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Because, of fucking course, Aspen’s event had to happen in our competitor’s compound.
Carson & Carson is one of the few rival law firms that I have any semblance of respect toward. Despite the fact that the managing partner, Alexander Carson, used to be my father’s friend and attorney.
He’s old-fashioned, likes shady businesses because they pay well, and isn’t afraid to dirty his hands.
In short, everything Benjamin Shaw was.
Nate and I became his competitors when we started Weaver & Shaw, and we would’ve crushed him if it hadn’t been for his son. New, young blood, and with revolutionary ideas that changed his father’s old ways.
That’s where I spot Aspen—while half listening to the old men’s yapping about taxes. With the younger Carson. Asher.
I have to take a sip of my Macallan to keep from foaming at the mouth.
Aspen has always been a beautiful woman, even when she was an infuriating creature who loved to be a thorn in my side for sport.
There’s a sharp edge to her beauty and it has less to do with her red hair and high cheekbones and more to do with her cutting gaze and erect posture.
If confidence could be put in categories, hers is the quiet one. It’s bold but not enough to have her screaming or letting irrationality take over. She’s determined to a fault, too, which is why I know that when she decides something, there’s no deterring her from it.
Not tonight, though.
I rake my gaze over her simple long-sleeved black dress that reaches the floor. She even has a fashionable scarf covering her neck, for obvious reasons.
The thought of her staring at the angry hickeys I left on her in the mirror makes my cock rock-hard.
He’s been in a constant wake-up mode since last night and I refuse to be a pubescent and jack off.
The blinding desire to grab her from between those men and ram my dick inside her cunt is so overwhelming that I’m surprised my cock doesn’t explode from my dress pants.
She smiles at the two men standing with her. One is Carson junior and the other is a man who appears to be in his mid-forties. Strongly built, blank-faced, and with an erect posture that resembles mine.
I recognize a man of power when I see one and he’s definitely on the spectrum.
I contemplate how to send him to the next planet without drawing anyone’s attention. Or maybe Ishoulddraw attention to the fact that he’s married—judging by the ring on his finger—and is still standing too close to Aspen.
Just when I’m entertaining the idea of committing arson in Alexander Carson’s mansion, Aspen’s chameleon eyes meet mine.
They widen, her smile falters, and she clutches her flute of champagne tighter.
I grin, loving the feeling of catching her off guard a bit too much. Probably because she’s not the type of person to be caught off guard.
“Surprise,” I mouth from across the room.
She purses her lips in a clear indication of “stay away.”
Not even offering an “excuse me,” I leave the old farts and march toward her. If she was the only one in the circle, she’d remove her shoe and hit me upside the head with it.
But since there’s company and societal standards to uphold, she lets the emotions fester inside her to the point of near explosion.
And I know that, because redness spills from her neck to her chin, and the flames ignite in her eyes.
I make it worse by smiling when I barge uninvited into their small circle. “Carson, how have you been?”
Asher shakes my hand. He’s in his late twenties, the same age as Sebastian, Nate’s nephew, whom he practically raised, so he’s, therefore, been around us all our lives.
“Kingsley.” He raises a brow, looking more and more like a younger, solemn version of his father. “I heard you were in a coma, but you look as good as the devil.”
“And just as manipulative, so you better protect your clients before I steal them.”
