Page 22 of Burn With Me

Instructing my driver to be back by ten, I offer my arm to Stacey as we walk in, smiling for the paparazzi as we enter. The DJ plays some type of house music as we pass the elegantly decorated tables and the dance floor, heading straight to the bar because I’m gonna need a drink to get through the night. “Why couldn’t my uncle make it again?”

“I don’t know, he just said he needed you to show up on his behalf,” she answers before ordering a glass of champagne and a Macallan neat for me.

Her hair is pulled up in a simple chignon, and she’s dazzling in a soft raspberry-colored calf-length sheath dress that ties around her neck in a large bow. As a punishment, she made me match my tie to her dress. If I wasn’t confident I could pull offanycolor, I’d be pissed.

As it is, the only thing I’m upset about is the amount of time I need to spendherewhen I could be searching for Ginny at Decadence.

I’m like a fucking drug addict who needs his fix.

After twenty minutes of handshaking and giving bullshit excuses for why my uncle can’t make it, Stacey excuses herself to the bathroom to freshen up. Turning away from the men we were talking to, I pull my phone out and send a text to my uncle.

You owe me.

Staring at my phone while I wait for his reply, I accidentally bump into someone as I move toward the terrace. Spinning around to apologize, my eyes widen, and the words die on my tongue when I seewhoI’ve bumped into.

Ginny stands there, mere feet away, looking absolutely breathtaking in a champagne satin gown. She seems equallyshocked to see me as we continue to stare at each other as though both of us have forgotten how to speak. Her hair is pulled up in a mass of elegant curls, showing off her bare shoulder in the one-shoulder dress. There’s a mile-high slit up the right side of it, showcasing the creamy ivory skin of her thigh and a cutout on her waist.

It’s a lot of skin to show for an event like this, and though I can appreciate the gown, it seems verynotGinny.

That thought makes my blood heat as I imagine who could have picked it out for her. Does she have a boyfriend? A gay best friend? A fucking fiancé that she forgot to mention?

Taking a step toward her, I open my mouth to ask when her eyes flit over my shoulder, growing wide, and she shakes her head quickly in a sharp manner.

“Ginny, there you are,” a masculine voice says behind me.

Turning my head, I catch the profile of a man with raven hair and equally dark eyes. He wraps an arm around her waist as he settles into her side, and my eyes immediately find where his fingers curl around the naked expanse of her skin.

“Who do we have here?” he asks in a clipped tone, fingers tightening as he looks at me like a fly he found in his drink.

Ginny looks terrified—like a mouse who’s been cornered by a cat. And I’ll bet whoever the man is, he doesn’t know we’re acquainted.

Extending my hand, I act as though wedon’tknow each other. “Jackson Tailor. I was just about to apologize to your girlfriend here for bumping into her.”

My voice is tight, relaying my irritation to her. His expression turns to surprise as he unwinds his arm from her to shake my hand. “Mr. Tailor, thank you so much for being here tonight. I’m Chris Calloway, this is Guinevere, my–”

“Sister!” Ginny interrupts him, taking the chance to move a step away and closer to me. “I’m his sister,nothis girlfriend. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tailor,” she says politely as she extends her hand.

He’s herbrother?

It takes great effort on my part not to curl my lip in distaste at the way he was touching her. Brothers donottouch their sisters like that.

Chris looks at her with annoyance clearly written over his face, jerking his head as he looks back at me with a firm, fake smile. Taking her hand, I bend to kiss the back of it, relishing the way her cheeks light up. “Lovely to meet you, Guinevere? Was it?”

Ginny raises an eyebrow in amusement. Her soft pink lips turn up in a playful smirk. “You can call me Ginny.”

Chris’ eyes bounce back and forth between us before he motions to my nearly empty glass. He steps forward to hand her his, making it very apparent that he doesn’t like our exchange. “Yeah, Gin. Why don’t you go fetch us some drinks? Jackson, what are you drinking? Whiskey? Bourbon?”

Her playful face falls into one of displeasure even though she takes the glass and looks at me, patiently waiting for me to give her my drink order as the din of the room fills the space between us.

“Scotch,” I finally tell her.

I’m not discreet about the way my eyes travel down her body as she turns and walks away, revealing her back to be mostly bare, save for the few straps that attach the shoulder to the other side of her lower back.

It’s like I’m breathing in fresh air for the first time in days. The tension that’s been settled in my muscles since Saturday night, easing with her presence.

Chris steps in the way of my view of her. “She’s notreallymy sister. We aren’t related. My parents took her in from foster care when we were younger. But they never adopted her.”

The tone of his voice is possessive. Low, and hard to hear over the noise in the room. Meant to be a warning. He draws himself up—still falling a few inches shorter than my six-two—and takes a step closer to me. If he’s trying to be intimidating, he’s failing miserably.

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