Page 74 of Choices

Within a second, the bottle appears with two glasses. “Would you like me to pour, sir?”

A nod of confirmation then his attention moves back to me. “You don’t look like a Bob.”

“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes.

Swiping the credit card off the bar, he holds it between two fingers.Ah…fuck.

“It’s rude to assume,” I tut, wagging a disapproving finger.

“You’re fun.” He cracks an amused grin then takes the champagne flutes and offers me one.

Wrapping my hand around the beer bottle on the bar, I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not celebrating.”

“You could be.” That sounds like a dark promise, awaking the sinner inside me.

Studying his face, I tease, “Oh yeah?”

Taking a step so close, there’s only a small margin of space between us, he says, “New friendships.”

There’s a silent pause before I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “I don’t have friends either.”

“That’s a shame.” It’s a whisper, his breath basking over my skin.

I turn my head to down my beer and swipe my mouth. “Nice meeting you, Michael.”

Taking a couple steps back in the direction of the dancefloor, I halt when Claire stands in my path, her phone pushed to her ear. Her eyes bore into me, and she flicks her hair. “Okay, baby. See you soon.” Again with thebaby?Ending the call, she rolls her eyes. “Cutter’s jealous I’m out without him.” She shrugs a shoulder. “He’s coming to pick me up.” My pulse roars in my ears, and my stomach drops, the beer splashing around in there. “He probably won’t even wait until we’re home before he tries ripping me out of these clothes.”

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!I scream internally, my head underwater. “You two looked cozy.” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder.

Turning on my heel, I stride back to Michael. Taking the champagne flute he holds out, I clink it against his.

“Fuck it—to new friendships.”

CHAPTER 23

SHARING ISN’T CARING

CUTTER

“There’s a dress code, Cutter,” Claire huffs, the tapping of her heels chasing me toward the entrance of the club. “What the hell are you going to do?” Her voice is shrill, drawing attention from the teens loitering near a bus stop.

“Go home, Claire.”

What the hell am I going to do?

“Are you forgetting who he is?”

Has Kitty? She has to remember the shit she got when she brought Nicolas back to the club. Pres doesn’t want anything interfering with our relationship with the Carnells—pretty sure that includes his daughter fucking around with one.

“Go home.” I jab a finger in her direction when she continues to follow me.

Whining and rubbing her arms to ward off an imaginary chill, she complains, “You’re supposed to take me home.” The air is stiff, a wall of heat hanging like a blanket above us, making me sweat.

“Get a cab or fucking walk. I don’t give a shit.” I don’t stop my approach even as my brain roars at me to think about this before going in there without a plan.

“Yeah—that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t give a shit about your wife.”

I stop at the door by two men with fists bigger than my head wearing all black, complete with suit jackets and earpieces. Two sets of eyes flash to my cut then to each other. “We can take your jacket for you, sir.”

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