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I giggled. “You said literal shit.”
“I did. That guy is not your type.”
“Who cares,” I shrugged. “He keeps staring at me. I like it.”
“He’s not the only guy staring at you. Why him?”
“Because tequila.”
Demi giggled. “That’s the best toast ever. We’re all getting shots of Patrón. Because tequila! This is happening.”
I nodded. The more the better. Leona thought that I was impaired and it was affecting my judgement, but the sad truth was that I wasn’t even close to being drunk
I needed to remedy that and quick.
Demi had just brought us all limes and shot glasses over brimming with tequila when Leona said quietly, her eyes aimed right over my shoulder, “Bastard at six o’clock.”
Fuck.
“Because tequila!” we all chanted the toast.
I did the shot and chased it with a deep gulp of my cocktail.
I’d won the last round. Dante was supposed to disappear after a defeat like that.
What was his fucking problem?
And I wasn’t even drunk. I downed the rest of my cocktail and still didn’t get there.
What a fucking lousy day.
I was so annoyed by that that when I turned to watch Dante approaching, I already had a few bullets in the chamber.
I began to stride toward him, deciding to meet him halfway.
“You’re back,” I said when I got close.
“I’m back,” he agreed. His suit was wrinkled, his hair mussed, but otherwise he’d recovered rather miraculously. In fact, if I was masochistically honest with myself, he looked edible.
“You sobered up fast,“ I drawled out grudgingly.
He shrugged. “Mostly. If it makes you feel better, I’m still a little drunk.” It did, barely. “Can we go somewhere quiet to talk?”
As he spoke his eyes moved over me.
I’d dressed cute, at least. Cute maybe wasn’t the word.
With the small possibility I’d see him again, I’d suited up for the night like I was putting on armor. Sex appeal as a weapon.
My light gray dress was edgy and sexy, with a sculptured bodice that hugged tight to my ribs and waist, a harness strap built-in bra that teased as much as it showed off, and a hi-low peplum skirt over a sleek mini dress.
My legs were bare, tan, and sky-high in a pair of cheerful yellow platform stilettos.
My look was hot and right on trend. It was a cheap as hell knockoff of a designer look, though only a discerning eye could tell it wasn’t name brand.
I hated that he’d been raised with just such an eye, and there was no way he wouldn’t spot the difference.
“How’s Tiffany?” I asked him, tone pleasant as could be considering that it was shaping the name I despised more than any other in the world.
