The waitress came by and asked if they wanted another round. Courtney shook her head. “No. I need to be going. Just a couple of checks. We’re splitting the bill.”
“Um, no—”
“We’re splitting the check,” Courtney said a little more emphatically. She may have given him Nana’s evil eye at the same time just to punctuate the point. He squirmed for a moment, clearly outside of his comfort zone. A Hook-up Artist always paid the bill. It was his way of justifying the sex. As if a dinner was payment for access or something.
The waitress hurried away, and he leaned back in his chair, his brown-eyed gaze running over her from waist to head and back again, pausing at her breasts. The look was hungry, and damned if it didn’t unleash a torrent of hormones that made her nipples harden. She didn’t dare look down to see if they showed through the fabric of her dress. She wouldn’t give him that much satisfaction. Also, she had to continue the pretense that she had no interest when it came to his abilities in the bedroom.
Was he a Casanova or a Don Juan? Was he a man who loved making love or was he a complete libertine?
No, no, no. She didn’t need to satisfy her curiosity. She had accepted his invitation only in order to lead him on a merry chase. How long would he pursue her? A hundred dollars didn’t seem like enough of an inducement to make Matt work too hard. But then his bet with Brandon had to be about more than money. Brandon wanted revenge for the damage done to his Camaro, and Matt was one of Brandon’s good friends.
She could do this. In fact, right this minute, she was thoroughly enjoying the surprised and uncomfortable look on Matt Lyndon’s face. Confusing the crap out of him was going to be fun.
Chapter Three
Allison Chapman, one of Courtney’s brides, came in for a consultation on Thursday afternoon. They met in Eagle Hill Manor’s dining room to sample hors d’oeuvres for the wedding’s reception, which was scheduled for the third Saturday in June.
Every bride wanted a one-of-a-kind wedding, but some brides wanted more than that. Allison Chapman, the fiancée of a hedge fund manager and the daughter of a state circuit court judge, was one of those brides.
A Who’s Who of Virginia’s elite would be attending her reception, including Supreme Court justices, members of the state assembly, and a couple of US congressional representatives.
Money was no object because Erik, Allison’s fiancé, had more money than God. But money alone wasn’t enough because Allison wanted an assurance that her wedding would be absolutely perfect. But no wedding ever was. Something always happened at the last minute that required a workaround or a compromise. Given the inevitability of some small change in plans, Courtney fully expected Allison to have a gigantic meltdown on her wedding morning. Brides who obsessed over every small detail usually burned themselves out and never truly enjoyed their special day.
Courtney had given up trying to get brides like Allison to delegate some of the work. Instead she waited in the wings, providing advice and then swooping in to save the day when the inevitable meltdown occurred. “They also serve who only stand and wait” was one of Courtney’s favorite mottoes.
Today, Allison was in her element, passing judgment on the canapés while Antonin, Eagle Hill Manor’s chef, stood by surreptitiously rolling his eyes. Courtney made copious notes on her computer tablet—notes that Antonin would probably ignore on the day of the wedding.
“I think that will do it,” Allison said, nodding at Antonin and giving him a surprisingly sweet smile.
Antonin returned to his kitchen, where no doubt, he’d drop a giant expletive bomb. But only in French because his sous chef was a devout Baptist who frowned on profanity. Sometimes Courtney wished she could curse in another language.
She turned off her tablet and plastered the sweetest smile on her face. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question that has nothing to do with the wedding.”
Allison, an attorney at one of DC’s many law firms, gave her a probing stare. “About what?”
Courtney dropped her voice into a semi-whisper. “Well, to tell you the truth, it’s about this guy I know who told me he argued a case in moot court where your father was presiding. And I’m just trying to see if what he told me is true.”
“Well, Daddy does preside over moot court competitions. Who is this guy? And why are you so curious?”
“He told me a funny story, and I didn’t believe it. Something about him falling out of the chair and embarrassing himself.”
Allison’s jaw dropped, but not in a good way. Her expression was more horrified consternation than delighted surprise. “Oh my God, Matt Lyndon? You know him? Really?”
There was something snotty in Allison’s response. As if Courtney wasn’t important enough or pretty enough or something enough to actually know Matt Lyndon. Allison was a terrible snob, and Courtney truly disliked the woman.
“Yes, I know Matt. And you do too, apparently.”
Allison nodded.
“And the story he told was true?”
“Yes. It was true. And he was a total ass about it.”
“In what way?”
Allison picked up the glass of ice water on the table and took several long swallows, the pause clearly an attempt to calm herself. What was up with that? Had Matthew broken Allison’s heart? Maybe.
“He accused Daddy of sabotaging his chair,” Allison said in a slightly sneering tone.
“In court?” Moot court or not, Courtney didn’t think accusing judges was a smart thing to do.
Allison shook her head. “No, afterward. Look, Courtney, you should know that Matt and I went to high school together. And we were both at UVA for a while, and…”
Allison looked away and
