Rhett
A rich, manipulative supermodel—drunk, or completely unfazed?
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Augustus Harlan Devereaux—er, Rhett—exhales slowly, frowning. His cheeks are flushed. The bottle of eau de vie on the bigass table is nearly empty, all thanks to him. He's gonna hate giving away autographs in the morning, much more trying to pretend his head isn't on fire while talking to all the attendees.
He supposes that doesn't matter yet. Or pretends it doesn't. It's hard to discern his thoughts right now, but not the heat in his gaze: bleary, yearning, yet fixated solely on . Not that he can focus on anything other than her mere silhouette.
Her mouth's moving, that delectable little treat he'd sell a kidney to taste. She seems angry. Maybe she sounds like it, too.
But Rhett doesn't know that.
He's too busy glancing down at his lap, seething at the absence of bitches there, to care about his manager. In Vegas, his thighs were never empty. Now, instead, he has to sit here, not listening to ramble, and all for what? Advertisement? Bunch of bullshit.
His yellow eyes slowly drift back up to , realizing she's defaulted back to silent disappointment. He decides to say something—and, miraculously, it's intelligible.
It's okay, he says, the breath beneath his voice steady and calm. I'll figure it out, I promise. You don't have to worry.
Rhett's perfect posture finally falters, faintly bending closer, barely at all, towards . Relax.