Page 77 of By A Thread
I fantasized about hunting down every fucking weasel who’d sent her a cock and kicking them in the balls.
“Where’s he taking you?” I asked, hating that I couldn’t not ask. Hating that I needed to know.
“I’m meeting him at some bar called The Market. Have you been?”
Nicknamed the Meat Market, the lights were low, the drinks were strong, and there were two hotels on the same damn block. I’d been.
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll see you there,” I said, pretending to scan the shots again. I couldn’t forbid her from going. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t make up a fake meeting that required her late-night presence. Not without her knowing it was a sham.
“You’re going?” She sounded happy, and I wanted to ruin it. I wanted to make her feel as twisted up as I did.
“I’m meeting someone there myself. A date,” I lied.
If I had to be tortured by thoughts of her hooking up with some random guy she met on a fucking app, then she could enjoy seeing me out on a date with real potential.
Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she could smell bullshit. “It’s not on your calendar.”
“I don’t put my personal appointments on my work calendar.” Another lie. I had no personal life. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had sex. But I could remember every single fantasy I’d had about Ally.
“Then maybe I’ll see you tonight,” she said, grinning up at me.
I watched her leave.
And the second the door closed, I stalked into the bathroom. All I could see was that flash of red fabric between her legs. All I could think about was someone else getting to take them off her.
It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was fucking my fist wishing it was her sweet, wet pussy clamped around my aching dick.
At this moment, I didn’t like a single thing about Ally Morales.
26
Ally
Austen was cute and smart and clearly in need of either a palate cleanser bang or some therapy.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off the door of the bar long enough to decide if I was interested in him.
Because I was waiting for a man who didn’t want to want me.
Ugh.
Purposefully, I turned my back to the door and my attention on the forty-two-year-old, divorced civil engineer. He’d ordered a glass of merlot and given the bartender a hard time about the pronunciation. I’d ordered a cheap, draft beer in case he insisted on splitting the check. He’d told me fifteen things about his ex-wife, and I’d mentioned Dominic’s name twice.
As far as I was concerned, neither one of us was a catch.
I could feel it the momenthewalked in. The air in the bar became electrically charged as if a bolt of lightning was about to strike the liquor bottles. I willed myself not to turn around, to focus on what Austen was saying.
“God, you must think I’m such a loser,” he said, slumping his shoulders.
“What? Why?” I couldn’t quite remember what he’d been saying. I was too busy trying to look like I was listening.
“I’ve told you more about my ex-wife than myself. I’ve asked you like one question, and that was just so I could lead in to another story about my ex. I’m so not ready for this.”
“You and me both, pal,” I said, raising my beer to his wine glass.
“My friends told me I needed a palate cleanser,” he confessed, then blanched. “And I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I’d find that really offensive if I were you. I am so bad at this. I’m not ready to date.”
He was adorably bad at this.
