3. A NOT SO MEET CUTE

CHAPTER THREE

KENDALL

A NOT-SO MEET CUTE

“I still think he’s a piece of shit.” Maya says it while staring at me through the mirror, her hands working the zipper up the back of my dress, utter frustration detectable in the thick of her voice, “And those cops? Why can’t they just grant you a fucking restraining order? What they going to lose, huh?”

“Because his dad is the sheriff’s best friend.” I turn slightly, watching her struggle with the zipper, “I'd have better luck winning the lottery.”

I’d told her about what Derek had done when he showed up at my house earlier this week and believe me, she is not happy. I stopped counting at how many times she’d said she’d kill him.

Maya rolls her eyes, “I hate this town.” She finally gets the zipper all the way up and steps back, “Okay. Perfect,”

I look at myself in the mirror. And for a moment, I don't recognize the woman staring back at me. The dress is black, fitted through the waist and hips, with a low back and a neckline that makes me feel like I'm wearing far too little fabric for a woman who is supposed to be serving drinks.

Maya comes around to the front and smooths a hand over my waist, “You look hot.”

“I look like someone who stole a dress from a rich woman.” I point out.

“Technically, you did.”

I glare at her but she just laughs. The dress isn't ours. Neither are the shoes and the tiny designer handbags sitting on the dresser. Everything has been borrowed from the agency Maya uses for these parties, and we're under strict instructions not to damage anything.

Especially the dresses.

I reach behind me and make sure the tags are tucked beneath the fabric where no one can see them.

“We really have to wear four-thousand-dollar dresses to serve champagne?”

“Honey, these are for the after-party. What? You think we’ll be serving drinks all night? People work in shifts. Gotta keep the rich entertained. We don’t even get our shifts until mid-night. If we are lucky, we don’t even get to work the shifts at all and just enjoy the party,”

“What happens if I spill something?”

“You die.”

“Maya.”

“I'm serious. They charge you for anything you ruin.”

I look at the mirror again. Four thousand dollars. I can't even comprehend spending that much on a dress. That is a tone shit of money that could pay off a chunk of my debt. Instead, I'm wearing it for one night so wealthy people can look at me while they drink champagne. Believe me, the irony isn't lost on me.

My phone buzzes on the dresser and I don't need to look to know that it’s Derek. Again.

I pick it up anyway and glance at the screen. Seven missed calls and three messages. Yeah, I can’t do this tonight. Instead, I switch the phone off. Fuck him. Tonight, I'm allowed to pretend he doesn't exist. Besides, doesn’t he like shoving his tongue down everyone throat while making my life hell?

Maya catches my expression in the mirror, “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

She studies me for another second and opens her mouth to say something but then her phone pings. She looks at the screen and almost immediately her face brightens.

“Our ride is here.”

She grabs her purse, “Come on.”

Outside, a black limousine is waiting at the curb. I stop on the pavement.

“You've got to be kidding me. I thought you meant a cab or something,”

Maya grins, “Told you this wasn't going to be a normal night.”

A chauffeur steps out and opens the door for us. I climb inside and immediately feel like I've entered another universe. The interior has that new, expensive car smell. A man is already sitting inside. He looks to be in his late twenties, with perfectly styled blond hair, a tailored cream jacket, and a Rolex that could probably pay off every debt I owe and still leave enough money for my mother's surgery.

His eyes immediately land on Maya and his smile deepens, “Another summer, mon chéri.”

He leans forward and kisses her quickly on both cheeks before settling back. Then his attention turns to me, “And you must be Kendall.”

“Mhm.”

“Maya didn't tell me you were beautiful.”

I feel heat creep into my cheeks, “Thanks.”

“Arnaud.” He extends his hand and I shake it.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

He reaches for a bottle of wine, “Here.” He pours a glass and hands it to me, “Have some. It will calm you.”

I glance at the label and I can't even pronounce the name. This bottle probably costs more than my monthly rent.

“I don't think I'm supposed to drink while working.”

Arnaud laughs, “Tonight, you're not working.”

I look at Maya. She gives me a little shrug, winking and I take the glass. Maybe he's right. Maybe one drink will help. Because my stomach has been twisting ever since we left the house.

I've never been to a party like this or even been near people who live like this at this close proximity before. Maya and Arnaud fall into conversation, and thankfully, neither seems particularly interested in including me.

I don't mind. I sip the wine. It's smooth and sweet, and within minutes the tightness in my shoulders begins to loosen. The town disappears behind us as the limousine heads toward the marina. For the first time all night, my phone isn't buzzing. Because, well, Derek can't reach me. And I have made sure to hire someone to look after Mum until I come back tomorrow. She thinks I’m out having a girls night with Maya.

