Page 31 of Menace in Vegas

"You sure?" The arrogant, sexy smirk made me want to punch him in the face.

I glared at the road. "Shut up, Byrns."

His annoying chuckle irritated me even more.

He handed me the car keys, our fingers touching. Electricity shot through my skin like a live wire.

My hands shook with anger.

And something I didn’t want to think about.

I jammed the key into the ignition and stomped on the gas, blowing out of the diner parking lot with no destination in mind.

I just needed to get away from that bitchy waitress before I made the six o'clock news.

* * *

My next mistakeoccurred when I drove Wanda—the wood-paneled beast from hell—to another restaurant.

Because clearly, nothing cures a mortifying jealousy spiral like aggressively pretending I didn’t just claim a man who isn’t mine.

I refrain from looking at or speaking to him the entire car ride.

We silently head inside.

Immediately, I realize my mistake.

The restaurant is cozy.

Dimly lit, full of deep red booths and flickering candles.

It’s the nicest place we’ve been to since this hellish trip started.

His eyes flick over me, slow and assessing.

Like he’s dissecting me, picking me apart one piece at a time.

His eyes flick over me, slow and assessing. Like he’s dissecting me, picking me apart one piece at a time.

My cheeks burn under the intensity of his stare.

I squirm, feeling off-balance.

It doesn’t help that he’s sitting in the fucking booth beside me.

His arm stretches along the back of the seat, inches from my shoulder.

I can feel his heat. His undeniable presence.

I sip my water, avoiding eye contact.

He leans in, and I swear to God, the entire world stops.

"You’ve been having fun messing with me, haven’t you?" His tone is low and amused. Full of cockiness, like he already knows the answer and is just fucking with me, wanting me to admit it.

I freeze mid-sip.

Slowly, I set my glass down, forcing a neutral expression. "I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

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