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“You think you’re really that irresistible?” Roisin stands slowly, brushing herself down. “Give me a break.”
I note the coordination of her movements, the anger simmering behind her eyes, and the pieces click into place.
She was trying to catch me off guard so she could escape.
“That was…” I feel like an idiot for not considering the possibility before. “Where do you get off?”
“Aww, did the nepo-baby get his ego hurt?” Roisin coos as she walks back over to the table to finish her glass.
I watch as the red liquid touches her lips, and I grind my teeth together. “Stop drinking.”
She smiles wickedly before sitting herself on top of the table. “Make me.”
An invitation I know I should decline.
And yet, I hesitate.
Roisin merely laughs again, pouring herself another glass. “I knew it; you don’t have the balls. Is it really your honor, or are you just scared of my brother? Does your boss have your balls in a cage?”
“I don’t work for your brother.” I manage to get out. “You’re just a petulant child lashing out because things didn’t go the way you wanted.”
“Ouch, I’m heartbroken. Truly.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Of all the ways I imagined this evening to go, dealing with this kind of behavior was never on that list.
“You know what? I think I get it,” I say, schooling my expression into something more neutral and relaxing my stance.
She notices the change in demeanor with sharp eyes. “What?”
“Why your sister abandoned you.”
“What?” Her eyes widen before she can stop them—all hurt, no calculation—before her face smooths back into that controlled mask.
It would be entirely satisfying if the pang of guilt didn’t decide to rear its head at that moment. But I squish it down firmly.
“A spoiled brat from LA, manipulating the men around her for her own amusement. Did your sister get sick of your games? Or was Douglas your latest player?”
“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I say as I step closer to the table to pour my own glass of wine. “See, IsawAimee not that long ago.”
“Liar.”
I merely smile into my glass as I take a sip. “And she seemed very happy without you.”
“You bastard,” she hisses, leaping down from her perch.
I glance at her, at the absolute look of disgust on her face as she acknowledges me, and I know I’ve won. She seems to register this, too, and begins to make her escape. Beelining for the door.
“You can’t stand it, can you?” I say as I follow her, trying to ignore how the sway of her hips becomes more pronounced with every step. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”
“Oh, trust me, I can take it,” she sneers over her shoulder.
“You sure about that?”
Smash.
She throws her wine glass to one side.