And for one night, I don't have to think about creditors or medical bills or overdue payments. When we arrive at the marina, I understand why. The yacht is enormous at close range. It stretches across the water like a floating mansion, glowing beneath strings of warm lights.

Music drifts across the deck. There are so many people are laughing with the champagne is flowing. Women in dresses that probably cost more than my car are standing beneath the stars, while men in suits casually discuss businesses worth hundreds of millions of dollars. It looks like something out of a movie.

Maya leans toward me, “Welcome to the rich people circus.”

I laugh.

But then Arnaud surprises us.

“I meant it when I said you two aren't serving tonight.”

“What?”

He smiles, “I told them I wanted you two here as guests.”

Maya looks at him, clearly taken aback, “Arnaud-”

“I'll pay you five thousand dollars each.”

My mouth falls open, “Five thousand?”

“Each.”

I stare at him, “You mean for the whole night?”

“Yes,” he says casually, “You get to drink and eat all you want,”

My brain struggles to process the number. Five thousand dollars for sitting next to him all night? That could cover Mum's medication, the overdue electricity bill and it could take a huge bite out of my debt.

I look at Maya. She is trying very hard not to smile and tell me I told you so.

Arnaud lifts his glass, “You're both too beautiful to be spend the evening carrying drinks.”

I nearly choke on my wine. Of course. Classic rich Frenchman. I’m certain he is used to the opulence of life and probably has multi-millions waiting in his bank-account.

Maya met him last summer at one of these parties while she was actually working as waitstaff.

Apparently, he's been trying to invite her back ever since. Now I'm somehow included. For once, I'm not complaining.

The night gets easier after that while I try not to gawk at some of the people I’ve only ever seen on TV. I drink another glass. Then another. At some point I dance with Maya. I almost forget about Derek.

Key word; almost.

Until I bump into someone and collision sends my wine flying, the glass slips from my fingers and shatters against the deck.

“What. The. Absolute. Fuck.”

I look up and there is a woman staring down at herself. her white designer dress covered in red wine.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry.” I mumble.

Fuck! I know who that is.  Everyone does. Isabella Moore is one of the biggest models in the country. Her face has been on magazine covers I've seen in grocery stores.

“Do you know how much this dress costs?”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn't mean-”

She mutters something under her breath and walks away, surrounded by two women who immediately begin fussing over her while she rants about who let poor people into the party. I probably deserved that. I stare after her before turning my attention to my own dress, immediately noticing the wine soaking through the fabric.

“Oh, shit.”

Maya grabs my arm.

“Go clean it.”

“Where?”

“There's a bathroom downstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go.”

I hurry down the stairs before anyone else can notice the stain. The lower deck is quieter and almost eerily empty so compared to the party above. I find a hallway and, eventually, a door marked PRIVATE.

I hesitate. Then look down at my dress. Fuck it. I slip inside. The bathroom is enormous and definitely much nicer than my entire house.

I push the door behind me and exhale, “Okay. I got this,”

I turn on the faucet and I know I can't exactly wash the whole dress while wearing it. So I pull it over my head and hang it carefully beside the sink.

I'm standing there in nothing but my underwear, scrubbing frantically at the stain, when the door suddenly opens and I freeze. The tall glass of a man who walks in freezes too. For one long, horrifying second, neither of us moves. His expression is ice-cold; nota  flicker of emotion in those blue eyes.

His gaze then moves from my face. To the dress hanging beside me and then slowly back to my face.

I clutch the ruined dress against my chest, gulping. I’m so dead. So far, my night is now taking a whole three-sixty degrees.

“Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?” He finally speaks, in a cold voice, his expression unchanging.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“This is a bathroom.” He points out the obvious, “You're not supposed to be here.”

I look at him, then at the door behind him before bringing my gaze back to him. There is something chillingly unsettling about this man. He almost reminds me of winter at its peak. I pull the dress tighter against my body, feeling uneasiness crawling into body.

“Could you please leave?”

His eyes flick toward the dress. Then to me. For the first time, something shifts in his expression. “Gladly.”

He turns to walk out but then stops and looks back at me, before saying, almost casually, “You're bleeding.”

I glance down and a tiny cut on my palm from the broken wine glass, “Oh.”

His eyes linger on it for half a second longer but then he walks out, the door closing behind him. I stand there, heart pounding. What the hell just happened? And more importantly; who the hell was that man with an aura colder than the North pole?