Chapter 16
T he girl is barely a minute over twenty-one, has the IQ of a flagpole, and the most annoying high-pitched, squeaky voice I’ve ever heard in my life.
There’s also not an inch of her face that hasn’t been injected or surgically altered, which, at her age, feels sad.
But the real bonus of this is that she hasn’t stopped talking about herself once since I picked her up half an hour ago.
I hate that I’m here. I hate that I agreed to this.
I hate that Wynter never replied to me, and I have an awful feeling she’s out on a date. I keep checking my phone, but I know she won’t respond, and I continue to resist the overwhelming urge to blow up her texts until she does.
“Mr. Reyes?”
My head snaps up, away from my phone. “Yes?”
“Your table, sir.”
I nod, gripping my phone in my hand like a psycho, as the host leads us to our table. People are whispering as we walk by. They’re taking covert pictures that aren’t the least bit covert. I grit my teeth and push out a grin, then take my seat across from… Fuck. I forgot her name.
She drops forward on the table, her fake tits using the tablecloth like a shelf, pushing them up and causing them to spill even further out of her tiny dress. I don’t take the bait. I’m not even tempted to, and generally, I have zero problems with fake tits.
“We should get a bottle of champagne to celebrate.”
I hold in my snicker. “What precisely are we celebrating?” I ask, giving the menu a quick perusal. Freddy said the food here is very good. I wonder if I could fake an emergency and get something packaged to go.
“Us, silly.” She laughs. It’s like nails on a chalkboard.
“Us?” I raise an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Yeah. You know. Like us hooking up and stuff.”
My dick has never been less interested. “We’re not hooking up.”
She rolls her eyes, and it’s not nearly as adorable as when Wynter does it. “Obviously not now since we’re in a restaurant. But later, I’ll fuck you. We can video it if you want. I know someone who will leak it for us.”
I blink, stunned and completely at a loss for anything to say to that.
Thankfully, the waiter comes over and interrupts us.
The mouse orders a bottle of freaking Cristal like I’m a rapper at a club.
A few minutes later, he returns with the bottle, and I decline a glass because, not only is champagne seriously not my drink of choice, I am not toasting or celebrating us with her.
I pull out my phone and check it again. Still nothing. Dammit, Wynter. You’re killing me.
I text Freddy instead.
Me: How do you know this girl, and what’s her name again?
Freddy: I met Saline at a party a few months back. She’s a friend of a friend of a friend. She seemed nice. A bit fake, but who isn’t these days?
Me: Saline as in saltwater?
Freddy: No. Saline as in Celine. I don’t think she knew how to spell it when she picked it as her name.
I wipe my hand across my lips to hold in my smile.
Me: I might need to fake an emergency. I can’t do this. It’s awful and we’re only at champagne.
Freddy: Champagne?
Me: Don’t ask.
Freddy: Give it thirty minutes and if you still need me, I’m here to help.
Me: Fine. Thirty. Thank you.
I set my phone face down on the table as the waiter starts going over the specials.
“Um. I’m on keto and paleo. Is there anything I can eat here?”
I tune her out as the waiter goes over a few items and then gives us a minute to decide.
She starts spouting off about how she wants to be a model and eventually move to New York, and blah, blah, blah—I’m not listening.
Instead, I survey the restaurant, seeing just how closely we’re being watched, when my eyes snag on a woman across the room.
My heart instantly takes off into a crazy rhythm as I stare at her talking and laughing and eating and drinking and looking so fucking stunning that my chest hurts all with someone who isn’t me. My jaw clenches so tight, I’m shocked I’m not cracking teeth.
“Ashy, are you listening?”
“No. And my name isn’t Ashy.”
She shrugs and keeps talking, and I keep staring at my woman on a date with another man. I pick up my phone and text her, watching as she goes to check it, her face scrunching up as if she doesn’t understand my message. I watch as she looks and looks, and then bingo.
Her eyes widen, and her lips part.
For a few moments, we continue to stare at each other. The douche she’s with says something to her, and I watch her lips move, but I can’t tell what she’s saying. I sign nice friend to her since I’ve learned a few things from watching those sign language videos with Mason.
She smirks and quirks an eyebrow as if to say you to o.
I’m ready to fly across the restaurant and pull her away from him, take her home, and officially make her mine. Instead, I hold myself steady and sign bathroom .
She shakes her head at me, and then the waiter steps in front of me, cutting off my view of her.
