Page 142 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Who are you? His expression is saying.

That’s the moment my brother turns to face me. Gio snaps his fingers in my direction to get my attention, following my eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.” His voice holds a warning that causes my head to jerk around.

“Don’t think aboutwhat?”

I have no idea what he means.

“Sleeping with someone who might be on my team.”

I feel my eyebrows raise into my hairline.

“Since when do I sleep with random people?” First of all, I can’t believe he’s bringing this shit up in front of people. Anyone could overhear us! Secondly, “I’m allowed to sleep with whomever I want.”

My brother laughs as we continue down the carpet. “No, you’re not.”

I don’t press him.

We can save this for another day. Another night.

I look down at my plump neckline—or lack thereof—cheeks on fire, lips parted, doing my best impression of a girl whoisn’tcurrently imagining what a man who looks like Luca Babineaux smells like. Or how his laugh might sound when he hears something actually funny.

Women must be crawling all over him.

I push that thought out of my brain because WHO CARES? Gio already warned me to stay away from him even though he’s not the boss of me.

Inside the massive venue, we’re seated at round tables of ten, white tablecloths pressed crisp,and as I take my seat beside my dumb brother, I let my eyes skim the room casually. Casually. Just doing a sweep.

I see him.

Two tables over. One row back.

Seated beside a guy with a man-bun and a crooked tie, laughing at something on the little folded menu card in front of him.

He's not looking at me.

Pfft—why would he be?

I angle slightly in my chair, all nonchalant, like I’m shifting to cross my legs. Like I’m not highly aware of the exact moment his gaze lifts. Drags. Finds mine.

The corner of his lips turn up.

Oh.

God.

The nerve!

My skin already feels too tight. My dress itches in places that have never itched before, and my wine is going straight to my bloodstream, amplified by the heat radiating from two tables behind me.

I sip my wine and try to act unaffected. Then—because I have zero impulse control and the attention span of a gnat—I peek over my shoulder again.

Quickly. Just a flick of my eyes.

His eyes are on the stage, where some Chairman of blah blah blah is introducing some boring montage, blah.

I force my attention to the stage, too, clapping when it’s appropriate, brain beginning to fog from the expensive wine I’ve consumed before drinking another.

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