Page 19 of Chips & Checks
I know I can be professional. I’ve got degrees, credentials, years of experience, and steel-core boundaries. But what if he decides I owe him something now? What if he’s one of those guys who thinks a good orgasm means I’ll fetch his protein powder and schedule his dental cleanings?
I realize how strange this must look from the outside, so I take his hand in mine—cool, businesslike, detached—and give him a single, cursory shake.
Our fingers brush.
A lightning bolt shoots up my arm.
I pretend it didn’t happen.
It absolutely happened.
“You two should get to know each other,” Dante says, grinning like a matchmaking gremlin. “Take your seats. They’re bringing in the food. Here.”
He strides over to the long table and starts rearranging place cards like a man on a mission. When he’s done, I’ll be seated on one side of Bowen…
…and my father will be on his other side.
Okay.
Now I’m not just expired.
I’ve flatlined.
DNR.
Just leave my body here. It’s fine.
Sprinkle my ashes out in the middle of Lake Mead.
Bowen sweeps forward and pulls out my chair like he’s auditioning forThe Bachelor.
“What a gentleman,” Dante says in an approving tone.
I can’t look at Bowen’s face. Gentleman, my ass. I know what those hands can do. Those big, strong hands. With the thick fingers.
And the piercing on his...
Nope.I fucking said abort, Violet Sawyer!
I practically fling myself into the chair and try to scoot forward, but—as usual—the chair is way too big, and I’m way too small. I wind up tiptoeing and crab-walking forward an inch at a time like a feral raccoon at a job interview.
“Thanks, M—Bowen,” I mutter.
“My pleasure,” he replies smoothly as he folds into the seat beside me like he’s done this a thousand times and never had sex with the woman next to him. The way he says pleasure makes my thighs clench under the table. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And I hate him. And I maybe want to lick his throat.
Before I can think of a single safe, professional, non-sex dream thing to say, my dad drops into the chair on Bowen’s other side with a cheery, “I see you’ve met my eldest daughter.”
Bowen’s smug expression shatters like glass. “Your—wh…wh… what?”
His hand jerks toward his water glass, and instead of picking it up, he slaps it sideways. The entire thing tips straight into my lap.
Cold water floods the crotch of my cocktail dress like a firehose.
I shriek.
“Cold cold cold co-co-co-COLD!”
I jump to my feet, flapping my hands and doing what is, objectively, a full-body panic wiggle. The chair nearly topples behind me.
