Page 37 of Bottles & Blades

After all that happened today, I know there’s no way that’s happening.

Only, by the time he’s made it to the door, my lids grow heavy again.

And before it swings closed, sleep has risen up and coaxed me down under again.

Twelve

Jean-Michel

“Aren’tyou a little old for a middle of the night walk of shame?”

At one time, hearing Angela’s voice was the best thing in my life.

My heart would skip a beat. My hands would itch to touch. And once, I would have doneanythingfor this woman.

Today, though, it’s only the cold fingers of dread skating down my spine that I feel.

And the gnawing urge to get as far the fuck as possible away from her.

The only thing that I’m glad for? The limited street parking around Tiff’s place that means I’m now several blocks away from her apartment and Angela can’t spread her venom there.

“Angela.” I move by her, my car parked only a couple of spots down. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but unlike some people in this world, I don’t like to lie.”

She ignores the obvious dismissal and starts walking beside me. “Except when it’s convenient for you.”

“I’d ask you to explain that bullshit, considering you disappeared for two decades, but that would mean listening to you longer, and if there’s one fucking thing I can’t do, it’s that.”

Her pace falters, but only for a second.

Then her chin lifts, her shoulders straighten, and her expression turns venomous.

“Right,” I mutter. “Not going to do this.” I bleep the locks on my car, pull open my door, and climb in. “I believe that I’ve made it clear that all communications should go through my attorneys.”

“Jean-Michel?—”

I shut the door, cutting off the bullshit she’s going to try to spin, and jab at the button to turn on the engine. I don’t spare her a look as I drive off.

But I do manage to spare a minute to call my head of security, Pascal.

“What’s the problem?” he answers, sounding completely lucid despite the middle of the night phone call.

“Need you to look into something for me.”

“You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Her name is Tiffany Hernandez. She lives at?—”

“4546 Eucalyptus Drive, Apartment 3C.”

I blink. “Tell me why you know that,” I order, trying to tamp down the anger, the possessiveness him having that knowledge fills me with. But heaven help him if he touched her.

“Tell me whyyouknow that,” he counters, his tone deadly, and there are few people in this world who scare me, who I know can fuck with me—with my life, my businesses, my future.

Pascal is one of those men.

And that’s why, despite the jealously coursing through me, I answer him.

“She’s mine.”

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