Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Carlos chuckles under his breath, garnering my attention for a moment. “You’re going to burn a hole through the man if you keep glaring like that.”
“Good,” I mutter, not even trying to deny it as I force myself to stay focused on Carlos.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he hasn’t quite solved. Then, his voice drops low enough for only me to hear. “Want to make him jealous?”
I blink at him, surprised he’d suggest something so devious and petty, but the anger boiling within me twists slyly.
Slowly, a smile takes my mouth hostage. “Yeah… I think I do.”
Carlos chuckles and murmurs, “Here we go.”
His hands slide just a fraction lower on my back—innocent enough to pass muster, but close enough to feel the heat of his palm. He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he starts talking about nothing—his favorite tapas place in Barcelona, how the DJ here could learn a thing or two from Spanish wedding bands—but to anyone watching, it looks like the kind of private murmur that happens right before a kiss.
The immense joy at imagining Ronan’s jaw tightening, the muscle ticking in irritation is profound. I wonder if he feels the way I did upon seeing him walk in with his date.
Good. Let him stew.
“Is it working?” Carlos asks, pressing his temple to mine as we glide along the parquet.
I sneak a peek at Ronan, and if looks could kill, we’d both be dead. He’s glaring daggers at us, and I’m not sure if they’re aimed at me, Carlos or both.
Elation hits me hard. “Yeah… he looks pissed.”
The song winds to an end and we come to a slow stop. Carlos holds me close, looking down at me with soft eyes. “Mission accomplished.”
“You’re the best of friends,” I say, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Now… I’ve got to use the restroom. I’ll catch up with you after.”
I walk away from Carlos, back straight, head held high. If I caused Ronan a moment of discomfort, then that’s a podium finish in my book.
CHAPTER 14
Ronan
“It would be my honor.”
The way Carlos said those words to Francesca after she asked him to dance had me grinding my teeth. All debonair and full of genuine affection.
The words hit me like a jab to the ribs. My teeth clenched as he lead her toward the dance floor. The back of her gown is nonexistent, and I know exactly how soft and smooth her skin is there. The sight of them walking off together twisted my gut—an ugly ball of fury expansively growing by the minute.
I shouldn’t care. Not when I showed up with Amelia on my arm, smiling for the cameras like I meant it. The truth is, I committed to bringing her to this event weeks ago. Before I knew what it would be like to have Francesca’s breath against my neck, her body under mine.
Still, watching her laugh as Carlos talks, letting him guide her with that easy, familiar touch—it’s enough to curl my hands into fists.
Amelia’s voice drifts in from beside me, some polite comment to Posey, but it’s background noise. All I can focus on is the slow sway of Francesca’s hips and the way Carlos’s hand settles a little too low on her back.
Guilt prickles—because yes, I brought another woman here. It’s an untenable situation. I’m standing here, arm loosely around Ameila’s waist as she’s smiles at something Posey just said, champagne sweating in my hand—but all I see is Francesca. The slow turn of her body in Carlos’s arms. The way her head tilts toward him like they’re sharing a private joke. His mouth near her ear.
My pulse spikes, heat flooding my chest. I want to rip him away from her. Flatten him into the parquet. My fingers flex against the glass because if I don’t hold on tightly, I’ll do it.
And yeah, I know. Hypocrite of the year. But Francesca doesn’t know what I know—that Amelia’s no one special. We see each other sometimes, usually when one of us needs a plus-one for an event such as this. We sleep together occasionally, sure, but there’s no pretense. No expectation. And there’s sure as hell no way that’s happening tonight. Not after last night with Francesca.
But she doesn’t know that either. All she sees is me walking out of her bed in the middle of the night and into this ballroom hours later with another woman.
Carlos’s hand moves again—too low. Francesca smiles and leans in, and my vision tunnels. I’m about two seconds from walking over there and rearranging his teeth when the song ends.
She kisses his cheek, quick and light, and then she turns and walks toward the edge of the dance floor. Away from him. Away from me.
I drain the rest of my champagne in one swallow, shove the glass at Amelia without meeting her eyes. “Hold this,” I say, already moving.