I jerk at her question. What were we talking about again?
Right. Ariel’s send-off. Marc, the delectable sous chef.
“Don’t know,” I reply. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”
“Alex would probably pay him,” Darby says. “I mean, I don’t know him and Ariel very well yet, obviously, but the man is worth billions, and he wants his lady to be happy.”
June scoffs. “And it will make him happy for her to watch another man take off his clothes?”
“This isn’t about Alex,” I say. “It’s about Ariel. And no, we’re not going to ask Alex for anything. Certainly not to pay a stripper. This is on us.”
June gives me a look that I can’t quite read.
There she goes again. She doesn’t ask direct questions. Not yet. But I can feel her circling. The way her voice tilts when she asks me about my business, my clients. The way her eyes linger a second too long as I answer, like she’s waiting for something to slip out.
She’s careful. Friendly, even. But there’s weight behind her curiosity. A quiet calculation.
I know that look. I’ve worn it myself.
I brush it off, but inside, everything locks down.
I keep my voice light, my smile practiced. But the back of my mind is already running damage control. How much could she know? How far would she go?
Secrets have a scent, and she’s already caught it.
But I’ve covered my tracks well, and June may be a gorgeous supermodel, but she doesn’t have any huge connections. All she could possibly have are hunches.
The men, on the other hand…
But they’re not interested in dredging up the past of a hairstylist from Pasadena. They’re only interested in fucking her. Maybe marrying her, if I get lucky.
Which means it’s time to quit fucking around with June. I’ve got to get my claws back into Sebastian Tate. He and I had wicked chemistry in the sack.
“Speak of the gorgeous devil.” June spreads on a smile when Marc appears on the deck.
“Enjoying your lunch, ladies?” he queries, his dark blue eyes sparkling.
“It’s sublime,” June says. “Simply perfect.”
I hold back a huff. All she ate was kale and a lilliputian bite of shrimp.
I turn to Marc, give him my best seductive smile. “The shrimp skewers were fab. Were they your creation?”
“As a matter of fact, they were.” He smiles back. “I’m glad you liked them.”
“What did you marinate them in?” I ask. “I tasted the lime, of course, but there was something else—something warmer.”
His eyes flicker with amusement. “So you were paying attention.”
“To the food?” I arch a brow. “Always.”
He leans in slightly, just enough to make the air between us hum. “A touch of honey, smoked paprika, and a splash of mezcal. Just enough to leave a burn.”
I stay silent a moment. Then, “Well, it worked. I’m still thinking about them.”
He tilts his head, smile deepening. “The shrimp? Or the burn?”
I don’t answer. I just sip my drink, attempting to ignore the heat on my flesh, and hold his gaze for a second longer, until?—
