Page 42 of I Could Be Yours

“Oh, yeah, just checking on dinner reservations.”

I booked a table at a steakhouse. And of course, because this seems to be a weekend of six degrees of separation, we’re seated next to the girls.

They’re all wearing little black dresses and the sashes I spent my entire night running around to deliver. They read BEA’S BABES, and I guess they’re essential to the evening. I’m suppressing an eye roll even now. Whatever. What I do know is that the picture Essie sent has nothing on how good she looks in three dimensions. Her hair falls in loose waves over her bare shoulders, her makeup is artfully applied, and her dress highlights every damn one of her physical assets. As per usual, she receives a lot of double takes and flirty smiles.

“You don’t mind if we move the tables together, do you, bro?” Tristan claps me on the shoulder.

“Not at all,” I lie.

The host and servers jump into action, pulling out Essie’s chair, falling all over themselves to offer their assistance. She bats her lashes and smiles.

It irks me that these guys keep treating her like a pretty object to admire and she just…allows it. Or maybe I’m just pissed because she’s aiming the same smile she gives me at someone else. Or it could be that back in high school, I fit into that category, and I still feel shitty about it.

I end up next to Essie once our tables are pushed together. She pulls a compact out of her purse and fluffs her hair.

“You don’t need to keep checking to make sure you’re still beautiful,” I murmur. “Just ask me, and I’ll tell you.”

Her gaze lifts to my eyebrows. “How is it possible for you to look angry while giving a compliment?”

“It’s not a compliment. It’s a fact.”

She reaches up and smooths her finger between my eyebrows.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re in Vegas, Nate. Your furrowed brow belongs back in Canada.”

I roll my eyes. “You hijacked my boys’ weekend.”

“Andyouhijacked my girls’ weekend, so it looks like we’re even. All this moping will give you wrinkles, so you should try having a little fun.”

She winks and turns her attention to Rix, who thinks everything on the menu sounds good.

And just like the last time we were at a restaurant, I end up constantly passing things to Essie.

She leans in, fingers dragging along my forearm. “Can you pass me your balls?”

I quirk a brow. “They’re not detachable.”

Her nose wrinkles and she tips her head, pointing with one pretty nail to the dish on my left. “The chicken balls, Nathan.”

“That’s not what you said,” I grumble and pass her the plate.

“I think your mind is in the gutter,” she whispers.

“I wonder why.” But maybe I am hearing things.

She crosses her legs under the table, and her bare foot slides up the back of my calf and rests there. “Where are you boys headed after this?” she asks the table.

The guys look to me. “Nate is keeping the itinerary under wraps,” Tristan notes.

“It’s staying that way, too.” I side-eye Essie.

I won’t be able to handle Essie in this dress, at a club, being hit on.

After dinner, the girls head up to their rooms to get ready for their night out. I need a minute to come down from the overstimulation of sitting next to Essie and not being able to kiss theknowing smirk off her face. I convince the guys to go to the hotel bar for drinks and not follow them up to their rooms.

“We should play a drinking game.” If I get good and wasted, I might not cave and send Essie late-night messages asking for all the things she’s been texting me today.

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