Chapter 2 - THE COCKTAIL OF HUMILIATION
“You’re joking,”
I whispered,
searching Theodore’s face for any sign of a cruel prank.
He wasn't smiling anymore;
his expression was one of genuine,
calculated challenge.
“I never joke about dinner,
Clare,”
he replied,
extending an arm as if I were wearing a Vera Wang gown instead of a sleeping bag with sleeves.
My father looked like he was about to have a stroke,
his face turning a shade of purple that almost matched my pajama pants.
“Theodore,
surely you don’t mean to take her to ‘The Gilded Lily’ like that,”
Dad sputtered,
referring to the most exclusive restaurant in the city.
Theo didn't even glance back at him.
“If Clare is comfortable,
I am comfortable,”
he said,
his blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my toes curl inside my socks.
I had two choices:
I could admit I dressed like this to ruin the date,
or I could double down on my insanity.
“I’m perfectly comfortable,”
I snapped,
my pride taking the wheel and driving me straight toward a cliff.
“I love these pants,”
I lied,
patting the faded plaid fabric as if it were precious silk.
“Excellent,”
Theo said,
his smirk returning.
“Then let’s not keep our reservation waiting.”
The walk to his car was the longest journey of my life.
The valet at the front of our driveway stared at me with wide eyes,
his mouth hanging open as he watched the billionaire lead a disheveled ghost to a black Lamborghini.
The door hissed upward,
revealing a pristine leather interior that probably cost more than my entire college tuition.
I climbed in,
trying to keep my oversized hoodie from snagging on anything,
and felt the roar of the engine vibrate through the seat.
Theo slid into the driver’s seat,
his movements fluid and graceful,
making me feel even more like a clumsy giant in a dollhouse.
We drove in silence for a few minutes,
the city lights blurring past the tinted windows.
“So,”
he finally said,
shifting gears with a flick of his wrist,
“how long have you been a fan of 1980s eyewear?”
“They’re vintage,”
I said defensively,
pushing the giant frames up the bridge of my nose.
“They belong to my grandmother,
and I find the oversized aesthetic to be very... avant-garde.”
Theo let out a soft laugh,
the sound filling the small cabin of the car.
“You were always a terrible liar,
Clare Montgomery,”
he said,
glancing at me briefly.
“When you were ten,
you tried to tell me you hadn't eaten my chocolate bar,
even though you had a brown smudge on your chin.”
“I was nine,”
I corrected him,
then immediately regretted it because it proved I remembered every detail of our childhood.
“And you were twelve and a bully.”
“I wasn't a bully,”
he countered,
his voice dipping into a lower register.
“I was just trying to get your attention.”
My heart did a somersault.
“By stealing my snacks?”
“By seeing if I could make you notice me,”
he whispered.
The car slowed as we pulled up to the front of ‘The Gilded Lily’.
The gold-braided doorman stepped forward,
his hand already on the handle,
ready to welcome the city’s elite.
I looked at my flip-flops.
I looked at the white socks.
I looked at the messy bun that was currently losing its battle with gravity.
“Theo,
wait,”
I said,
a sudden wave of genuine panic washing over me.
“I can’t go in there.
I look like I’ve been living in a dumpster for three weeks.”
He stopped the car and turned to face me,
his expression suddenly serious.
He reached out,
his thumb grazing my jawline,
sending a trail of fire through my skin.
“Clare,”
he said softly,
“you could be wearing a paper bag,
and you would still be the most beautiful woman in this room.”
“Besides,”
he added,
his eyes twinkling with mischief,
“I want to see the look on the Maître d’s face.”
He stepped out of the car,
leaving me breathless and confused.
He wasn't just calling my bluff;
he was playing a game I didn't know the rules to.
And as he opened my door and offered his hand,
I realized that the "ugly" clothes were no longer a shield.
They were a spotlight.
May you like
And Theodore Ashford was ready to show me off to the world,
disaster and all.
