Suddenly, a hand hovered in front of my face. Realizing nothing was coming to eat me, thus saving me, I grabbed onto it and was hoisted to my feet. Another hand steadied me by holding my arm. The vodka I’d consumed was well and truly in my bloodstream now. The room swayed from side to side.
“I am pretty sure a kraken is a mythological creature from the sea. If you wanted something from the earth, you could maybe try summoning a balrog, or something of its ilk.”
The room quickly righted itself into a steady focus, and I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to look up. I knew that voice. I knew that accent.
Eventually, I opened my eyes and met the stupidly stunning face of Harry Sinclair. “Miss Parisi.” His lips were tight and his eyes shrewd. He wore no hint of a smile. Did the guy have a perpetual pissed-off stare?
“Viscount Sinclair,” I slurred back, victory soaring through my blood when I saw his eyes narrow at my use of the title. I’d hit a nerve. Good to know. My eyes dropped to his attire. He wore dark jeans with a crisply ironed white shirt, open at the collar, and a navy blazer. And, lo and behold, a silver silk handkerchief sitting offensively in his blazer pocket. He looked good. Goddamn it, he looked so fucking good. Why did his unstyled dark, wavy hair have to fall so perfectly? Why?
“WHY!” I gasped for breath when I realized I’d screamed the last word aloud, my shrill voice cutting through the echo of the music from the main dance floor. Harry frowned at my outburst, viewing me as if I had just escaped an asylum. I challenged him, with a tilt of my chin, to say something. He kept his mouth shut.
Harry’s gaze fell to my clothes. I stood proud, knowing I rocked this dress. I might be the clumsiest, most accident-prone woman in all of New York, but I knew how to dress to accentuate my curves. I waited for the begrudging compliment Harry would have to give me. I would relish it, knowing it would cause him nothing but discomfort and would wound his pride. But when he finally opened his mouth, he said, “Miss Parisi, it appears your breasts are leaking.”
My eyes widened and I glanced down at my dress. The impressive bust that I had been sporting had burst and deflated, leaving me with my usual C-cups and two rings of wetness dripping vodka onto the floor. “Perfect,” I said and forced a strained smile. “You got a glass?” I flicked my soggy breasts. “Drinks are on me.”
“I think I’ll pass,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. He tucked his hands into his pockets and his mouth twisted. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here right now. “You make this a habit?” he asked, looking down his nose at me like only the upper class seemed to be able to do. I was sure they taught it in those fancy-ass schools they all went to—How to Be a Pretentious Bastard 101. “This is the second time you have collided with me while being intoxicated.” He shook his head, as if in censure. “Though thankfully the first time your drink was in your hand and not dripping from your undergarments.”
Harry glanced down to his blazer, jaw clenching. He took his handkerchief from his pocket with regal ease. I had to hold back my laugh when he started pressing it to the expensive fabric and I realized the vodka from my bra had also stained his clothes.
The dirty look he threw me only heightened my amusement. “Send me the dry-cleaning bill,” I said and held my hand against my mouth. I had no idea why seeing the usually pristine Harry Sinclair trying in vain to wipe vodka from his blazer caused me such amusement.
“No need. I have plenty more,” he said, beginning to fold his handkerchief back into its perfect little square. He tucked it precisely back into his pocket.
“Ball park figure, how many of those do you own?” I pointed to his handkerchief. “You seem to have quite the collection.”
“I couldn’t possibly say.” His cheek twitched, I presumed in annoyance at my question. He regarded me suspiciously. “Are you mocking me, Miss Parisi?”
“Me!” I said, placing my hand on my sodden chest. “Never. I think they’re just…spiffing!” Balancing—or trying to—on my heels, I said, “Alas, I must bid you a fond farewell, my viscount, the powder room waits for no lady.” I brushed past Harry as quickly as I could, stumbling to the bathroom, no doubt looking like Bambi on ice. As soon as the door was shut, I exhaled and shut my eyes. Why me? Why do these things always happen to me?
When I opened them again, I walked to the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Two large round wet stains greeted me. I moved to the hand dryer and began drying my dress. My thoughts immediately went to Harry Sinclair. He didn’t seem the type to be in a club. I wondered who he was with. Then I chastised myself for even caring.