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Lace and I are both sitting on a cold white step, sipping lemonade out of beer mugs.
“What about them?” I murmur.
“Little rough for ya, ain’t it?” Genuine concern ripples in her blue eyes, and she combs her fingers across her short, shaved hair. “Heck, it’s rough for me.”
“Chip’s a strudel compared to Rowan.”
Her mouth opens, closes. “I’m choosing to believe that wasn’t derogatory ’cause strudels are delicious.” Foregoing the straw I plopped in her mug, Lace takes a swig like her lemonade is spiked. “Ya okay?”
“Peachy,” I mutter into my straw before I blow bubbles around the ice cubes.
Lace touches my arm. “I mean it, Briar. Are you okay?”
My inhale burns as it skates down my throat and into my lungs. I shrug her hand off. “He’s just…a lot sweeter than I thought he would be. I knew he was kind. I wouldn’t have proposed any of this if he weren’t…but…he is so sweet, Lace. He’s already broken. I could destroy him.”
“What do ya wanna do?”
I shake my head. I have no idea. Ideally, not destroy him. But it’s a little late for that if his feelings are invested as deeply as this morning’s conversation implies. He’s already tangled in my web. I’ve done my job too well.
Dang that first brief kiss, which set this catastrophe in motion. First rule of dealing with the touch-deprived—do not touch them. The moment you become a source of what they’re starving for, they don’t let go. There’s no clean break. No happy end.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just focus on the point. The Maxim Project. The sooner this is done, the better.” I grip my glass tight, let condensation gather against my skin. “Tell me everything I need to know.”
Lace watches me in silence for several seconds, then she nods and does as I’ve asked.
♠
“How?” Rowan mumbles into his hand when I win again, dragging the pool of Poker chips to my side of the table. Ankles crossed, I pretend I’m totally A-OK.
My plans are going fantastic.
I’ve not messed up at all.
With Granger’s men out of the equation, the atmosphere in The Casa has significantly improved. On the other side of the lounge, several men are laughing at a video game. A handful are in the loft, gambling over pool. Some other pairs sit at the fully-stocked bar and yell at sports over drinking games.
“You must be cheating,” Corbin accuses as he tosses his pair down where his stack of chips used to be.
From the bar stool behind us, Chip pulls his attention off the game and snaps, “Bossette doesn’t cheat.”
Entirely sloshed on the seat beside his, Lace looks up and slurs, “Wha? Who said that? Lemme at ’em.”
Chip coos and strokes her hair until she settles.
“No one’s this lucky.” Rowan monitors me in a way that—for the record—doesn’t make my stomach flip flop at all.
Threading my fingers together, I prop my elbows on the table. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive.” He leans across the table. “But if you insist that you’re not cheating, maybe I just need the right motivation to beat you.”
I dare say. Is this man coming on to me? My, how the turntables. “What do you have in mind?” I murmur.
“Strip Poker.”
My brows rise. I glance at the room full of men, and Lace. Who is somehow losing the drinking game I don’t even think she’s playing.
A slash of heat cuts across Rowan’s cheeks. “In private, I mean. Not here. Definitely not here.”
My eyes close briefly, to let me compose myself. When I have, I pat his hand. “Baby, I don’t think you should flirt anymore. You might hurt yourself. And while I do find the image of you forfeiting in your underwear tempting, I really do have to decline.”
