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A rage I am wholly unfamiliar with surges through my bones. The thought of taking her out like this, to the fucking Noires’ of all places, has me seeing red. Unhinged. They’ll pounce on her. Although who the hell wouldn’t? This is such a bad idea.
Our eyes lock, and somehow, it feels like we’re having a whole conversation, fifteen feet apart and silent. But those motherfucking eyes. I want to dive into those whiskey pools, figure out what part of her I’m privy to tonight. She’s never the same.
I see you, Carver. You’re a goddamn dream.
Her chest heaves, hostage to this connection like I am, either angry at the sight of me or turned on. Either is okay. I suddenly want it all. She parts those full lips, and I find myself hefting a breath, oddly eager to hear what she has to say. But it isn’t her voice that severs this magnetic link; it’s Ty’s.
“You two coming?”
This motherfucker today.
I turn toward the entrance where he’s standing and realize Wells, Ivy, and Gage are gone. Never noticed. Celeste sashays past me, so Ty holds the door for her, which I’m fine with because it provides the most devastating backside glimpse.
Knowing an expletive is about to fly out of my damn mouth, I bite my fist. Hard. Celeste Carver rocks every angle. My fist is not what I want to be biting.
Ty escorts Celeste to his armored Mercedes while I collect myself and lock up the house. Wells and Gage have Ivy tucked into the Rolls-Royce Cullinan. It’s armored as well. We don’t have any vehicles that will comfortably transport the six of us, so it seems we’re splitting up.
When I turn around, Ty is tromping back to me. “I’ll take Celeste. You go with Wells.”
Fuck that.
As much as I’d like to lash out at him, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt here and empathizing because Ty is a sensitive guy, especially where women are concerned. Polar opposite of Gage. So, he’s probably stressed about Ivy coming unglued this morning. Hell, I’m stressed about that. But I can subdue my tongue for one night, and even if I fail, I’ll be damned if he’s keeping me out of that car.
“It’s all good, brother. Better the girls both have two of us with them. Let’s go.” It’s a sound argument since Wells told her security team that we’d be guarding her on our own tonight.
Ty eyes me warily but leaves it at that. I occupy the seat behind him because the catercorner view is phenomenal. Best reason I’ve ever had to endure back-seat leg cramps. Even the scent wafting to me is entrancing. Wildflowers and cashmere.
Jesus, I need help.
Unfortunately, toward the end of our journey, the small talk sullies the mesmerizing scenery. Ty enquires about her dating prospects, and in spite of what Daddy suggested, she sounds perfectly content to play the political-dickwad field. It seems Scott Filmore had some pressing business to attend to and will be out of town for the next few weeks. They had a riveting conversation though, and she looks forward to his return. I pull the pretty boy up on my phone for the thirtieth time and plot his murder. Losing my fucking mind.
She conquers the disappointment surrounding Lover Boy Number One by informing Ty that she has a date next week with another eligible bachelor. “Dustin Barclay. I’m not super fond of the name, but what are you going to do?”
“For reasons previously discussed, Lettie?” Ty asks with a glance while switching lanes.
“Yeah.” She laughs, bold and musical. “It’s right up there with Nelson.”
Lettie? My hands curl into fists. She hates anyone other than Ivy calling her Lettie. When did this start? And who’s Nelson? Why the hell does this feel like an inside joke of theirs? They have no business having inside jokes.
I’m just about to flip out and tell them to fuck off with their damn code when Ty adds, “And Sheldon,” to which she giggles.
That I understand because Ivy watches When Harry Met Sally anytime she’s mopey, which happens a lot with pregnancy hormones. I’ve seen that movie at least six times in the last year and a half. So, Carver doesn’t want to scream Dustin in bed.
Point one for Mr. Barclay.
“But he comes from a good family, is a lawyer with a fantastic record, plans to enter the political scene in a couple of years once he’s married, and isn’t bad-looking.” She turns to face him, and the smile she offers isn’t as genuine as the laugh from moments ago. “Kinda like the younger guy in Suits, although not quite. Actually, that’s a bit of a stretch. But you never know.”
“Sounds like you do,” Ty observes, veering onto the last stretch toward our destination.
“He was a little bland on the phone. A little too Sheldon.” She blows out a puff of part giggle, part lamenting sigh. “But I’m trying to keep an open mind because he seemed like a good guy, intent on making some sort of difference.”
Ty reaches over and nudges her, my eyes tracking the movement of his knuckles grazing her shapely thigh. Visions of breaking his fingers assault me. He’s one of my best friends, like a brother. What is wrong with me? My forehead is sweating. I’m in the middle of some sort of mental breakdown. I might need an intervention.
Who gets this strung out on a chick? Not me. I’m the guy who fends off stage-five clingers after a quick fuck. Not someone who sweats, speechless in the back seat of a car because a girl happens to be breathtaking. It’s all the stress over Ivy’s pregnancy and this security bullshit—not to mention KORT work, erasing clients, and this fiasco with Frank Carver and the Skulls. That’s it.
“But Scott Filmore? Not so bland?” Ty teases as he pulls into the parking lot.
And she smiles. Or beams, all bright and glowing.
