Page 3 of Scarlet Vows
If I’m utterly honest, I didn’t want to go out tonight. It’s why I let both Demyan and Ilya think they set perimeters for me. There’s something I find comforting in that. The excuse, probably, of staying in over going out without so-called privacy.
Because Demyan, if he were here, would have a shadow in the room.
I’m shocked Ilya didn’t force one on me. But I promised I’d call him twenty minutes before I planned to go so a driver would be there for me.
I flip to another screen and scroll through all the gossip threads. I don’t read any, but a juicy story makes for a good excuse to ignore any interrupters.
Isla needs tonight, and that’s why I came. She’s had a hardcouple of years with her breakup with Trev. It’s been a hard couple of years for us both. Isla said we deserved to have fun. I don’t know about me, but she does. Definitely.
A big shape moves toward me. I see the man from the corner of my eye, and his muscles have muscles that have muscles.
A blond Adonis on steroids, and he turns more than a few heads.
My heart starts to sink as I realize he’s moving toward me. I’m his target.
“Let me buy you a drink. You’re too gorgeous to sit by yourself.”
“I have a drink,” I say in a cool tone. “And I’m waiting for my friend.”
The man snorts. “A real drink.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I turn back to my phone.
This is one reason I hate going out. I must give off something in the air—the sadness maybe, the lonely hole left by Max, the place where Max should be—because men always hit on me.
And I’m so freaking sick and tired of telling them no. I honestly don’t know how Isla can actively seek out men on dating apps. I shudder at the thought.
The man still stands there. I don’t need to look to know.
Usually, the guys do respect my decision, but even if they don’t, they mutter something nasty and leave.
Theyleave.
The bars are always full of other targets.
Not Mr. Muscles. He leans on the bar next to me, moving Isla’s drink out of the way so he’s crowded in, and he clicks his fingers at the bartender, who comes over.
The bartender’s eyes go to me. “Your friend leave?”
I shake my head, and he pours another drink for Isla, notfor me since mine’s still mostly full. He sets it down next to me.
“You all good?” he asks.
The big guy waves an Amex in the bartender’s face. “Eyes front, bro. On me. Your most expensive champagne. Two glasses.”
“I’ve got a drink,” I say. “And I don’t want to drink with you.”
“Sure you do, sugar.” He turns and offers me a sleazy smile, one that has malice behind it. “We’re gonna drink and get to know each other.”
He sits down, puts his hand on my thigh, and runs it up under my skirt to mid-thigh. I grab at him and pull his hand free, my heart thumping hard.
No one, ever, touches me like that.
Not anymore.
But he puts his hand back.
“Stop touching me. Right now. I’m not interested. I don’t want you touching me. I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want to drink with you. My friend’s on her way back, so go away, or I’ll call the cops.”
