CHAPTER 8
Declan
Exactly who does this motherless son of a flying shitweasel think he is?
I can’t even believe what I’m seeing. This dude is hitting on Summer. Hard. He’s trying to pick her up.
What’s worse is that Summer seems totally fine with it. Her grimace and knitted brows are long gone. They’ve been replaced by a sly smile and half-lidded eyes. She might even be blushing.
I’ve never seen Summer blush. I always assumed she has some kind of genetic thing going on with her capillaries that makes it impossible.
But now I see that it is possible for her to blush. Just not around me.
I don’t know what to do. I’m standing at the dining entrance holding two melting sundaes in my hands. Ice cream is dripping over my fingers and the inside of my wrists. I look like a dork. Nowhere near the level of hot-alpha-pilot shit I aspire to.
On the other hand, there’s no law saying I have to allow Summer to be hit on by this sleazoid. I stomp in their direction, ice cream droplets hitting the floor. I slam the sundaes on the table. I might have used too much force, because ice cream sprays all over the place.
“Who’s this guy?”
I’m pretty sure I just growled those words. I can’t remember the last time I growled. But I gotta say that I like how my voice just slid down a full octave on its own, like a reflex, thick from anger.
Why am I so angry?
“Huh?” Summer collects a wad of paper napkins from the dispenser and doesn’t even look at me. I’m just an annoying mosquito buzzing around her love life.
“You,” I say to the guy. “Who are you?”
“Kirk. You must be Declan.” He stands, smiles politely, and puts out his hand. I shake it. His grip is firm. “Pleasure to meet you.” He makes eye contact with me when he speaks.
He seems somewhat legit. Maybe only a partial sleazoid. In normal circumstances, I might even like this dude.
These aren’t standard circumstances, though. He’s hitting on Summer. My man Kirk’s got to go.
Now.
What kind of name is Kirk, anyway? Sounds like a pussy name to me.
My new Enemy No. 1 sits down again, reaching for a paper napkin to wipe off the sticky drips of ice cream I transferred to his hand. Hey, he was the one who wanted to show me how firm his handshake was. Serves him right.
Giving a man a bad case of ice cream fingers isn’t exactly an ass-whooping, but it’s a start.
“We were just talking,” Summer says offhandedly, her eyes on Kirk, not me, as she wipes off the table. And then she giggles.
I gasp.
I’ve never, ever heard that sound come out of Summer. Finn’s nine-year-old daughter, Jasmine, sure. His wife, Emma, yes. Phoebe, absolutely. And Victoria, well… maybe, though I can’t be sure.
But Summer? Hell no. If Summer doesn’t think something’s funny, she looks right at you and says “that’s not even funny.” When she thinks something’s funny, she lets go with a full-throated laugh.
Like everything Summer does, she laughs big. No halfway giggles for her. But she’s giggling now. And blushing.
I decide Kirk would look really good curled up in the fetal position on the restaurant floor, crying out for his mommy.
I glare down at him “Nice meeting you, Kirk. Summer and I were just about to eat ice cream.”
“Grab a chair from another table, would ya?” Summer finally glances up at me while she finishes the ice cream cleanup. “You look like a creeper just standing there, or maybe like you’re ready to take our order. If you’re going to stick around, pop a squat like a normal person.”
I’ve just been dissed. I feel the back of my neck heat up. And I can’t help but notice the stark difference between the annoyance she has for me and the way she’s been gazing dreamily at Kirk.
I scan the space for an unused chair. “You need this?” I ask the occupants of a nearby table, grabbing the chair before they can answer, spinning it around, and dragging it to our table.
I straddle the seat backwards, fold my arms over the top rung of the seatback, and drop my chin to my forearms so that I can stare.
Unfortunately, this gives me a front-row seat to this shocking display of human sexual interest. Summer hands Kirk my spoon and says, “You can share mine. I’ll never be able to finish this in one sitting. I’m more of a nibbler.”
Nibbler?
