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“Ladies,” he said neutrally. His rough yet sultry voice was a visceral reminder of the best sex and the worst night I ever had. Like a punch straight to the pussy.
I was already sweating profusely when Aunt Madeleine said, “Hello, Shane,” then gave me a look and walked away.
She left me with him. My mouth hung open in her wake but nothing came out.
Shane shoved a whole dill pickle into his mouth and crunched it, staring at me. I wasn’t even sure what I expected, but this was not how I imagined our long-dreaded reunion would one day play out. Sunlight blazing around us as Etta James crooned and he chewed on a pickle and trapped me against a buffet table, staring me down.
Already, he’d fucking rattled me. What the hell did he want?
“Can I help you?” I said, as cooly as I could.
“Unlikely.”
I turned back to the table to pick out some fruit, figuring he’d fuck off if I ignored him. I could’ve squeezed past him, but screw him. I was here first. Plus, squeezing past him would mean acknowledging his body and the fact that he’d blocked me with it like a bully. He was tall and lean and ripped, strong, as we both knew, and now he was looming over me—little me, five-and-a-half feet on my tiptoes!—and all up in my space.
What the hell was his problem? Was he waiting for me to acknowledge him? To say something about that night?
Because that was not happening.
I wanted the blueberries though, and he was blocking my reach.
“Do you have a problem or something?” I finally grit out.
“No problem. Why?”
“It’s called personal space. You’re in mine.”
“You didn’t seem to mind last time.”
My mouth floated open. He did not just fucking bring it up. In a room filled with our family.
I darted a glance around, but nobody seemed to be eavesdropping. Everyone was absorbed in their own conversations and the music was pretty loud.
“You remember.” He leaned into me a bit so I felt the heat of his body. He wasn’t touching me, wasn’t even looking at me but perusing the food when he said, “That stormy night. Kind of romantic, wasn’t it?” Then his eyes met mine, cold and brutal.
He was rubbing it in. Trying to torture me.
As if what he did that night—and the next morning—wasn’t enough.
“I truly hope you choke on a pickle and die.”
“Good thing you never called me,” he said, unfazed. “This moment might’ve been pretty damn awkward if we kept doing what we did that night… now that we’re about to be forever joined by Jacob and Margot’s holy union.”
I organized strawberries on my plate as my face grew hot.
Next to me, he tossed a couple more pickles onto his plate beside a pile of meat. And he definitely shifted even closer when he said in my ear, “Should I call youlittle sisternow?”
My face burned. Like, burst into flame. I could’ve probably lit a candle right now.
“You did seem to enjoy it when I called youlittle girl.”
Ass. Hole.What a raging fucking asshole.
I thought he was a snake. I was wrong.
I forced out between my teeth, “You are an absolute swamp creature.”
He chuckled darkly as he moved behind me, and I felt his hot breath on my neck when he said, “You spread your legs for me.”
