17. The Card Shark
EVA
Ifeel a fierce protectiveness simmer—an instinct to shield my twin from anything that could ruin this night. “He’s inhaling that stripper’s chest like it’s his last meal,” I mutter to myself as I thumb through the pictures that came from an unknown number.
Just as quickly, I’m hitting the delete button like I’m on level thirty and Mario’s on his last life. These can’t land in Paige’s lap—not tonight, not ever.
“Shit.” I thumb a message to West.
Me: MARSHMALLOW. A stripper? Paige said she’d call off the wedding if Zach got one. WTF West!
In the time it takes for me to book an Uber, the phone vibrates with his response.
West: No. Paige left a voicemail saying it’s cool. Check again.
Me: Wrong, cowboy. If that voicemail was Paige, I’m the Pope. I’m heading over.
Click-click-click. I delete the pictures from the trash bin too, and I hope they don’t haunt Zach forever. Paige will mount his head on a wall if she ever sees these.
“Everything okay?” Paige’s voice slices through my panic.
“Perfect! Just remembered—the flowers!” I say too quickly, mentally face-palming. “Gotta check on them, you know, florists. One minute everything’s roses, next thing you know—bam! Daisies.”
“Uh, huh.” Paige nods like she doesn’t care, and I’m glad she’s buzzed.
I grab Brielle and ask her if she can give me fifteen minutes, then bring this party to the cigar bar where the guys are. She happily agrees, so I’m already out the door, heart hammering.
“Stripper my ass,” I grumble, racing toward the Uber, my mind on fire with worst-case scenarios and how to strangle Zach with a garter belt.
Tyson’s following me, and I shoot him a look. “This can’t make it on air. I’m serious—it’ll ruin the whole franchise if this marriage goes to shit.”
“I know, Eva, I got you.” Tyson nods, the camera on his arm. “But you know I have to film everything.”
When the Uber arrives, Tyson gets in with me. Of course he does—he’s a drama bloodhound.
After a five-minute ride, the nondescript door where the underground cigar bar where the guys are comes into view, and I take a deep breath. Time to channel my inner badass. Zach has about thirty seconds before he meets Hurricane Eva, and hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorned twin.
“Watch out, boys.” I enter like I’m there to kick some ass. And honestly, I just might.
Everything is a maze of shadows and sin, the kind that whispers, “What happens here gets bragged about in locker rooms for years.”
Zach’s there, plastered, getting another lap dance. His grin is wide enough to serve as a billboard for “Regrettable Choices.”
“Hey, Casanova!” I bark.
His head swivels toward me, eyes glazed over like donuts. The stripper gyrates with professional indifference, her hips spelling out Morse code for “paycheck.”
“Hey, baby!” Zach calls out, slinking around the stripper and jumping up. “You’re the best fiancé ever. I love you so much. He comes in for a kiss, and I put my hand over his mouth.
“Nope, Zach—It’s Eva.”
“Oh, shit.” He takes a big step back. “I didn’t recognize you with the hair. You look like you just got laid by an octopus.”
“Thanks. Truly.” I grab his arm, steering him away from his fleshy eclipse. “Paige didn’t send the all-clear on this skin parade. You’ve been punk’d.”
The realization crashes into him, sobriety slapping him across the face like a scorned lover. “Oh fuck,” he groans, “I gotta talk to Paige.”
“Don’t worry. She’s on her way.” I check my phone to see that Brielle is waiting for an oversized Uber car for the women right now.
West throws a thumb toward the stripper, who’s now getting a drink at the bar. “I’ll get rid of her.”
“Good man.” I nod, slinging an arm around Zach just as his knees decide to go on strike. West jumps to Zach’s other side, and we get him settled back on the couch. I say, “When Paige gets here, have her listen to the voicemail, so she knows the truth before she finds out from someone else.”
With Zach drinking water and planning his route to forgiveness, I turn back to the party. Time to salvage what’s left of this.
“Pour ‘em.” I sidle up to West, ready to make him look desirable for the cameras tonight. At least, that’s the reason I’m telling myself. He grins, mischief dancing in those beautiful eyes.
“Come here often?” he says as the server pours an amber liquid that smells like charred oak and courage.
I laugh, knocking back my shot.
“Damn,” West murmurs, watching me with newfound respect—or is it fear?
“Your turn.” I nudge the bottle his way.
“Careful, I might start thinking you’re way too hot again.” He throws back his own shot. “And with that hair and outfit, I might not be able to hold back.”
“Well, hold away because I’m off limits,” I say, wishing like hell I meant it. I grab the bottle for round two. “We’ve got to make sure everyone still has a good time.”
The stripper approaches me, whispering, “One more quick dance before I go?”
I fling up a palm. “Oh, no. I’m all good.”
“Come on, Manhattan. Have fun with it.” By the heat in his eyes, I realize he wants this tease, and now I want to give it to him.
I look at the stripper and nod. “Let’s do it.”
Then she straddles me, delivering a performance that would make a Vegas showgirl take notes. I laugh, glad I’m drunk, because right now, it’s actually fun. But even better: West’s jaw is somewhere near his ankles.
“Relax, West,” I say over the music, “it’s just a little bump and giggle.” I realize it was me who was all weird about this just a minute ago, but right now I’m feeling it. I don’t get why Paige thinks this is the end of the world, but whatever.
“Right.” West finally snaps his mouth shut. “Do we have time for her to do that to you again?” There’s something in his voice that makes my skin light up and ache for him. His eyes are telling me he wants to do things to me, and I want to do things to him right back.
“Nope.” I tip her and send her on her way. Now we’ve got a party to keep alive. And if it means taking a few laps in the ridiculous rodeo, so be it.
“Ante up, boys,” I declare with a grin, fanning the cards like a pro. The chips clink and slide across the green felt as West eyes me, a playful glint in his gaze.
“Think you can bluff your way through this one, Manhattan?” He throws in his chips.
“Watch and learn, boys.” I toss my hair. The air is thick with swagger and the sweet scent of victory.
“I like you like this,” West mutters.
As the game progresses, my pile of chips turns into a mountain.
“Damn, woman,” Kyle whistles, “you’re cleaning us out!”
“Sorry, not sorry.” I rake in another pot, my heart pounding in rhythm with the jazz crooning from the speakers.
West leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving me as I lay down another winning hand. I catch the edge in his stare, the heat, and my pulse quickens. He’s got that look again—the one that says he’d love to pin me against the nearest wall and have his way with me. I can’t say I don’t feel the same. There’s a magnetic force hanging in the air, electrifying and frustrating.
“Shit, Eva, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we’ve found your superpower,” West drawls in an accent I didn’t know he had, his voice a low rumble.
I lean into his ear, brushing my lips on his lobe when I whisper, “Or maybe you boys are just easy to beat.”
“Oh, I’m so easy,” he slurs, turning to meet my gaze.
I enjoy the play of emotions on his face—pride, amusement, and something else, something deeper. “Is that so?”
“With you, yes,” he croaks, and there’s not a drop of humor.
A bunch of my parts tingle, and a silent moment passes between us, charged with tension. I want to dive in, see where it leads, but the group of women walk in, and I need to make sure they join the fun.
“Come on over, ladies,” I slur, clearly drunk. They’re all squeals and happiness as Zach pulls Paige aside to have her listen to the voicemail.
Luckily, all must be forgiven because Paige and Zach make out on the couch like it’s prom night.
And let’s be real—although West is still holding himself back, I know he wants to hook up with me. And something primal in me wants me to push him until he caves.
And it’s not for the cameras because they’re gone.