One by One - Ruth Ware Page 0,12
absurdly so. There is Eva’s assistant, cute little Ani with her heart-shaped face and buttercup hair. Topher’s PA, Inigo, now sporting a bronze five-o’clock shadow that makes his cheekbones look like he stepped off a film set. Even Carl the lawyer, who is probably the least conventionally attractive of the party, with his bullish expression and stocky frame, has a definite magnetism.
“Thicc,” Danny whispers appreciatively into my ear as he passes me with a tray of canapés. “I would, wouldn’t you?”
“Carl? Uh, no,” I whisper back, and Danny laughs, a deep throaty laugh, deliciously infectious.
“Who then? Coder dude over there?”
He nods at Elliot, who is standing in the same spot he chose on arrival, deliberately not making eye contact with anyone. I laugh and shake my head, but it’s not because I find Elliot unattractive. Okay, he looks rather like an awkward schoolboy, but he still manages to be sexy in a geek-chic kind of way. He has the kind of body that looks as if his bones are too big for his skin, all jutting wrists and angled cheekbones, and knobbly ankles protruding from too-short trousers. But his lips are surprisingly sensuous, and when one of his colleagues maneuvers past him, she slips an arm around his midriff in a way that looks… well, it looks intimate. And Elliot doesn’t flinch away as I thought he might.
“Come on,” Topher calls over the sound of voices. “Let’s get this party started. Carl, Inigo, surely one of you can figure out this speaker system? Jesus, no one would think we were a tech company.”
From nowhere, music starts up. David Bowie, “Golden Years,” filtering out of the Bluetooth speakers. I’m not sure who put it on, but it’s an apt choice, almost to the point of irony. There is a definite gilded quality to this group. Nothing’s going to touch them.
“Hey.” The girl who pushed past Elliot has woven her way through the group to where Danny and I are standing. She is swaying in time to the beat and wearing a very short sweaterdress that exposes slim, toned legs, made more diminutive by her Doc Martens boots. For a minute I can’t place her, and I have a flutter of panic, but then I clock the ombré hair and nose ring. She is the woman who was holding the yoga mat when she arrived, and the realization enables me to remember her name. Yoga. Tiger. Tiger-Blue Esposito. Head of cool.
“Hi, Tiger,” I say. I hold out the tray of cocktails I’m holding. “Can I offer you a drink? This is a bramble gin martini, or on the left is a marmalade old-fashioned.”
“Actually I came over to get something to eat.” She gives me a beguiling smile, showing very white, even teeth and a dimple in her peach-soft cheek. Her voice is throaty—reminding me of a cat’s purr, and her odd name seems suddenly rather apt. “Sorry, I know it’s bad manners to hog the canapés straight out of the kitchen door, but the last tray was too good and I’m starving. They didn’t serve any food on the plane, so all I’ve had since breakfast is Krug.” She pauses for a second and then gives a surprisingly earthy laugh. “Oh, who am I kidding. I’m just pathologically greedy.”
“Don’t apologize,” Danny says. He holds out the tray, where his carefully handmade canapés stand in rows like little battalions. “I like a girl with a good appetite. These are Gouda-filled profiteroles”—he points to the tiny, feather-like puffs on the left of the tray—“and these on the right are quails’ eggs with smoked ricotta.”
“Are they both veggie?” Tiger asks, and Danny nods.
“Gluten-free?”
“Only the quails’ eggs.”
“Great,” Tiger says. The dimple flashes again, and she picks up a quail egg and pops it directly into her mouth, closing her eyes voluptuously as she chews. “Oh my God,” she says as she swallows. “That was a canapé-shaped orgasm. Can I have another?”
“Sure,” Danny says with a grin. “But save room for your tea.”
She takes another, stuffs it into her mouth, and then says thickly, “Okay, save me from myself, take the tray away before I go full Homer Simpson and start drooling on the floor.”
Danny gives a little mock bow and moves over towards Elliot, and Tiger looks after him appreciatively. I can’t blame her. Danny is kind, a great cook, and cute as hell.
“Tiger,” a clipped, monied voice says behind us, and I turn my head to see the PR woman, Miranda, stalking her way across