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“You know what, my friend? Leave the bottle.”
Pamela’s eyes widened.
Fingers plowing through his fresh haircut, he snickered. “Give her a citron and tonic, will you?”
“Someone’s on edge.”
“I’m fine.”
The bartender returned with the Van Winkle and Pamela’s drink. “Oh, and that’s why you’re setting out to drink a thousand-dollar bottle of bourbon?”
“Exactly,” Ian said and tossed back the contents of his glass, only to pour himself another.
“You best keep your wits about you, darling.” And with a knowing smirk, Pamela took a sip of the lemony vodka. “Derek isn’t stupid. The girl isn’t, either.”
“What do you know about her?”
“I know I like her,” she answered with a shrug.
“I like her, too.”
He almost wished he didn’t. It’d make things easier. But no, Fate had to go and throw Breanna in his path, and now it was too late. The one girl he shouldn’t feel anything for, except loathing, perhaps, captivated him. How in the fuck did she do that? Ian Maynard had more than his fair share of women through the years, yet somehow he’d managed to remain immune to their vain attempts to claim him.
Francie poked her head out from the formal dining room. “Are we ready?”
“God, yes,” Pamela piped up. She dipped her head to his ear and lowered her voice. “Good. Don’t fuck it up, then, dear.”
Right.
Glass in hand, Ian walked over to Jordy. “Staying for dinner, my friend?”
Her fairytale blues glaring, Breanna looked at the sheriff before turning them on him.
“You know, as much as I’d love to stick around for this…” He pressed his lips together. “…I, uh, think I should be going.”
Snickering under his breath as Jordy made his farewells, Ian took his place at Breanna’s side. “Enjoying yourself?”
Hera sat at her feet.
Breanna sipped on her drink, declining to answer him.
Derek absently trailed his fingers up and down her arm.
“Try the salmon, princess.” Ian picked up a morsel from his plate, and holding it to her perfect mouth, he winked. “I hear it’s delicious.”
The six of them sat at the long table that could easily accommodate twenty. Ridiculous. The family dining room would have been much cozier, but Francie did things as Valerie had always insisted upon, and Thanksgiving dinner, with George Dalton’s oil-painted eyes staring at them, had always been held in here.
Across the table from Ian, Breanna pretended to eat her food, moving it around on her plate and taking the occasional bite, while pretending his presence didn’t affect her. She acted as if she’d never seen him before. Never felt him inside her. That’s how he wanted it. Even so, it stung.
Because he craved more of her. From her. With her. Right now, more than anything, he wished they were back inside that cabin in the storm. Without Ted and Francie hovering. Without Pamela’s whispers in his ear. Without Derek’s lecherous glances her way.
Don’t look at him, baby.
He wanted her eyes on him.
Ian toed his shoe off beneath the table. Dare he? Why yes, he certainly did. Chuckling to himself, he reached for her with his foot while sipping on his bourbon. Making contact, his toes rubbed up along her shin, then down and up again.
No reaction whatsoever.
