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Twelve
Wes
“A guy over there’s staring at you,” Adam comments as he sets my pint on the bar.
I offer a wry smirk and hand over my card. “Well, can you blame him?”
Adam just shakes his head, letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, it’s not that kind of stare, mate. You screwed anyone over recently?”
My brow furrows in thought. “Not…recently, I don’t think.”
I take my card back and shove my wallet back into my jeans before grabbing my pint and turning from the bar. And that’s when I see him.Devon Montgomery.“Ah, fuck.”
“You know him?” Adam asks.
“Unfortunately.”
He’s seated on a stool at one of the tall tables that has a perfect view of the bar. And Adam was right. The expression on his face as he watches me across the bar is not one of happiness.
I could just ignore him, but apparently I’m in the mood for torture tonight. Natasha won’t be here for another half hour or so, so why not? This could be entertaining.
“When did you join the Rat Pack?” I ask as I reach Devon’s table.
His brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
I jut my chin at him, gesturing at his appearance; he’s clearly come from work as is dressed in an expensively tailored black suit, his dark hair styled pristinely as usual. “The hair. The suit. Very young Frank Sinatra.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “From anyone else I’d take that as a compliment…”
I let out a soft chuckle and slide onto the stool opposite him, knowing it’s likely to piss him off. “Don’t get me wrong, the whole clean and fresh 1940s band leader thing looks great onsomepeople…” I let my words trail off, leaving the implication clear. Of course, I can’t clarify that he’s actually one of those people who wears the lookincrediblywell. All I can think about when I see him looking all clean cut like this is how much I wouldloveto be the one to dirty him up.
“Forgive me if I decide not to take fashion advice from a guy wearing half a pair of jeans and frosted tips.”
I give a dramatic gasp. “Howdare you.This is called ombre,” I inform him, gesturing to my hair, which I wear closely cut at the sides but longer on top, with the longer white-blond ends fading into my natural brown. “And don’t even try to pretend it doesn’t look epic.”
He just arches an eyebrow at me and takes a sip of his beer. “If you say so.”
“And, for the record, there isat leastthree quarters of these jeans left,” I inform him, stretching my legs out so I can prop my feet up on the bottom of his stool.
“Classy,” he murmurs, eyeing my jeans with obvious disapproval.
I give a wry shake of my head. “Why is it that when Kate Moss does it she’s a fashion icon, but somehow I’m trash?”
He screws his nose up in distaste. “I’m not really into Kate Moss, to be honest. I can see why you might find her attractive, though.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “Why on earth would you think I’d be attracted to Kate Moss?”
“Well, she is a model, so…”
I scrutinise his baffled expression for a long moment. “You do know I’m gay, right?”
Devon’s brows shoot up into his hairline and he just stares back at me, wide-eyed. Okay, I guess that’s a no. I draw my feet back from his stool, suddenly feeling a little less comfortable about crowding his space.
“You’re...gay?” he finally asks, his tone one of clear disbelief.
“Yep. I’m surprised Emma didn’t mention it.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t. I mean, she never said you were straight either, but I kind of just…”