Oh, okay. I get it now. I’ve slipped into an alternate universe. Opposite Land. Hell. A twisted and sick place where Summer nibbles and knows how to flirt. Those are two additional things I thought she was genetically incapable of doing, along with the blushing.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands.
“Kirk’s in asset management,” Summer tells me while looking at him.
And your ass is the next resource he’d like to manage.
“Do you even know what that means, Summer?” I hope to sound like I’m well-versed in the world of finance. I think I just came off sounding like a dick, instead.
“It means I make a lot of money,” Kirk says, then laughs. Summer laughs too. “But that’s neither here nor there.”
Here nor there? I’m revising my opinion of my dude Kirk.
He’s a sociopath.
He slurps down a spoonful of ice cream and says, “How about you and I go for a dip in the pool, Summer? There are private cabanas and a swim-up bar and live music. You can meet up with your brother later. Maybe even tomorrow.”
Summer’s eyes flash at me, then she looks away.
Got it.
She’s told ole Kirkster that I’m her brother. This situation really should be making me laugh. I’m not laughing.
In fact, it’s all I can do not to throw something across the length of the restaurant.
Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four…
But it’s all good. I’d probably do the same to Summer if the tables were turned.
Maybe I even have done the same when I was younger.
And hey, if Summer’s into Kirk the ass manager, who am I to stand in her way?
She’s a fully grown woman who deserves to have fun with a good-looking finance bro, if that’s what floats her boat.
It’s just that I’m having a really hard time believing that’s what floats her boat.
Maybe it’s for the best. If Summer’s busy with Kirk, I can get busy with Bryttni and salvage this New Year’s Eve from clusterfuck status. Which means I really shouldn’t cock block Summer. I should walk away from the couple and let nature take its course.
But I can’t.
This dude could be bad news, one of those dudes who seem totally normal at first but then slowly reveals the depths of their depraved psyche.
I stand up. “No.”
Summer’s expression shoots daggers at me. A spoonful of cookies and cream with sprinkles slides off her spoon and lands with a splat on her shirt.
“Let me help you with that.”
As Kirk paws at Summer’s chest with his napkin, I nail him with the high-powered photon beams of loathing now firing out of my eye sockets.
“What were you saying, Duncan?” He withdraws his hand from Summer’s personal space.
“Name’s Declan.”
“Okay.”
“And I was saying that Summer’s already got plans for tonight. We have reservations at Rock Leonne for dinner.”
His face widens in a bright smile. “Rock Leonne is amazing! How did you get a table there on New Year’s? You must have booked it two years ago!”
“Nope. I booked it two hours ago. In fact, this whole Vegas thing was spur-of-the-moment.”
“You managed a last-minute flight, too?”
I smile. “Well, Kirk, I pilot my very own private jet. And do you know what that means?”
He narrows his eyes at me. I think I see his top lip spasm. He knows exactly what’s about to come out of my mouth and he already doesn’t like it.
Excellent.
“It means that I make a butt-ton of money, more money than you’ll ever see in your life.” I tilt my head back and laugh like a cartoon villain.
“For shit’s sake.” Summer closes her eyes and sighs. “This is stupid.”
Kirk strokes his clean-shaven chin. “Well, I’d really love to spend more time with you, Summer. A girl as pretty and funny as you doesn’t come around often. But if you’re busy, I understand.”
I cringe when Summer giggles again and says, “I have an idea!” She smiles. “Why don’t you join us at… whatever that restaurant is called. Declan’s girlfriend is here, too, so it’ll be a double date!”
“Whoa—”
“Perfect!” Kirk shouts, cutting me off. “I can’t think of a better way to ring in the New Year!”
Then he goes back to his about-to-lunge-and-lick posture, reaching across the table for Summer’s hand. He brings it to his lips for a disgusting, stomach-turning smooch.
Like he’s the Duke of Las Vegas or something.
Douche of Las Vegas, more like.
I smack myself in the forehead.
Why am I acting like this? What the fuck’s wrong with me?
It’s almost as if I’m jealous.