Page 151 of Bona Fide

“What are you doing here?” I seethe. “Are you stalking me now?”

“Throwing the first pitch for the New York Yankees game.” He hits me with a solemn look. “You remember how much I like the Yanks, don’t you, Sox?”

“Stop.” My chest starts to heave, each mouthful of air is like something going down the wrong pipe.

I clamp my mouth closed, not wanting him to see me pant. Not allowing the most powerful man in the country to know that I’m bothered by his proximity—which is arm’s length right now.

“What do you want? The answer is already ‘no’.”

He quirks a brow. "You sure? I'm pretty sure that if the question was, can I fuck you, the answer would be...yes—please.”

My cheeks blaze. My thighs crush together, and his confident demeanor only makes me feel like more of an idiot than I already do.

That he’s over this—me.

I loathe the burning at the back of my eyes. My brain telling me to fucking move before I make more of a fool of myself in front of him.

Stepping to the side, I begin to walk by him and back to Enzo, who’s standing at the entrance of the art gallery, conveniently blocked from us. Until Wade’s next words cement me to the glossy hardwood floors.

“What are you doing here?”

I spin on my heels. “What?” Wade doesn’t turn to face me, admiring the painting I was just staring at.

“This depiction looks like you,” he vouches, shoving his hands into his tattered jeans. “Beauty on top of chaos. The pacified woman who is covered with wounds from life lessons and love. Along with disappointment—” He steals a glance at me. “—something you hide well.”

When was I someone you could see through?

"You're wasting my time," I assert, brushing my hair away from my face. "What are you here for?" He responds by taking a step closer, making me immediately want to run to the front where Enzo is.

It's laughable. Utterly and sadly comical that I think Enzo, a pharmaceutical rep, could save me from Wade Lockwood. Shit, one look, and Wade's suits could stuff him in the back of a blacked-out SUV, and he'd never be heard from again.

Still doesn’t stop me from peering over my shoulder to see if he’s still there—and safe.

“I don’t know about that,” Wade admits. “It looked like you wanted to kill yourself from boredom with that wannabe me. So don’t act so interested in him when clearly my dick was what you wanted the other day.”

“Enzo is nothing like you. You want me to start naming off the differences?”

Wade gives me a passive look. "Besides his self-esteem issues since he keeps stealing glances at you from across the room, go for it, Sox." I glare at him so hard that I hope it leaves a dent in his forehead.

But alas, no dent, just facts.

Enzo isn't Wade, but in certain ways, I wish he were. It beats at my soul, trust me. I wish that I could aspire to get rid of everything I remember of the man standing in front of me, but I can't.

Especially after Mexico, it’s even worse now.

“Why are you here, Wade?” I press. “How did you find me?”

“I’m here because I was in town.”

“Just because you—” I point my index finger at him. “—forced us to run into each other doesn’t mean you get to look me up whenever you’re here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Shelton. You’ll embarrass yourself.”

“Leave Enzo alone,” I continue. “He’s the future, you’re the past.”

“Oh, Sox,” he coos with a cocky hoist of his mouth. “How quickly you disregard good ‘ole Jed Hardison again.”

“Wade, it was my idea. Don't you have other shit to do than worry about what I've done? Like, run a damn country or something?"

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