Page 126 of Kiss Me Tonight

Shawn shoots me a look that could stop a man in his tracks.

Lucky for him, this isn’t a social call.

I’m gonna let Clarke have his beer and then I’m gonna send him packing so fast he won’t even know what hit him. No one fucks with Levi or Topher, especially not him.

“Two beers,” I tell Shawn. “We won’t be long.”

“You don’t even know why I asked you to meet me,” Clarke interjects, trailing behind when I head for the closest booth. I let Levi’s ex take the seat that leaves his back open to the door.

Sitting diagonally, so my legs can extend out to the left of the table, I drape my arms over the back of the booth. “We’re not here for socializing,” I growl, my voice resolutely hard. “I said pretty much all I have to say to you in an email that’s probably rotting away in your inbox.”

“Ah, the email.” Clarke undoes the top two buttons of his suit jacket. “It’s funny, of course.”

Knowing I’m being baited into conversation, I bite out, “What’s funny?”

“That email.” Shaking his head, the older man strips off his jacket and lays it across the table. “Did you know that Levi read it? Her response to your . . . crassness was illuminating.”

My molars might disintegrate to dust, I’m grinding them so bad. “Illuminating.”

“Yes, illuminating.” Clarke leans back, issuing a no-named thank you when Shawn drops off our beers. “She said you were bullish.”

Ignoring the condensation on the glass, I bring the Bud Light up to my mouth. “An improvement over what she called me when we first met in person . . . right here in this bar.”

A tick pulses to life in his jaw.

Bingo.

When he first rolled up on the field, I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s all too clear that Rick Clarke is here for one reason only: to keep me away from his ex-wife. I’m not entirely sure how he knows about us, though I have to assume that someone showed him the articles fromCelebrity Tea Presents,particularly the one where they called her Aspen Clarke and claimed she’s still married to the asshole sitting across from me.

From between gritted teeth, Clarke edges out, “And what, exactly, did she call you?”

I smile at him, all wide and toothy—because I know it’ll piss him off. “An asshole.”

His dark eyes, so unlike Topher’s, widen marginally. “And that doesn’t anger you?”

I like to think of it as our own special blend of foreplay.

Since there’s no chance in hell I’m ever gonna admit that to her ex-husband, I merely shrug my shoulders and opt for another sip of beer. I dangle the bottle loosely from my index finger and thumb. “Why fight it when it’s true—you feel me? Now”—I point the base of the bottle toward him—“what the hell are you really doing here in London, Clarke? And don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to see your son. I saw how you reacted to Topher out there, and you should be feeling lucky as fuck right now that I’m not looking to sit behind bars again anytime soon.”

TheI’ve-been-locked-upcard is not one I pull often.

But it has its time and place, and this is one of them. At six-foot-six, I could do major damage to Clarke without breaking a sweat.

He knows it.

I know it.

He clears his throat awkwardly.

I sit my ass back in the booth, beer bottle in my hand, and don’t say a word.

Sometimes, silence is the best intimidation tactic.

I learned that in juvie too.

Clarke clasps his Bud Light between his hands. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

A job. That’s . . . unexpected. And incredibly unwanted.

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