Page 49 of Trailer Trash

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You can drink it for me.”

“I’m working.”

I bite down. “People drink at business dinners. Try to fit in, lowly CNA.”

She scoffs, and I return a smug grin. “Unless you’re afraid you can’t handle yourself, like at the party.”

“What?”

“You don’t want me, right? You want that Jaxson fucker. So what are you worried about?”

The flash in her eyes is instant. “I know you just want me drunk. I won’t cancel my date.” She takes the glass and draws in a healthy swig. “One glass. Then I’m done.”

Challenge accepted.

Good. I lean back, praying to God drunk-Harlow shows up soon. I miss her. I want her. I’d do anything for one night with her. Then I could erase that bastard from her mind and—

I sit up straight as Frida’s hand reaches too close, her fingertips brushing my dick. I snatch her wrist and shove it off.

“Frida. What about Matteo?” I say, low but sharp.

She crosses her arms and shrugs.

“You look like you’ve gained weight since I last saw you,” she praises, ignoring my question.

“Harlow’s keeping me healthy.”

Harlow shakes her head in that way she does when I irritate her. But honestly, I’m not lying. Other than the beer at the party, I haven’t touched coke. That counts as sober enough to me. And I’ve gained weight. Being coke-free tends to do that.

Dinner drags on, and I catch up with River. He tells me about his life. He doesn’t ask about mine. He never does. I can’t blame him. Hanging out in crack houses means I have endless stories, but not for his company. Not when it’s your family.

An empty wineglass is set down. I blink, surprised Harlow drank it that fast. She seems more relaxed. With her own wicked grin, she leans closer.

“I am really looking forward to my date with Jaxson.”

Little. Snot.

Oh, I will play her game.

“Okay, good. Then have another glass. There’s enough for everyone to have two. You can handle two and not be all over me, right? The pool meant nothing, right?”

She narrows her eyes and holds up her glass. “Refill.”

I coolly fill her glass past the proper pour.

She doesn’t protest. Probably doesn’t notice. Hell, I’d be surprised if she knew wineglasses have a stopping point depending on their shape.

Fifteen minutes later, drunk-Harlow has arrived.

Okay, not full-blown, but that uptight version is gone, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

She laughs louder, tells her own jokes, and asks the type of questions that don’t belong in polite society.

But she doesn’t flirt with me.

Maybe she needs a push.

I slip my hand under the table and rest my palm on her leg.