It's like he can read my mind and he takes another step forward, officially leaving us inches apart. I want to run, but I am not sure if it is towards him or away from him.
I look down at the tiny space between our feet, trying my best to avoid his penetrating gaze. He gently touches my chin with his index finger, waiting for me to lift my head up. On a regular night, I would call this gesture too forward, but his touch is barely even there. I lift my face and look straight into his eyes. When did I become this bold?
He is gorgeous. His face is sculpted, practically chiseled. He has high cheekbones, and his face is square-ish; I can see why people might find him unapproachable. There is no smile on his lips, and because of how tightly pressed they are, his jaw looks snatched. I can't tell the exact color of his eyes yet, but if I had to guess from his Instagram pictures, they would be blue. I want to see his eyes in broad daylight, the darkness of the party is concealing the exact hue from me. I know it'll bother me not knowing this tiny detail about him. I can feel the buzz from the alcohol peaking or is it his presence affecting me?
He leans toward me and whispers, his lips close to my ears.
Close yet far.
"Hi."
His voice induces tingles down my spine.
No man has ever whispered to me at a party; usually, people try to talk over the loud music. I shouldn't have heard him, but given how close he came to say it, I somehow did.
"Hello" I whisper back knowing it is counterproductive. He can't hear me; I can barely hear me. What is wrong with me?
"How is your night going Mia?" he whispers again, and I can feel the goosebumps covering every inch of my body. How does he know my name? Can he tell who stalks him on Instagram? Did I like a picture by mistake? Oh my, this is so creepy. I want to run to my room, hide under my fuzzy blanket and never come out again.
"How do you know my name?" I ask, leaning close to him, this time making sure he can hear every word coming out of my mouth.
"Do you want a drink?" he asks, ignoring my question. No, I don't want a drink. I want to know how he knows my name.
"Not until you tell me how you know my name." I don't bother being polite this time.
"Easy tiger, Hannah told me about you," she did? Why? What did she say? Oh god, I have a feeling I am not going to like this.
"What did she say?" I probe, curiosity evident on my face. I can feel my anxiety return, and I am trying hard not to let it consume me. I hate not knowing.
"Step out for a cigarette with me?" he asks casually. Is he playing with me or am I getting played?
Without waiting for my answer, he starts walking towards the door. I follow him like a lost puppy, trying hard not to notice how cute his butt is.
The music is faded now, still there in the background elevating the ambiance. The yellow lights kissing the streets are such a contrast to the neon ones inside. In case you can't tell, I am trying my best to ignore him.
I am focusing on everything except the yummy distraction right in front of me.
He lights a cigarette and stretches his arm out, offering me one. I do like to enjoy a cigarette or two socially. Tonight, I want to appreciate the smell of fresh cut grass flirting with my nostrils. Also, he assumed I smoke, and if I do take the cigarette, I will prove his assumption of me right. I don't want to do that.
"No thank you," I say and smile politely. Why is he making me so nervous?
"You don't smoke?" he's got a deep, almost velvety voice. It has a hint of an accent that I don't recognize. Australian maybe?
"On special occasions."
"Some would say meeting me demands one." Arrogant, cocky bastard.
"I disagree. What did Hannah tell you about me?" I really, really want to know.
"She told me that you find me irresistibly sexy." He says with a conceited smile on his face, and I am not amused. Hannah is capable of saying that, and I do find him incredibly sexy, but I can't confirm or deny this at the moment. It could be one of his games, and I am sensing he likes to play. If there is a chance she did not say this, I don't want to confirm his opinion.
"Do you find yourself irresistibly sexy Mr. Kent?"
"Call me Will." He dodges my question tactfully, but I am not one to give up. Before I can ask anything else, Matt rushes out of the door and protectively wraps his arms around me. He is wearing Versace from head to toe, and sometimes I wonder how much his wardrobe costs.
"I was worried about you." He earnestly says, still keeping his arms around me.
"I am doing alright." From the corner of my eyes, I can see Will staring at me while lighting another cigarette.
"Hey man! I am Mathew." Matt introduces himself, thrusting his hand forward for Will to shake. They shake hands.
"Will. Nice to meet you." He doesn't even fake a polite smile while saying the last part. Why is he so conceited? Nobody cares who you are if you aren't nice.
"Are you in town for the fundraising ball tomorrow night?" Matt asks. Of course, I have no idea what they're talking about.
"Yes, are you both coming?" Will asks, looking exclusively at me.
"What fundraiser?" I chime in, feeling left out.
"It's a breast cancer prevention ball that happens every year. It honors women who have lost their battle against cancer and celebrates all the survivors." There is deep emotion buried behind his words, but his face is stone cold.
"I am pretty excited about it," Matt says
"I think I'll pass," I say nonchalantly.
"You don't like balls?" Will asks with a smirk on his face. I can't help but giggle.
"I do, but I don't support this one."
"You don't support breast cancer awareness?" His voice is cold, complementing the iciness in his eyes. I can taste his disdain towards me, and he doesn't even bother hiding it. Shit, I need to clarify myself. I am coming across as a bitch even to myself.
"Don't get me wrong; it's a great idea, a noble cause... I just," why am I trying to explain myself to him? If he thinks I am a coldhearted cancer hating bitch, then let him. "You know what? forget it..." I push my hair back and look at Matt. He is looking at me with disbelief and disappointment. Why don't people get it?
"I don't like it when people say this woman lost her battle to cancer. Women who end up dying are not losers. It wasn't some sort of war that they weren't strong enough to win. Most of them, if not all, had no fucking choice and by saying so, we are downplaying the pain women who die, suffer." I blink back the wave of emotion I am suddenly feeling. This is personal for me, and I think having a ball is the stupidest idea in the world.
"And I hate the idea of making breast cancer sound all pretty and pink. It is loss and hopelessness and agony. Even those who manage to survive it have a long road to recovery, and we need to address that. We need to stop glamorizing breast cancer by throwing a ball." If we simply donate the money to finding a cause, we won't need prevention balls in the first place. And the money it takes to throw a ball can be better spent in research."
I am almost yelling, breathlessly. I take a deep breath in, knowing fully well that talking about this is a bad idea. People want to commercialize breast cancer and feel better about themselves. It is the cool thing to go to this party or ball or whatever. People aren't going because they care, they are going to be seen, and that is sickening. Such an event is a selfie opportunity these days, and nobody wants to hear the real stories of women suffering due to breast cancer.
"You make some fair points Mia," Matt says, trying to make me feel better. "I am heading inside; will you be okay here or do you want to come in with me?"
"I'll be fine. I need some fresh air." I need to calm down and stop embarrassing myself further. I shouldn't have gotten this angry. I really should keep my thoughts to myself. I am pretty sure Will thinks I am crazy.
Matt leaves and Will's cigarette is out, so I expect him to go inside as well. I want to take a walk to clear my head.
"You do care." Will declares, almost to himself. This time he doesn't conceal his melancholy from my gaze. He looks directly into my eyes and lets me examine the pain lurking underneath his icy exterior. I was wrong before, his eyes aren't icy blue, although I am sure there are times they can be. Right now, at this moment, they are blue like the region bordering the flame. Blue like the hottest part of the fire. Just looking at them I can feel the warmth and ardor this man is capable of producing. He blinks and the moment becomes a memory.
Did I catch a glimpse of something he didn't intend to show me or was he letting me in?
"Let's get brunch tomorrow?" he asks. It is an invitation to play with fire.
Should I?
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