The Adventures of James Dean.

14.

The prawn dish was ridiculously amazing. Kennedy didn't eat hers, she was a little worried about what she could and couldn't eat, and in the end I managed to coerce the waitress into seeing if the chef could make her something different. The chicken salad the waitress arrived with, lit up Kennedy's eyes. She liked chicken right now, it was her 'safe' food so it was the perfect meal. Everything was presented beautifully, and the sounds of delight coming from my companion were wreaking havoc with my senses. Once most of the guests had finished eating, the dance floor filled again, and Kennedy finished her meal, relaxing against the back of the ornate chair she sat on, feet barely touching the floor.

'That was delicious.' She looked at me, with dreamy eyes, and I felt a lump in my throat to match the one in my pants. She looked beautiful. I don't know what it was, the blush on her cheeks, maybe the redness of her lips, or that elusive pregnancy glow I'd never believed to exist before. For a moment too long, we held one another's gaze, and then her eyes dropped to my lips and I sucked in a breath. Fuck me, it was hot in here.

'Do you want to dance?' I mumbled, barely aware of the fact that I was speaking. Man she was doing some freaky shit with my brain.

'Yeah, okay.' That smile again. Shit.

Well the dancing was a bad idea. I had to angle my body away from hers. I started wondering whether she was emitting some hormone that biologically, I just couldn't get enough of. I was glad when she broke the silence, if she hadn't, I might have spent the rest of the night trying to avoid staring at her boobs. Almost as tempting as that pert little derrière of hers.

'So, how many girls in this room have you fucked? Not counting me.'

I looked down at her, my hand currently resting on her waist, the other holding hers, in a waltz position. Thankfully our bodies weren't touching. I couldn't help but be a little taken aback by her forward question.

'Come on playboy, how many women have you fucked in here?'

Did she really ask me that?

I took a quick glance around the room, my brain warned me not to divulge the real answer in case it elicited even more disgust from her. At the same time, another part of me really didn't want to lie. I took a swift glance around the room.

'Seven.'

She let go of me, mouth falling open. Again, all I could think about was how adorable she looked.

'How many were married?'

'I don't do that.' I said, firmly, taking her hand again. 'I don't break up marriages. I have rules.'

'Ah so the playboy has rules.' There was a little sarcasm there. I heard it.

'Don't call me a playboy.' I had no idea where that little comment came from, but it slipped out, and I let go of her hand instantaneously. Suddenly irritated, I walked away from the bewildered looking Kennedy and a bemused looking Christian Beaumont standing on the sidelines, probably awaiting a little drama. Something I wasn't going to give the sly son of a bitch. I needed to cool off.

I heard Kennedy's feet clipping after me, on the marble floor. She grasped my wrist as we slipped into the cold night air.

'James.'

I carried on walking, trailing around the circumference of the building. I could hear her becoming more breathless, and that's when it hit me. I was being a real drama douche about this. So what? She called me a playboy. There were worse things, and the fact of the matter was, that I kinda am. I get around, I like to spread my seed. I like variety. So why did I react that way? Was it a combo of being close to my rival and feeling overcome with some weird hormonal scent being thrown off by my pregnant one night stand room mate?