Page 20 of Vicious Arrangement
Okay, that makes me giggle.
Me:He’s not here yet, but he’s on his way.
Katie:Fuckwit.
Me:Duh.
The waitress comes over with a plate of petit fours and the Manhattan. “These are on us.”
Heat flares in my cheeks. “He’s on his way.”
She nods, clearly not believing me. “There are plenty of better fish out there, so let me know if you want the number of a hitman or the bartender who said the guy’s a fool.”
My heart shrivels a little, along with what’s left of my ego but I hold my head up high. “He texted, so…”
She’s unimpressed. “If he doesn’t have flowers, I might have to spill something on him.” She pauses and does air quotes. “Accidentally.”
I laugh.
By the time I finish the petit fours I don’t want—delicious as they are—and my Manhattan, he’s two hours and forty minutes late and I’ve come to both my senses and my hard limits.
Wolf’s Bane is starting to jump, and I’m sure they can use the table. I’m about to catch my waitress’s eye and put everyone out of their misery by paying up and schlepping home when the door opens.
And my heart does an Olympic worthy triple somersault.
Oh, lord. It’s the hottest man alive, the one from the bar.
The one I humiliated myself with on Katie’s birthday.
I definitely have to leave now. I don’t need this on top of being stood up by a man who’s demanded I marry him.
Suddenly I’m destined to be a roadkill deer, trapped in the road, the headlights bearing down, and I freeze in my seat, unable to even tear my eyes from him.
Because what are the chances of seeing Mr. Sexy again? He’s even hotter, the suit like chocolate with the darkest lines of color to give the Glen plaid a touch of designer magic. His shirt is caramel, and the tie is gold, and yes, there’s a vest.
He really looks like he’s stepped out of the hippest men’s fashion line of suits. And I want to swoon.
And be swallowed by the ground.
Because as he talks to the host, his gaze casually moves over the room and he sees me. Stops at me.
A smile flares and sticks on my face, and butterflies swarm in my stomach. What the hell? What are the chances of seeing him again? And… god… he’s heading this way.
It’s not until he pulls out the chair opposite and sits that reality suddenly shoves me to the ground.
This isn’t a joke or an unformed dream come true.
It’s a nightmare.
“You’re Noah,” I say, my face now consumed by flame.
His smile is deep, flirtatious, and totally unaffected by anything even remotely resembling an apology for his unbelievable tardiness. “The one and only.”
The dimple flashes.
My traitorous heart swoons. My head rampages, and I stare at him. “You’re late.”
He misses the venom. “Yeah, sorry about that. See you started already.”