Saltwater orders something, and I tell the waiter to pick whatever his favorite dish is, and I’ll go with that.
He starts to leave, and my head ducks and weaves around him, anxious to see Wynter again.
To demand she go to the bathroom and meet me.
Only now she’s not looking at me. In fact—I chuckle lightly—she just covertly flipped me off by wiping her middle finger along the side of her face in my direction.
God, that woman drives me crazy. And makes me hard.
And makes me want to curl up under the covers with her and Mason and never come up for air.
The more time I spend with her, the stronger my feelings for her get.
She continues to eat and be on her date, and I continue to watch her like some deranged stalker because as much as I’d like to, I can’t go over there and make a scene. I have no right. She’s technically not mine, and she’s told me that more times than I can count at this point.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to break her date’s nose so I can watch him bleed.
I can’t stand this. She’s with someone else. Giving him her full attention. He gets to stare into her eyes from across the table. He gets to listen to her laugh and know what it feels like when she smiles just for him.
Jealousy churns like poison ivy in my stomach, growing tentacles that make my skin itchy.
She’s on a date, and technically so am I, but this is not how it’s supposed to be.
It’s supposed to be her. It’s supposed to be us.
Goddammit, doesn’t she know that? Haven’t I told her and shown her a hundred different ways?
Our food arrives, and Saline is still talking because she’s not eating much of her…
I don’t even know what she got. Mechanically, I cut into whatever my dish is and take a bite while Wynter and her dead date have dessert, and he pays the bill.
He stands and offers her his hand, and she accepts it, letting him drop his fucking hand to her motherfucking lower back.
My body tenses, and I angle around, watching them walk toward the exit. Look at me, Wynter. Look at me! She doesn’t, and I’m going out of my mind. Just as she reaches the exit, she drops something black, and I watch as it cascades to the floor. In a heartbeat I’m on my feet.
“Asher?”
My head snaps back over to the rabbit. “I’m sorry. An emergency just came up. I have to go.”
She glances around, noting the people watching us. “So, no sex tonight?”
“No. Definitely not.” I reach for my wallet and tug out a bunch of bills, dropping them on the table. “For dinner and your Uber home. I’m sorry. This isn’t going to happen between us. It never was.”
“Really?” she snaps, growing angry. “What do you mean this isn’t going to happen between us and it never was? No one rejects me. Everyone wants to fuck me. Look at me.” She waves a hand over herself. “I’m beautiful and famous. I have over two hundred thousand followers.”
“I’m thrilled for you. Bye now.”
I spin and race for the exit, snatching Wynter’s sweater thing just as the host goes to pick it up. “I’ve got it. I know who it belongs to. Can you have them bring my car around immediately?”
“Certainly, Mr. Reyes.”
“Thank you.” I hand him my valet ticket and then run outside, but Wynter and her date are already gone.
My good hand rakes through my hair as I pace in an impatient circle.
A few people come up to me, asking for selfies and about my shoulder.
I smile and give them the standard answer they’re looking for, and then finally my car arrives, and I hop in, racing home.
Praying she’s there.
I need to make sure she’s not with him, but I also need to explain about my date. I was foolish in not telling her, but I didn’t know what to say or how to put it. Her trust in men is already about as limited as it gets, and then I went and proved her right.
I am such a fool.
I might have potentially risked everything I’ve been trying to build with her. And for what? To pull the heat off my shoulder? Who gives a fuck? Why did I give into that? Why did I listen when, in my gut, I knew better?
Parking in my spot, I fly to the elevator and then up to my place, storming through the condo. She’s here. The light in the foyer is on, and I’m nearly positive I flipped it off before I left tonight. I jog toward her bedroom, and then I’m pounding on her door.
“Ice queen? Are you in there?”
No answer. Dammit, I know she is. The hall is dark, but there’s a light glowing from under the crack of her door.
“I’m sorry.” I pound again, only to collapse against the wood, my forehead pressing into it. “It’s not what you think. I swear it’s not.”
“I don’t care, and it doesn’t matter.”
“It does! It all matters. I need to see you. I need to talk to you.”
“Go away, Asher.”
My eyes cinch tight. “I can’t do that.”
“You’re free to date, and so am I. There’s nothing to say beyond that.”
“Like hell, there’s not,” I growl and then temper my voice. “Please. I have the sweater you dropped on your way out.”
Nothing.