Tripp’s hand goes to the small of my back, and I resist the urge to glance back at it. It feels weird having his hands on me. Our dance at the wedding doesn’t count, because it was forced and awkward and…he was kind of drunk.
Tripp grins for the camera.
I almost trip on my own two feet glancing up at him, at that megawatt smile, those pearly white teeth, that cleft in his chin.
I look up.
Then down at my own body.
Down at the large hand placed at the dip in my waist. How did that get there? Why is it there? What is he doing touching me like this?
I didn’t think he could stand me.
“Keep your head down if you want,” he says in my ear, the low baritone tickling my cerebellum. “That will afford some privacy.”
Privacy? Ha!
“It’s too late,” I smart. “I’ve already engaged the dude in conversation and full eye contact, and he’s taken my picture at least a dozen times.” I glance across the street, pointing. “And that guy, and that guy.” I point to the one up the sidewalk a ways, grateful he’s at least keeping his distance. “And why are you holding me? I can walk just fine, thanks.”
I shrug away from the arm behind my back, at my waist, and shoot him a look.
“Just trying to be helpful.” He doesn’t bother to look chagrined, letting me take the lead, walking a few feet in front of him. “I didn’t think you’d mind having my hands on you.”
“Okay, that’s just weird. Stop it.”
If he’s trying to flirt, it’s not working.
We reach the valet podium, and Tripp gives the young guy a nod. “Take good care of her for me.”
And then, as if by magic, the front door of The Ivy swings open, revealing the hostess stand, the hostess, and a grand waterfall cascading behind her.
“Mr. Wallace,” she greets us. “We’re so happy you could join us this evening.”
“Thanks.” Then, “Mr. Wallace is what my neighbor kid calls me,” he grumbles close to my ear.
Picturing a little boy who likes following around a football legend, I smile as we’re led to the bar—a dark, mahogany-paneled room with bottles lined up behind a wooden bar top, its dim lighting lending a refined atmosphere.
The kind of atmosphere I love; hope Tripp doesn’t ruin it for me.
“Sir, would you like to sit at the bar or one of our high-top tables?”
Tripp glances at me, raising his brows. “Chandler?”
I bite my lip, debating. “Um—one of the tables, please.”
Lord knows Tripp is going to say something foolish, and rude, and embarrassing at some point; best if the bartenders don’t overhear our incessant arguing.
We are not alone; several tables are already occupied, along with six patrons at the bar itself, all of whom turn their heads to see who the new customers are.
I recognize one woman as an actress in a daytime soap opera and give her a cursory nod as I slide into the seat our hostess has pulled out for me.
“Thank you.”
“Can I get you any waters while you wait for your server?”
“Yes please—two.”
She leaves and we’re alone.
Not alone alone—there are eyes watching us from around the room and I already feel as if we’re in a fish bowl. So this is what it’s like living under a microscope…
I got a small dose of it after the media picked up the photographs and videos of Tripp and me after the wedding, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Wonder how Hollis deals with it day in and day out since dating and marrying Buzz Wallace.
I make a show of looking at the drink menu, scanning it but not actually reading it. I’m a lightweight—a simple glass of wine will do. Any more and my head will be facedown on the table as I giggle hysterically and that simply cannot happen.
Not tonight.
Not with him.
“Know what you’re gonna get?” he asks, setting down his menu and crossing his arms over his chest.
His broad.
Sexy.
Chest.
Briefly, my eyes flit to the buttons on his shirt, straining to pop open, the fabric ill-fitting thanks to his muscled physique. I stare longer than I planned to at the top one, its pearly black sheen winking at me, almost allowing the hairs on his chest to escape.
Don’t try to imagine what he looks like with his shirt off, don’t try to imagine what he looks like with his shirt off…
Too late.
I raise my gaze.
“I’ll just do a glass of white wine.” Despite the fact that my nose