Page 170 of Bona Fide

I inwardly sigh, the platonic movement hinting that she’s going to try and hit on me. How the top two buttons of her white blouse just happened to unbutton themselves while she was pouring my drink, which takes almost zero movement.

“What else can I get you?”

“Did your voice just drop?” I uproot my eyes from my folded hands. “Because I wouldn’t even try to embarrass yourself with a desperate attempt to show me your tits to increase your fifty-something-year-old self-esteem. I wouldn’t give them a second glance now or before you became labelled middle-aged.” She drags herself back, her elbows abrading against the laminate wood countertop.

Brushing strands of sandy blonde hair out of her face, she doesn’t look affected by what I just said. In fact, she looks impassive, probably from getting it every day here at the bar. “Someone’s in a bad mood.”

“Someone isn’t grasping my point.” I lift a brow, thinking she’s going to put her tail between her legs and peace, but she remains cemented to her spot. “You here alone?”

“Nope.” I pick up the glass tumbler and take a sip of the bitter liquid.

She picks at my napkin with her long fingernails. “Girlfriend?”

“Nope.” She looks around the bar that’s packed with guests and nails her focus back on to uninterested ‘ole me.

“I can show you where we keep all the good whiskey in the basement if you’d like to sample some of that.”

“Sure, I’ll do that when—”

“He won’t be needing to,” another female voice asserts with steel laced in her words. “But we’ll make sure to leave in our review that the bartender named ‘Alisha’ was extra helpful in the hoe department.”

Alisha pushes her tongue into her cheek before she scoffs loudly. My head slowly turns to the sound of the voice—that voice—and I’m met with the most beautiful pair of violet eyes I’ve ever and never have seen before her.

The same ones I’ve thought about on the body I crave more than anything in this world.

“The hell are you doing here?” I snap, forcing out all my aggression on how fucked up this night has already become.

All because of her.

Reagan bats her long eyelashes at me and takes it upon herself to sit in the stool next to me.

“This seat is taken,” I growl, noticing her black jeans that are ripped horizontally from her thigh downward. The light blue shirt that comes above her midriff, exposing her stomach.

“Is it?” She props her elbow on the countertop of the bar. “Where is my lovely lookalike?”

Son of a fucking bitch.

I avert my gaze from her because she won’t get the satisfaction of how my eyes want to roam down her frame some more and take her to the nearest wherever to really show her what I think of her doppelganger.

Yeah, just shoot me now.

“Probably getting ready,” I mutter before downing some more of my whiskey to keep my composure.

“Ohhhh,” Reagan coos like a middle school girl who just caught someone kissing. “To get ready ready.”

“Why and how are you here, Sox?” I repeat, circling the rim of my glass with the pad of my index finger. “Did one of the Hardison’s bring you here because you begged him to take you out of New York?”

“No.”

“Then maybe the other loser.” Reagan chuckles, and I can see her head shake out of my peripheral vision.

Yeah, I’m done with this fucking game.

Downing the rest of my drink, I begin to slide off my stool until Reagan’s provoking comes out to play. “Leaving so soon, Mr. President?”

My eyes hike up to her again then turn into slits. “Do you mind not blowing my cover?”

“Oh, that’s right.” She finger guns me. “The mistress is staying with you.”

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