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“Not a problem. I’ll join them anyway.” I gaze into the dining room. Where are they?
Then I see her. Skye.
My Skye.
Looking delectable with her lips parted.
“I see them. Thanks, Glenn.”
“Mr. Black—”
I ignore him and stride toward Skye’s table.
Her jaw drops when she sees me.
I suppose I could have called her first, but then I’d have missed this look of utter exasperation on her beautiful face.
I still like to have my fun.
I stand next to her table. “Skye.”
Her companion looks like something out of The Walking Dead. She’s dressed all in black leather, even her pants, and her lips are painted black. Okay, maybe there’s a little red in there, but it’s mostly black. Her face is as pale as a hotel sheet.
I meet her gaze when Skye finally speaks.
“Hi, Braden. This is Heather Thomas.”
Heather holds out her hand, still sitting. “It is fabulous to meet you, Mr. Black.”
I take her hand. “Nice to meet you as well. I hope you don’t mind, but I need to steal Skye away from you for a few minutes.”
“Of course not. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you. I would love that. But first I need to talk to Skye alone.”
Heather gives me a dazzling smile. Rather, what would be a dazzling smile except for her nearly black lipstick, which makes it kind of menacing. “Absolutely. Take all the time you need. I’m going to order a cocktail. Skye, would you like anything?”
“We’ll both have a Wild Turkey, neat,” I say.
“Fabulous. I’ll take care of it.”
“Skye?” I meet her gaze.
“All right.” She stands, clearly put out by my barging into her business dinner. “Excuse me, Heather. We won’t be long.”
Heather nods, and Skye follows me out of the restaurant.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
She fidgets a little with her hands. “Well, it’s called dinner, Braden.”
I’m not amused. “You know what I mean.”
“You and I didn’t have dinner plans, so when Heather asked me to join her, I said yes.”
Is that what this is about? The fact that I didn’t make dinner plans with her?
“Christopher told you I would be home this afternoon.”
“He did, but at the risk of repeating myself, you and I did not make any dinner plans.”
“You told Christopher you’d call me later.”
“I did. I called you to thank you for the earrings—I love them, by the way—and you didn’t call me back.”
I glare at her intentionally. “You’re playing a game with me again, Skye.”
“Seriously? A game? I called you, Braden. You didn’t return the call. And what about the game you played with me last night? Keeping me from talking?”
I lift an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a game.”
“No. It was a test.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Skye—”
“A test, Braden. That’s exactly what it was. And I passed.”
She’s not wrong. The tiniest beginning of a smile twitches at the corners of my lips. “You did.”
She gives me a self-satisfied smile.
I keep my eyebrow raised. “And now you’re paying me back.”
She shakes her head. “You’re wrong.”
I chuckle. “I’m not wrong. You knew very well I wanted to have dinner with you tonight.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Christopher told you I’d be home this afternoon.”
“Yes. Christopher told me. You didn’t tell me anything, Braden. I didn’t even know you went to L.A. until Christopher told me.”
I draw in a breath and count to ten. She’s trying to show me that she still has her own control in this relationship. Kudos to her. But it won’t fly with me when she knew that I wanted to have dinner with her tonight. Perhaps I didn’t spell it out for her, but I shouldn’t have to. “Christopher only tells you what I tell him to tell you.”
“And because Christopher deigns to tell me that you’ll be home this afternoon, I’m supposed to assume you want to have dinner with me?”
“Don’t turn this into an argument over semantics,” I say. “You knew very well I wanted to have dinner with you tonight, and that’s why you accepted Ms. Thomas’s invitation.”
“I accepted her invitation because she has work for me.”
“No.”
“Yes. She has work, and I need work. I’m unemployed, remember?”
“You misunderstood me. What I mean is, no, you will not be working for Crystal’s Closet.”
“And just why not?”
“Because…what you and I do in the bedroom is our own business.”
Her jaw drops. “Braden, I would never—”
“Why do you think I cut that damned bustier off you last night?”
“Because you like ripping clothes off me. You’ve made that clear.”
Again, the insistent smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, but I keep it at bay. “I won’t deny that, but there were easier ways of getting a leather bustier off you than cutting it with scissors.”
“So?”
“So…I was making sure you wouldn’t take another photograph of yourself wearing it.”
Not exactly, though that’s the ultimate outcome. I cut it off her because it turned me on to do so. I didn’t see the Instagram post until today, but no way will she post anything else like that.
