Mating Theory: A Trust Fund Standalone Novel by Skye Warren

Author:Skye Warren [Warren, Skye]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, romance
Publisher: Skye Warren
Published: 2020-03-16T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Ashleigh

Three dances later we end up tucked into the corner of the ballroom, claiming an entire ten-seat table to ourselves while everyone mills around the center, finally deigning to dance. Two gold-plated appetizer plates are piled high with asparagus and prosciutto and crab puffs. We’re seated right outside the kitchen, and we’ve been using the waiters who leave as our personal buffet.

A meatball and pale liquid look rather plain in an elaborate soup spoon. I tilt my head back and pour it into my mouth. Spices and savory flavor explode on my tongue. There’s cumin and pepper—and God, that broth. Definitely fresh ginger.

Immediately I eye the soup spoon that Sutton snagged, and he laughs, handing it over to me. I eat it ravenously, as if I haven’t eaten in days, instead of just a few hours. It seems incomprehensible that I lived on two-day-old hot dogs for so long.

Guilt makes my cheeks heat. “I feel bad about all this food. Shouldn’t we save some for the other people? Surely they didn’t expect us to eat this much.”

He nods his head toward the door, where a woman stands holding a miniature, glossy Yorkie. As I watch she feeds him one of the duck lollipops. And another. Another. “Don’t be. At least we’re people. I don’t even think Mopsie was invited.”

That makes me giggle. “Maybe I should bring something back for Sugar.”

A raised eyebrow. “Sugar?”

“My cat. Well, she’s not mine. She lives on the street. Like me.”

Another waiter glides through the swinging doors, and Sutton lifts a hand in gentle but inescapable command. “What do you have, good man?”

“Cast iron-seared Wagyu beef with truffle miso,” the server says, lowering the silver tray.

“Ah, contraband. Excellent. We’ll take six.”

The server must be well trained because he doesn’t try to protest that we’re taking half his platter. Instead he produces a cocktail napkin as we transfer the pieces to my small mountain.

Only when he’s gone do I pop a piece into my mouth. The beef is still hot. It falls apart on my tongue, juicy and subtly spiced. My eyes fall closed. A low moan surrounds me, and I realize that it’s mine. God. “It’s so good,” I say, my mouth still full. I swallow and sigh. “Forget an open bar. This is what weddings should have. Food that feels like a religious experience.”

Sutton gives me an arrested expression, those blue eyes turning dark.

“Sorry,” I say, realizing too slow that a reference to the wedding would make him sad.

“No, I—” He shakes his head, as if breaking a trance. “The way you look when you ate that is the same as you look when you come. Have another one. Have three.”

My cheeks heat. I’m suddenly self-conscious. “What? No?”

He lifts a piece to my mouth, insistent. “Another one.”

It already smells like heaven. It feels warm against my lips. I open, and he presses the piece inside, the rough tip of his finger brushing against my tongue. I can’t help the loud moan.

Shouting. Clapping. A disruption from the entrance catches my attention.

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