Page 46 of Once Upon A Sale

Yeah, yeah. I fucked up.

“I’ll go with you, Logan.” My brow furrows at Tabby’s words. If I hate these galas, Tabatha is deathly afraid of them. It’s all about her past and the fact that the same powerful men who run the world used and abused her. Being at such a public event would take a lot out of her.

But Logan doesn’t know any of this and I can’t betray her by saying something right now.

“I don’t need a pity date, Tabby.” He tries to make it sound light and flirty but it comes out flat.

“It’s not pity. I’m actually taking advantage of the only time you’re actually free for me to ask.” What the…what, now? Shocked is what I was when Jarrett was able to make me come more times than I could count over just forty eight hours. This? This is beyond anything I could have imagined.

“Well, in that case…” Logan turns to Tabby, takes her hand, then kisses the back before asking, “Miss Tabatha, would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the Warren Gala?”

Giddy, Tabby smiles and nods, the pink tinge on her cheeks a clear indicator that Logan’s natural charm worked its magic.

When it comes to me, though, I don’t get a single word or glance for the rest of the evening.

Logan is hurt but I’m confident he’ll get over it. Not to mention, if Jarrett is watching and following my every move like I suspect he is, this is safer for him. Because, let’s be clear, in a fight between Jarrett and Logan, my best friend doesn’t stand a chance of surviving.

Chapter Eighteen

Jarrett

There he is. That fucker, Logan. He’s smiling and laughing, thanking the server with a polite nod as he swipes two glasses of Champagne from the makeshift bar. The setting sun reflects off of his stupid, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, and I don’t know what it is about him—okay, so I know exactly what it is about him, but I am trying desperately to not smash his fucking face in.

The only reason I’m watching him right now is because I haven’t seen Ophelia yet, and I have no doubt he’s heading in her direction with those drinks. He weaves through tables set out on the Tropez Lawn space, around a palm tree, then to a tall table beside the pool.

She’s not there.

He hands one of the glasses to Ophelia’s friend, Tabatha, and she accepts gracefully, her cheeks flushing a little pink when he smiles at her.

What the fuck is going on? What did I miss here?

And where is my fucking woman?

The space for this gala is huge, and with over eight-hundred guests, she could be anywhere. I should have come for the food portion of the evening, but I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than eat a three-course meal with a bunch of stuffy twats. Now, if I had Ophelia by my side, it would be a whole different ball game.

There’s a ten-piece orchestra on the stage beside the pool area, their smooth tones echoing across the space via multiple speakers dotted around. They’re playing chart music, but somehow their instrumental versions of popular songs are so much better than the originals.

A few couples are swaying in the dance area, which has been laid out with smooth white flooring…she’s not here either. Heading back to one of the bars, I have to pause, quite literally stopping in my tracks when I see Rick the Prick walking towards me with a smug grin on his ugly mug.

I discreetly check the pocket of my trousers for my knuckle duster, sliding my fingers through the holes as Rick gets closer.

“You took too long, my friend.” Winking, he raises his Champagne glass and carries on straight past me. Fucker is a dead man walking.

Silently seething, I continue to the bar and order a whiskey. I need something stronger than Champagne or I’ll end up getting myself arrested for fucking Rick up in front of all these people.

Drink in hand, I turn and survey the area once more.

There she is.

She’s fucking glorious, effortlessly exuding confidence and beauty in her understated purple floor-length gown. There are no fancy frills, no lacing or glitter, but there is a slit up one of her thighs. It showcases her sexy, tanned legs, and her sky-high heels that look like they could kill a man. To be fair, they probably could, easily, in her hands.

Her hair is swept up in a fancy twist, with wisps framing her delicately made-up face, and all I want to do is wipe it all off and mess her up.

The smile she gives the older lady she’s talking to is as addictive as the rest of her. It’s relaxed and real, like the times we had at the cabin when she let her guard down.

With Rick here, I’m not wasting any more time on watching her. She may be able to handle herself in a fight to the death, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to allow her to get into that situation. The Firm wouldn’t make their move at an event like this, but they’re getting too fucking closer to her for my liking.

“Apologies for interrupting, but may I steal Miss Warren away for a dance?” I’m hoping my British charm will excuse my brashness, because whether this couple agrees or not, I’m taking Ophelia to the dance floor.

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