Page 22 of Stealing Blinds

The grand ballroom and top-one-percent guests fade into the background. Because no one ever asks me that. It’s so foreign that I’m not even sure how to respond. Until the conversation with my mom from yesterday delivers what I need most.

“A friend.”

His brows knit together as he studies me and repeats, “A friend?”

Regret and embarrassment have my cheeks burning. “You know what? Forget it. I knew your persistence was only—”

“And you were wrong. I was just surprised.” He keeps gliding me around the dance floor in more of a waltz, but he seems oblivious to how we aren’t blending in anymore. “I’ve had people ask me for a lot of things, but being a friend has never been one of them.”

“Oh.” I swallow a mix of confusing emotions, my heart thumping in my chest. “So, friends?”

That sexy dimple heckles me. “It sounds a lot like Sylvie and Cash.”

A laugh flees from my lungs. “It sounds nothing like that because Cash can only think about one objective.”

“I’ll prove you wrong. I’m an excellent juggler—cards, dice, knives. Objectives are no different.”

I freeze, unable to mindlessly move through the steps—and not because of the juggling-knives tidbit. I’m completely baffled by what the hell this Noire king wants from me. “You won’t consider it a waste to be my friend?”

He huffs with a subtle shake of his head, and his voice is a gritty secret just for me. “The last thing I would call spending time with you is a waste, Sly.”

His declaration lodges itself in my throat. If I let him get too close, he’s going to obliterate me. Even as a friend.

“That was one hell of a tango,” Peter Fairfax interrupts, ripping me from my daze. “May I cut in?”

Showtime.

Cash stares down our host with a smile that’s far more menacing than the suave one I’m used to. “Great party, Peter. But, respectfully, fuck no.”

Fan-freaking-tastic.

CASH

Sylvie’s shoulders tense ever so slightly. It’s doubtful that anyone else caught it. She’s a pro at masking herself, as any good con is. But I can’t help but study every goddamn exquisite inch of her. She’s a dream in that red dress, subtle curves flaunted and shimmery skin on display. And her amber eyes are warm and piercing tonight. Hypnotic.

She flung me into the friend zone, and I may have agreed to it—or even been oddly touched by it for fuck knows what reason. But all that means is that we’re delaying the inevitable. And no one will be touching her in the interim. Which brings us back to the current matter at hand.

Peter Fairfax is one of my members. He’s not a bad guy. Women tend to view him as a catch—wealthy, six-foot-two-ish, and well-built with thick salt-and-pepper hair. I’m grateful Sylvie is here to rob him instead of … anything else. I’d love to know what the hell she wants from him, but I intentionally didn’t ask. She has trust issues, so I want her to see I’ll show up for her regardless.

Why? I don’t fucking know. Other than the fact that I can’t stop thinking about this girl, and I’m starting to realize fucking her would only make that worse.

A first.

She’s unhappy with me, but that’s because she believes that by challenging Peter, I’m being possessive. I am. But there are also expectations that need to be met in order for things not to seem off, and someone—anyone—attempting to move in on a Noire’s date should anticipate a dose of wrath thrown back at him. If I’d tempered my reaction, my presence would’ve been in question. My protectiveness makes it clear my only reason for being here is Sylvie. Peter might not like it, but it makes sense.

Which explains why he breaks into a boisterous laugh.

“Respectfully,” he mocks before glancing at Sylvie. “I thought you’d remained unattached since Danny.”

Danny Gordon is Sylvie’s ex-fiancé, one of my members, and from what I’ve found, he’s an absolute asshole. I don’t know him well since dealing with members isn’t really my domain, but I’ve researched the fuck out of him since Sylvie back-handspringed into my life—or since I remembered why she was familiar. I have a hunch his most horrible offenses involve her, but that’s all conjecture at this point.

Peter is a huge hockey fan. Betting on games is his guilty pleasure. He’s a third-generation oil tycoon, but he leveled up and took their business internationally, which thrust him into billionaire status. I’m guessing Danny gets him the inside scoop on games for a healthy payoff.

At the sound of her ex’s name, Sylvie flutters her lashes in irritation for a fraction of a second, but she covers well. “This is new.”

A muscle tics in Peter’s jaw. “So, it is something. Not just a date in case Danny showed tonight?”

She laughs and avoids the topic of her ex altogether. “Cash was eager to catch up with you when I mentioned the party, Peter, so this worked out well.”