17-REAGAN #2
“What part of that night replays in your head the most?”
I choked on a bite of sandwich. “Vincent.”
“What?” He feigned innocence, eyes bright. “You said I could ask anything.”
“I meant like… normal people questions.”
He grinned. “We’re not normal people.”
I tried to level him with a look. “Fine. What part plays in your head?”
His voice dropped, warm and confident again. “All of it.”
For me, it was the mask, the cabin, the woods, his touch in the black of the night, feeling like I was right where I belonged. And somehow, this was scarier.
“What about you?”
“The way you stared at me,” I responded without missing a beat.
“Glad to hear something stuck with you.”
A customer in the entry stumbled, sending half the bar turning toward the noise. I didn’t. I froze. Because of that uneven gait, that glazed determination in his eyes as he scanned the booths—it was unmistakable.
Tate.
My stomach plummeted, and blood drained from my body. I turned my face inward, hoping he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t see me.
Vincent looked over his shoulder, then back at me, voice low. “You okay?”
I shook my head. “No. That’s my ex.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin even though it didn’t need wiping. “Well—technically, my husband because he won’t sign the fucking papers. But yes, that’s him.”
“Don’t let him bother you,” Vincent murmured, calm but coiled. “I can handle him— if you need.”
Before I could answer, the mass grew closer and closer until there was no denying he had hunted me down and not in the way I liked.
The booth dipped hard beside me as Tate dropped down uninvited, his hip slammed into mine and shoved me a full inch over.
Whiskey hit my nose like a slap. Without lifting my face, I glared up at him.
“Reagan.” His voice was calm and smooth, but I wondered for how much longer. He smiled at me. “What are you up to?” he asked, like I was the one barging in on his date.
My stomach rolled, and Vincent tensed across from us, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.
Tate’s glossy gaze went from me to Vincent and back to me. Acknowledging that I was out with a man who was not him, not my husband.
“I’m… eating dinner.”
Tate blinked at the table. “Could’ve sworn you hated going out.” He reached forward and—of all things—grabbed one of Vincent’s fries.
Not one of mine. No. He made eye contact with Vincent and took one of his. Then he ate it. Vincent’s brows lifted. Just barely. “That was mine.”
Tate waved a sloppy hand. “Sharing’s caring, cowboy.”
My soul left my body. I was well aware of how comfortable Vincent was putting his hands around others’ throats.
The waitress approached cautiously, unsure where the third person had come from. “Uh… can I get anyone a—”
“Whiskey,” Tate cut in. “Double.”
Vincent got her attention back from Tate. “He doesn’t need that. Can we get the check for our food?”
I needed to escape. I needed to flee before this turned into a full bar spectacle. But I was boxed in. His body blocked one side, and the wall blocked the other.
“So,” Tate said, leaning back to throw an arm over my shoulders. “Who’s this?”
Vincent sat forward. “Her date.”
Tate snorted. “Cute.” He leaned into me again. “You’re really doing this? Dating? While we’re still married? You didn’t even ask me.”
My skin crawled as I tried to escape under his arm. “I don’t have to ask your permission for anything, Tate.”
“That’s not what our marriage license says.”
“The divorce papers would suggest otherwise.”
Vincent handed the waitress his card before she had the chance to set her little black book down.
“Anyway,” Tate continued, “I heard you were here. Thought I’d pop in. Check on you.”
“Pop in?” I choked. “You had to Uber here.”
Tate shrugged with sloppy confidence. “Yeah, but I had a feeling you missed me.”
I had a feeling I needed to escape before I stabbed him with a dull steak knife. “How did you even know I was here?”
He turned from me and nodded to a trio at the bar. “Colt and the boys are here.”
“Great.” I forced a tight smile, looked at Vincent trying to telepathically plan our exit, and grabbed my purse. “Hey, Tate? Why don’t we go outside and talk about us—about this?”
His eyes lit up with victory. The smug kind. The kind that made my skin crawl even farther away. “See? I knew you still cared.”
“You’re exactly right.” I joked in a way that only the sober could pick up my sarcasm.
He scooted out of the booth with a triumphant grunt, giving me space. I left my half-eaten food and squeezed out between the bench and table, eyes glued to Vincent, who was following my lead.
“Have a good night.” The hostess called out to us before stepping outside. The night air was cool between us. Vincent needed to hurry and pay the check so we could leave. I would try to buy time until he could help me.
Tate’s hands were clammy at my waist. “So, come to your senses after seeing what’s on the market?”
“Tate, you can’t be serious. This will never work.”
He leaned in, forehead hitting mine. His hot breath rolled across my cheeks as I was on the steady footing between us. “Reagan, you know it does. It did for years. Then something changed.”
My back fully arched, trying to get him to take the hint. I didn’t want to be touched, but I didn’t want to make a scene either. “Yeah, I changed. We want different things.”
Tate was ripped away and suddenly face-to-face with Vincent. “You have to be pretty fucking blind to see that she isn’t interested in you anymore.”