Page 68 of All Twerk, No Play

“Before him.”

The rest of that day’s memories flashed across my mental canvas.

Spencer, radiating quiet confidence that I’d fall in line.

Knowing in my gut this wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Weighing that this decision would chase me for the rest of my life.

Catching the defiance lurking in my father’s cool gray eyes.

Gazing in adoration at my gorgeous engagement ring and wedding band.

Twisting both rings off my hand, feeling lighter almost instantly.

Dropping them onto my grandfather’s famous mahogany desk, their metallic ping echoing in the giant glass office.

Hailing a cab straight to LaGuardia with no luggage and no idea where I was going, just needing to get the fuck out of New York.

“Did you let him off the hook too?” Eric asked, seething just below the surface.

“No. I filed for divorce,” I said calmly. Eric coughed abruptly and took a sip of water. “I’m thinking pork, or maybe the steak. Do you want to split oysters?”

As the live band returned from their break, Eric took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He slumped in his seat, lifting the menu. “Definitely not oysters. Maybe a burger?”

I reviewed the menu, noticing he selected the cheapest option. I opened my mouth to tell him that I was sorry for being bitchy and not to worry about the price because dinner was on me.

After another covert glance around, he lifted the menu to block his face. Was he embarrassed to be seen with me? Or hiding from a woman who wanted another night?

I snapped my mouth closed.

The band started playing. Eric drummed his hand on his thigh in perfect rhythm—more accurate than their drummer. When the server came by, I ordered pork and the bourbon Manhattan I’d been craving. Her gaze lingered on him, squinting like she recognized him. He ordered a burger and water, and her hand brushed his when she pried the menu away.

He slid his chair closer, tucking himself behind me with his arm resting on my chair. “You know, if you want it to seem like we’re dating, you might consider talking to me. Maybe pretend to like me.”

Sensing Lawrence’s gaze from across the room, I tilted my legs so I faced him, our knees brushing under the table sending a jolt up my thigh.

His warm breath fanned the hair along my neck. “You’re still not going to pretend to laugh at something I say right now, are you?”

I bit back my amusement. “I still don’t think you’re funny.”

He chuckled, twirling a lock of my hair with lazy familiarity, like there was nobody else in this candlelit restaurant but us. If we were really dating, I’d want his hand on my leg, sliding slowly under the fabric of my dress, tracing inside my thigh …

But nobody could see that, so arm around my shoulder was better. And his body heat so close must be the reason that my face felt so goddamn hot.

His voice dropped to a murmur, warm and teasing. “U2 songs. Go.”

Relief flooded me—he’d let the breakup questions go, reverting to the easy game we played on our morning runs: If I could name more songs than him, I’d get a pass on the final sprint.

So I always did the final fucking sprint.

“One.”

“Sunday, Bloody Sunday.”

“Pride.” I pressed my knee into his under the table.

“Parenthesis, In the Name of Love, end parenthesis,” he corrected with a smirk, because he was endearingly particular about song punctuation. “The Sweetest Thing.”

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