Trashed by Jasinda Wilder Page A

bar behind which is a pretty, middle-aged black woman with thin dreadlocks, dressed in hotel livery.  
    “Two Labatts,” Adam growls, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.  
    He drags me into a corner of the room, guides me to a seat on a couch, then sits beside me and tucks me against his side. He’s huge and solid and real, and his arm is curled around me, and now everything is crashing down around me, in me, on me. Everything Rose told me, how out of place I felt, how out of place I am.  
    A cold bottle is pressed into my hand, and I take a long gulp, breathe, and then take another. Finally, I look at Adam. “Why am I here, Adam? What were you thinking? I don’t belong here. Everyone can tell what a fish out of water I am.”
    “Fucking Rose. She doesn’t mean to be mean, she just doesn’t have a filter. She says whatever she’s thinking, regardless of whether it’s a good idea or not.”
    “She was right though. I look as out of place as I feel: cheap. Cheap dress, cheap shoes, cheap makeup. I’m…” I swallow hard and start over. “And she said reporters would come looking for me. What am I supposed to do, Adam? God. And the whole thing with you and Emma Hayes?”
    “We’re not talking about her.” He says this with a cold note of finality, and then sighs wearily. “The media’s going to speculate regardless. They always have and always will. I don’t care what they say. Just don’t answer them. Don’t look at them. Pretend they don’t exist.”  
    “Easy for you to say. You’re used to it.”
    “You never get used to it,” he says. “Maybe I didn’t think through what this might mean for you, I guess. I’m sorry.”
    “Can I go home, now?” I say, only half-joking.
    “I’ll take you back if you want, but…I’m hoping maybe you’ll stay for at least one dance.”  
    “Dance?” I glance at him over the mouth of my beer, which is somehow almost gone already.
    “Yeah. After dessert, which I think they’re serving after Gareth quits running his mouth.”
    “Maybe one dance. Can’t get all dressed up and not dance, right?”
    He grins at me, and drains his bottle in two long pulls. “Right.”  
    I finish mine as well, and he leads me back into the dining room. I feel the eyes on me, and I try to keep my back straight and my head high. There’s a plate of delicate-looking chocolate mousse waiting for me, and thank god for that. I force myself to take small, demure, lady-like nibbles of it, even though I want to gulp it down greedily.
    Couples and groups are filtering out of the dining room, and Adam leads me with them, his huge warm hand engulfing mine. We make our way to a ballroom, a small, intimate room with a parquet dance floor and a stage surrounded by round tables.  
    There’s a string quartet on the stage, all middle-aged men in tuxedos. They’re already playing, and a few couples are dancing. Adam pulls me onto the dance floor, wraps one large hand across the small of my back and tangles the fingers of his other hand through mine, and we’re slow dancing. His body is huge and his pale green eyes are hot and intense and focused entirely on me. Everything falls away, then, except Adam and the music.  
    We spin slowly, our bodies pressed close together. I can feel his chest swelling with each breath, the faint tum-tum—tum-tum of his heart beating, and his shoulder is a broad slab under my left hand. I don’t really know how to dance, but this is slow dancing, just easy circles, step, step, step. Around us, a few people are doing more elaborate waltz steps, dips and twirls and things, but Adam seems content to just step-pivot-step with me. Which is fine. It gives me a chance to catch my breath, to push away the swirling doubts and fears.  
    And then I feel Adam stiffen.  
    “Can I cut in?” The voice is smooth, boyish.  
    A pair of amused, roguish blue eyes meet mine. Dylan Vale wants to dance with me? Gah. Ruthie is going to lose her shit when I tell her