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“Don’t patronize me.”
“I would never.” He held his hands up beside his head, then swept them in front of us. “Please lead the way, Casanova. Glad I could help calm your smitten ass down.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled, rubbing my hand over my chin and heading inside. The heat slapped me in the face like a sauna, making me miss the cool night air. I nodded my thanks to Drake, knowing my earlier response was less than appreciative and began scanning the room for a familiar shock of red hair.
I spotted her engrossed on her phone at a table by herself, her back straight and her shoulders almost to her ears with tension. If she were mine, I’d ease that tension with light ministrations and sensual words about how mouthwatering she looked.
Fuck this.
I adopted an effortless swagger, slipping one hand into my pocket and pushing any lingering blond strands away from my eyes. As if she could feel my approach, she laid the phone on the table, her eyes scanning the twinkling space around us until they landed on me. A flash of longing crossed those chestnut orbs of hers before being swiftly replaced with indifference, but it was enough to give me the confidence to sit beside her.
“I need to talk to you,” I said, reaching for the hand she’d laid politely on her lap. I thought better of it at the last minute and made a fist instead, leaning closer and letting my arm hang between my legs.
“That sounds like a personal problem to me, Simon,” she said as her phone gave an obnoxious vibration. She lifted it from the table, read the screen, and then glanced around the room.
I followed her line of sight, unable to pinpoint exactly where she was looking. Several small groups were scattered around, laughing and drinking without a care. The bar was packed with patrons requesting provisions, and the dance floor was filled with couples twirling in each other’s arms. Her eyes stayed too long on the two idiots slamming drinks earlier.
“Please, honey.” I took one of her hands in mine, running the pads of my fingers over her wrist. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean closer, and the space between us said volumes.
“I can’t do this tonight. Not right now.”
“What about a dance? Will you dance with me? There are things I need to say.” I sounded like a desperate man. I was a desperate man. Desperate to hold her. Feel her. Apologize.
Anything. I’d take anything she’d give.
“Simon. What part of “I can’t do this tonight” are you not getting? I’m not here to cater to your needs.” Her phone vibrated again, and she made a strangled sound in her throat. It wasn’t one of her sexy little moans, more like a frightened plea.
“Why are you so flustered? What’s going on, honey?”
She pulled her hand away and stood, her chair scraping on the sleek floor before smoothing down her dress. The elegant curve of her neck arched as she shook her head, straightening her shoulders. “I’m going to get a drink.”
“Will you allow me?” I asked, reaching for her, but she shook her head again and wrapped a stray ringlet around her finger.
“No. Just give me a minute, and then you can say your peace.”
She fiddled with a wide clip set on the side of her hair, matching the gold headband, and walked to the bar with her hips swaying. The words I wanted to say to her died on my lips at the sight of her bare back and curvy waist, owning the room as she got the barkeep’s attention without raising a finger. She rested her elbows on the bar top, bowing her back so her ass arched toward me, making me discreetly adjust my dick, cursing the damn tuxedo pants.
Her phone vibrated, lighting up the screen, and my eyes flicked down, seeing a direct message. I tapped the screen before my jealous brain could think the words invasion of privacy. It was password protected, but the notification bar let me see the first few words of the message.
ProfBradD: Need to get you the key so we can
What? So we could what?
Rearrange the furniture? Plan a jewel heist? Fuck like rabbits?
I was spiraling, and I couldn’t fucking ask her about it without risking her wrath and admitting I looked at her phone. The last thing I needed to do was accuse her of anything after the way my dumbass left things.
My grand plan of talking to her revolved around sharing my anxiety woes and struggles with coping strategies, but with her reluctance to be near me, I couldn’t turn this into a one-way conversation. I needed to come at this differently—the way I should have in the first place.
“Here,” she said, placing a martini on the table before setting her own down. She brushed her palms together, then wrapped them around her middle, not touching the martini she’d gotten for herself. I did the same, not wanting to take a chance on Drake’s wife’s prediction coming true.
“So after Beth’s boob party, you said you recently had a run-in with that guy who lied to you? Your old neighbor? The first thing I should have asked was how you were doing. How are you doing, honey?”
She tilted her head, pursing her deep scarlet lips like she didn’t know what to make of the question. But her face softened, and she relaxed her hands, thrilling me with the prospect that I was on the right track.
“It was a shock, seeing him again—Brad, stupid ass-goblin. Even worse that Charlotte spoke so highly of him.” She glanced across the room, sighing, then focused on her fingernails.
Brad? Charlotte? Synapses were firing in my brain like fireworks, but I still felt like there was a vital piece of the puzzle missing.
