“Usually my dad,” I interject.
“Well, use him as a buffer. But don’t keep this from her. It’s going to hurt, yes, but hopefully, she has someone in her life to remind her that even she was young and reckless once.”
“Ouch! Thanks!” I wince, though I’m smiling.
“You didn’t expect me tocompletelybypass the fact that this was an utterly ridiculous decision, did you?”
I laugh, feeling a weight lift. “I guess not.”
“But thank you for trusting me,” she says, her expression softening before a predatory glint enters her eyes. “And as for that beautiful Black man you’re about to divorce? I suggest you show up every day and do everything in your power to make him remember exactly what he’s walking away from. Preferably wearing a thong.”
A slow, realized heat crawls up my neck. “Ms. Lilly, the man is injured. He can barely walk with an injured leg, and you’re over here trying to make him chase me.”
“First of all, that’s not the leg I’m worried about. Second of all, that’s exactly my point!” she chirps, delighted. “Make that man miserable every single day, knowing he can’t even chase you around properly.”
I let the thought simmer. I’m not saying I want him back. I have a bet to win, after all. But remembering the mischievous look in Luca’s eyes when he demanded those sponge baths makes me realize I’ve been playing defense when I should be playing offense. Or however the baseball term goes. If he wantsme in his house, he’s going to get the full experience. He wants to play games? I’ll give him the championship season.
I look Ms. Lilly in the eye and flash her a grateful, albeit devilish, grin. “Ms. Lilly Rose, I do like your kind of carrying on.”
Chapter Twenty
Absinthe, Alliances + a Man on a Leash
Luca
Sunday night. The final few hours of my freedom before Aspen officially invades my home and my headspace. Not that she ever really left it. She’s been a phantom in the back of my mind since the day I lost her in Vegas. Tomorrow, the haunting becomes physical.
Naturally, I opted to come to the Supper Club.
In this town, the Supper Club is a legend whispered about in gated communities and high-rise penthouses. It is the crown jewel of Cinnamon Grove’s nightlife—high-end, members-only, and the kind of discreet that costs a mid-sized annual salary.
The main floor looks like a designer lounge, complete with a sleek bar, crystal decanters, and a velvet-roped VIP section. It’s a place designed to soothe or seduce, smelling faintly of sandalwood and expensive champagne.
But everyone knows the real Club starts on the fourth floor. That’s where the suites are. Rooms with gilded numbers and smoked-glass windows where silhouettes move behind half-drawn curtains. It’s known for serving far more than food, though I’ll be the first to admit their wings are spectacular.
Coming up through elite boarding schools, I learned early on that the world isn’t always run from mahogany boardrooms or brightly lit offices. I spent my youth befriending the sons of men who owned zip codes and controlled currencies. They taught me the most valuable lesson of my life: most important deals go down in the shadows. That the most life-altering decisions are almost always made in the most debaucherous of settings. And it’s exactly why I bought my way into the most decadent, yet discreet, sanctuary in the city.
I’m young, but I’m not naive enough to think I’ll be an athlete forever. I want alliances that will carry my legacy long after I leave the pitch. So securing a membership here was my very first move upon arriving in Cinnamon Grove. I need a place that feels like the places I’ve come to frequent abroad. Where the air smells like sandalwood, seduction and secrets. It helps me think. It’s a place where I can connect with the kind of people who know exactly how to handle a career like mine. Though, after watching some of the activities that go on behind these curtains, I’m realizing this place is even better at showing me exactly how I’m going to handle my wife.
A woman walks by wearing a skin-tight, silk black dress and a man on a leash. It’s not even the most unusual accessory I’ve seen in this place, but it’s the only thing provocative enough to momentarily break my concentration away from thoughts of Aspen. But it makes me wonder if she’d ever come to a place like this.
“Anything to drink for you gentlemen?” a waitress asks.
She’s dressed more like she’s headed to a gala than someone sent to serve cocktails, but that’s the Supper Club for you. Even the staff is part of the ambiance.
“The best añejo tequila you have,” Matteo orders, leaning back.
“I’ll have a red wine,” Declan adds.
I snort, shaking my head. “Fucking Italians. You lot can’t drink anything other than your pompous red wine,” I joke.
Declan doesn't even blink. He just deadpans at Matteo. “He’s not serious.”
“Oh, he’s serious,” Matteo says, grinning.
I widen my eyes at them. “What are you two wankers going on about?”
“You call my wine pompous,” Declan says, pointing a finger at me, “as if you aren’t about to order some fruity, over-designed drink perfected in elite restaurants where they only speak theQueen’sEnglish.”
