Page 68 of Wait for Him

I slide into the back seat and cross one leg over the other while he closes the door behind me. By the time he gets back behind the wheel, the tips of his ears have gone faintly pink, which is frankly adorable.

I pull out my compact mirror, check my lipstick and smooth one hand over my hair before deciding I look exactly like a woman who has her life completely under control. Today's costume of choice. A complete fabrication, obviously, but an extremely convincing one.

“You, uh...” Gerald clears his throat as he eases the car away from the curb. “You look stunning tonight, Miss Rose.”

I catch his eye in the rearview mirror and smile. “Careful, big boy. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

His grip tightens slightly around the steering wheel, and I have to bite back a laugh.

Poor Gerald.

I get an unreasonable amount of enjoyment out of making men flustered. Sue me. He's pushing sixty-eight, happily married to Patricia, and about as threatening as a golden retriever in orthopedic shoes. If I send him home feeling ten years younger and Patricia benefits from the increased morale delivered by a hard dick, I consider that a public service. She should send me a fruit basket.

The city slides past the windows as I tuck my compact back into my bag and settle against the seat. For the next ten minutes, I make a sincere effort not to think about Marcus Jackson going home to his wife, taking off that suit and letting another woman put her hands where mine were less than two hours ago.

I don't think about whether she gets to touch his chest whenever she wants, or whether he kisses her the way he kissed me all those years ago, or whether those hands I know far too well spend their nights on a woman who has every legal right to them.

I certainly don't think about the fact that I was standing between his thighs earlier today and felt exactly how little his body remembers that we're supposed to be friends.

I make it maybe thirty seconds before I'm staring out the window imagining all of it anyway.

Excellent discipline, Rosalie.

Really outstanding work.

***

“Fucking hell, boss.” Lukas sucks air through his teeth as he takes my purse for the night. “Are we taking prisoners? Because goddamn.”

I laugh and lean into the kiss he presses to my cheek. “Hi, Luke baby. How's the crowd?”

“Good. Let me take you to your table.” He holds out his arm with all the polish of a gentleman I know for a fact he isn't. “Fuck, you look good on my arm.”

“Don't get attached.”

“Too late.”

Lukas is a big teddy bear, assuming the teddy bear in question is six-foot-seven, built like a linebacker and capable of changing his face from welcome home to you have exactly three seconds to leave without moving anything but his eyes. It's precisely why I hired him.

Whenever I'm at the club, he's mine. I let him know I'm coming and he stays close enough to reach me without ever hovering, which is a skill I value more than almost anything in a bodyguard. When I'm not here as a guest, he works the front door and runs the club's social media, a combination of responsibilities that delights me every time I remember it. One minute he's physically removing some overconfident asshole from the premises, the next he's editing a tasteful reel about Thursday's rope workshop.

A man of range.

He's been married to his husband Jonas for eleven years, so his relentless flirting is the safest kind there is. All shine, no hook.

Lukas leads me to my usual table, a circular booth positioned with a clear view of the main stage but enough shadow around the edges that I can disappear when I want to. Three dancers move around polished steel poles in various stages of undress, two men and one woman, all of them beautiful and carrying that particular air of professional boredom that says they could perform this routine upside down while mentally making a grocery list.

A deep bass rolls through the room and comes up through the soles of my shoes.

Better already.

“I'll send Glory over, boss, then I'll station in the far corner.” Lukas points toward a table with a clean view of mine.

“Thanks, baby.”

“You know I love it when you call me that.”

He flashes me that ridiculous megawatt smile and disappears into the crowd to find my attendant.