Page 11 of When I Had You

Cash winks at me . . . friggin’ winks at me in front of my family like he’s the guest of honor who does as he pleases. Adding salt to my already salty attitude, he sits across from me. Of all the places . . . That makes it a lot harder to block him out, and I foolishly make the first mistake of looking up.

“Hungry?” he asks with a smug-ass grin settled on his face. “Because I’m starved.” Nothing about his tone sounds like he’s referring to food. Oh, so now we’re supposed to be flirting?

I don’t think so, mister!

Although the innuendo is wholly inappropriate—considering we’re surrounded by not only my family but also his bosses—Cash Ryatt’s dulcet tones speak straight to my core. I take the wineglass as soon as it’s filled, though, and gulp a solid fourth of it in response. Keeping the glass in hand, I look right at him this time and grin because two can play this game. “Let’s eat.”

4

Cash

Fire and ice.

She’s mouthy.

Her temper is easy to trigger.

And she’s demanding like a spoiled princess as the baby of one of the wealthiest families on the East Coast.

And so fucking sexy because of that pouty pink mouth of hers, her fiery disposition, and confidence that boosts with every bat of her long lashes. It’s a shame she’s part of the family, thus making her off-limits, or I would have fucked her already to help her get me off her mind.

The woman is clearly obsessed with me. I get it. Most are.

I’ve met women like her before, though. Fury is foreplay. I’m the bad boy every good girl wants to take for a spin. I have money, looks, and don’t have their parents’ approval. I’m a wet dream for every Goody Two-shoes.

Yet it’s my ears that perk up when I overhear Marina say, “Corbin and I are—”

“Would anyone like to order dessert? The crème brûlée comes with my highest approval,” the server says, stopping behind her.

She replies, “Nothing for me. Thank you.”

He continues distracting the others from what she was saying, except for me, as he rounds the table. I’m still hanging on to one specific part of that earlier phrase. “Who’s Corbin?”

Her blue eyes leave the plate in front of her and shift to mine. I’ve caught her looking at me several times over dinner, but she looks away even quicker. This time, spinning the stem of the glass between her fingers, she replies, “My costar.”

Costar is an interesting way to put what seems to be more if I’m reading the situation clearly. “And?”

“Boyfriend.” She doesn’t smile or put much of herself into the response. It’s also fascinating she relegated him to nothing more than a coworker. That speaks volumes about their relationship.

I watch her from across the table, and the light and laughter from earlier conversations have faded from her eyes. Even the fire has disappeared into an expression of neutrality.

“How long have you been dating?”

Taking a sip of wine, she maintains her gaze on mine. When she sets the glass down, she leans in and whispers, “Is there nothing else more interesting to discuss?”

“This is pretty interesting.”

Her lips twist to the side before the slightest of smiles shapes her mouth again. Maybe it’s the wine or the intimacy of the conversation when surrounded by so much other chatter, but we exchange a silent understanding, laying our verbal weapons down. “It’s not something I really want to talk about right now.”

Dessert is served to those who ordered, and our connection is mired in the surrounding conversations.

The qualifier today and the race tomorrow.

Kids.

Travel.

And the usual chitchat among friends. Though I’m careful not to say too much or get too involved. I’ve learned from the past that it doesn’t matter how close you are to your team. If they want to fire you, they will, and then eat next to you at a steak dinner like they did you a favor.

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