girls and I don't even pretend to feel ashamed.

"Yep." I almost pop my P then remember I'm a fucking lady not a child. Yeah, who am I kidding? I pop that motherfucker like a pro.

"Mexican?" Tabby barely asks, since it's obvious we're ordering at our favorite restaurant.

"I'll do it!"

I air kiss Opie for taking on the task as she whips out her tablet and starts the order.

"So, Sunny girl, what colors are we wearing for the gala?" Logan is leaning on the counter next to where I'm sitting. I'm just barely taller than him this way but only because he's slouching a bit.

"Yeah, about that." Fuck, I don't want to hurt him and, to be honest, I'm not even sure why I asked Dexter, knowing damn well Logan would be hurt by my late flake out. Then I remember Jarrett and his refusal to call me Sunny because it's Logan's nickname for me and I have to wonder…no. I did not sabotage my friendship for him. No fucking way.

"Oh, that's not good. You're not going? It's literally called The Warren Gala, it would be like not showing up at your own birthday party." He nudges my shoulder and shakes his head.

"No, yeah. I'm going but…" I hesitate, take a sip of my margarita, and just blurt it all out. "I'm going with this guy, Dexter Hamilton. He's a donor, it all just happened so fast. I'm so sorry!" Then I gulp the rest of my margarita and instantly regret it. I barely had time to taste it properly.

Logan is quiet for a beat too long but I'm too chicken shit to look at him. Funny how I can kill men twice my size and go head to head with dangerous fuckers but I can't stand the thought of hurting my oldest friend.

"Oh." Pushing off from the counter as if he's trying to put distance between us, he takes my empty glass and returns to his bartending station. This time, the mood is different. He's not giving us a play by play with the ingredients and when I look up at Tabby, I can see the disappointment in her eyes.

Yeah, yeah. I fucked up.

"I'll go with you, Logan." My brow furrows at Tabby's words. If I hate these galas, Tabatha is deathly afraid of them. It's all about her past and the fact that the same powerful men who run the world used and abused her. Being at such a public event would take a lot out of her.

But Logan doesn't know any of this and I can't betray her by saying something right now.

"I don't need a pity date, Tabby." He tries to make it sound light and flirty but it comes out flat.

"It's not pity. I'm actually taking advantage of the only time you're actually free for me to ask." What the…what, now? Shocked is what I was when Jarrett was able to make me come more times than I could count over just forty eight hours. This? This is beyond anything I could have imagined.

"Well, in that case…" Logan turns to Tabby, takes her hand, then kisses the back before asking, "Miss Tabatha, would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the Warren Gala?"

Giddy, Tabby smiles and nods, the pink tinge on her cheeks a clear indicator that Logan's natural charm worked its magic.

When it comes to me, though, I don't get a single word or glance for the rest of the evening.

Logan is hurt but I'm confident he'll get over it. Not to mention, if Jarrett is watching and following my every move like I suspect he is, this is safer for him. Because, let's be clear, in a fight between Jarrett and Logan, my best friend doesn't stand a chance of surviving.