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Wells leans down to Ivy’s ear, hands kneading her neck and shoulders. “Let’s slow it down, Ives. Talk through it calmly.”
That spurs Gage to sling a satirical chuckle, my eyes latching on to his in understanding. Talking through things calmly isn’t a natural state for Wells, who generally prefers to bark orders. If I wasn’t still internally seething, I’d crack a joke.
Ivy sucks in a deep breath. “I want to go to La Lune Noire before the baby comes. I’ve missed our lunches there. It’s been months, and I need to get out of here, or I’m going to lose my damn mind.” She sniffs. “It took me all night to convince Wells.” She throws a thumb to her husband, which has us all fighting laughter.
“Good night, huh, Chief?” Too easy. Seething or not, I can’t resist softballs.
It’s a good thing Wells is behind Ivy because the man can’t hide his shit-eating grin. So, a really good night. No wonder they’re both so dog-tired.
“Anyway,” she says, “then I told Celeste, and she had some reservations. I called Ryker and took care of one, but—”
“Which was?” I interrupt, unable to mask my curiosity.
“She wants anonymity while there. The last thing she needs is to feel like she has a file of indiscretions on her.”
And the motherfucking plot thickens. Tell me more.
“Is she planning to partake in indiscretions?” Sign me up. Sounds like the girl who captivated me last year when I analyzed her swanky puns and brazen texting thread with Ivy to mimic her voice.
“No.” Ivy shakes her head. “But she knows that, sometimes, it can be made to look like someone’s done or said something when they haven’t.”
Smart girl. “Okay. So, how do I come into play? I certainly wouldn’t fabricate anything.”
“Of course not.” She huffs, annoyed, which makes Wells chuckle, relishing the sight of me enduring the ire typically reserved for him. “She’s my best friend, Liam.” Her lip quivers, and I see the desperation. “Please be nice. I don’t want her to leave before the baby’s born or even after really, but whatever. I know she’s got her own life, just not yet.”
Was she considering leaving because of me? Even being one of the reasons Celeste doesn’t want to go to La Lune Noire makes me feel like shit. I’m not really a dick.
“We’re good,” I promise. And I mean it. Not that the three guys staring at me seem convinced, but, Jesus, I can’t have Ivy weeping in my office. I push out from my desk and make my way to her. When I squat at her legs, she throws her arms around my neck. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” I assure her.
“I need you both,” she whispers, and I can’t argue with that, no matter how vexing her enthralling friend is.
“I know.”
The guys and I are all dressed in our suits for an evening at La Lune Noire. I went with my slim-fit black suit over a black button-up—top buttons unfastened and no tie. A hint of my chest tattoo peeks out, which generally supplies just the right amount of intrigue. And my black-diamond necklace and rings complete the ensemble. For the exclusive speakeasy invitation we’re entertaining tonight, it’s a fitting look even though we’ll primarily be in the Noire brothers’ penthouse. The resort is a haven for those who teeter the line of lawlessness or even those who leap right off the edge.
We’ve been waiting a while for the girls. Ivy takes a little longer getting ready these days, but Natasha and Celeste are helping, so she’s in good hands. It’s unnerving for Wells to relinquish control and let someone else take care of his wife, but he muttered something about her needing more girl time, so he’s dealing. Makes sense. I don’t know how that girl puts up with all our shit.
Halfway through my second Modelo, the harmony of melodic giggles croons from the front staircase, so we saunter toward the door. Wells swaggers past us to reach Ivy while I mosey behind Ty and Gage in no hurry to get this evening started.
Ordinarily, a night at La Lune Noire is a welcome escape. But after getting my ass handed to me this morning and shouldering Ivy’s tears and anxiety, I don’t feel much like a party. Especially not one where I have to play nice with a girl who gets on my last damn nerve.
“Absolutely stunning, ladies,” Wells declares before, I’m assuming, sweeping Ivy into his arms. She giggles as he praises, “There’s my gorgeous girl. So beautiful, Little Storm.”
“Not so bad yourself, hot stuff,” she sings.
Before I round the corner, chugging the remainder of my beer, Gage and Ty both extend their gentlemanly compliments, which Celeste receives in her sweetly elegant lady voice.
Ready to go, I pitch my empty bottle in the bathroom trash en route to the foyer. And when my eyes catch sight of the hourglass goddess still on the stairs, I swear my vision clouds.
Fuck me.
Gage lands a pointed smirk on me, and I realize I said that shit out loud, but I don’t fucking care. My hand glides over my mouth and jaw in astonishment. I’ve never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in my life. I mean, Celeste always exudes sex. It’s part of who she is. Whether in a T-shirt and shorts or an upper-crust worthy pantsuit, she can’t hide the seduction that pours off her.
But right now, Christ Almighty. A simple floor-length black evening gown, spaghetti straps, scooped neckline, elevating the plumpness of her ample tits. The lush fabric hugs every curve, dipping into her cinched waist and accentuating her rounded hips that are imploring to be gripped. Tugged. Caressed. And the slit up the side, just high enough to showcase the sheen of her shimmery olive skin on her toned thigh. Even the strappy black heels and the thin necklace adorning her collarbone are hot.
And that doll-like face of hers, framed by thick, soft curls of shiny espresso hair. Big brown eyes, fringed by long-as-hell black lashes and smoky lines. Luscious lips with a perfect cupid’s bow, painted a glossy magenta. Kissable.
Goddammit, she fucks with my head.
