Page 58 of Reckless King

Violet’s cheeks are flushed, and she takes a gulp of wine.

“Wow,” she says. “Sorry, that was probably way more than you wanted to hear.” She lets out a little laugh. “Probably not what you were planning to talk about when you invited me to dinner.”

“I asked because I wanted to know. I’m just glad you felt like you could tell me.”

She hesitates and her eyebrows knit together.

“What?” I ask.

“Other than Anna, you’re the only person I’ve told.”

I still as I take in what that means. Mark mentioned that Violet withdrew after their dad’s death. I’d forgotten his comment about not knowing the reason behind it. Yet she trusted me enough to share something so personal. Thatknowledge steals the oxygen from my lungs, and I have to siphon in a slow breath to replace it.

She gives me a flustered smile, then pushes her plate away. “I’m so full,” she says, changing the subject. “That was delicious though. Thank you.”

The waiter returns just then to take our plates and ask if we want dessert.

“I couldn’t,” Violet says, “but if you want to, please go ahead.”

I shake my head, but I’m not ready for the night to be over. “How about we go upstairs for a drink?”

She glances over at the stairway to the bar, then back to me. At first, I’m certain she’ll shut me down, but instead, she holds my gaze and nods. “I’d love to.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

VIOLET

As I wait for Tate to pay for our meal, I mull over my decision to tell him about Eric. What is it about this man that has me dropping my walls so easily? He’s so different from what I expected—from what he was like when he was in college. Could I have misjudged him even back then?

The memory of that first morning hits me. The first time I ever laid eyes on him, he was sauntering out of his bedroom in just a pair of boxer briefs with two women following him. His hair was tousled from what I could only assume was two sets of fingers running through it, and there were literal scratch marks on his chest. His eyes widened when he saw me at the breakfast bar, and then he quickly sent the women packing, despite their obvious desire to stay.

I push the memory away. What Tate chose to do back then, probably still chooses to do, is up to him. It doesn’t make him a bad person, and the knowledge that I treated him as if he were because of his personal choices has guilt weighing heavily on my chest. Tate having consensual sex with anyone he wants to is absolutely none of my business.

I try to ignore the sharp twinge of jealousy behind my ribs. It’s only because he’s pretending to be mine at the moment that I don’t want to think about him with other women.

After signing the bill, Tate slides out of the booth, and I follow. As always, he puts his hand on my back to guide me between tables. On our way up the stairs, he walks behind me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. Is he staring at my ass? Is henotstaring at my ass? Which one would I prefer? No. I shut down that train of thought. It’s better if I don’t know the answer to that question.

The bar is crowded and far louder than the restaurant below. As Tate leads me forward, I swear people make way for him, as if they know he’s one of the most powerful men here. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. Though the way women’s heads turn as we pass is definitelynotmy imagination.

We reach the bar, and miraculously, considering how many people are clustered around it, a bartender immediately appears, ready to take our drink order.

Tate raises a brow at me, silently signaling for me to go first.

“I’ll have a Cosmo.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. Is he remembering the first time we kissed the way I suddenly am? Is he imagining the taste of vodka and cranberry juice on my lips at the club that night?

He nods at the bartender. “A Cosmo and scotch on the rocks, thanks.”

As the bartender sets about making our drinks, Tate turns to face me. The crowd on either side is pressing close, and when someone jostles me from behind, Tate slides his arm around my waist and tugs me in until I’m pressed against the hard wall of his chest.

The sensation has crazy impulses scattering through my head. As fervently as I’ve willed myself to forget, the feel of him against me, and the memory of what he did to me at Onyx, has athrob centering low in my abdomen. It might be the wine we had with dinner, but the thought of him touching me—of doing more than touching me—has invaded my thoughts tonight. Especially now, when he’s standing so close I can smell the fresh, masculine scent emanating from him.

Maybe my expression gives me away, or the way I keep staring at that little triangle of tanned skin at the base of his throat where his top button is undone, because he dips his head closer to mine. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

My stomach sinks. There’s no way I can admit that after only two official dates, I’m edging closer to succumbing to his charm. It’s the wine. It has to be.

Luckily, the bartender chooses that moment to place our drinks on the bar. Quickly, I pick mine up and take a long sip to avoid the question.

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