Page 13 of Cruel King

I’d put down a plus-one for the wedding.

I was sure that I’d have someone that I wanted to take between when I’d told Margaret that I was coming and when I actually showed up. So far, the only person I wanted was entirely off-limits. Even if I wanted to bring her, I wasn’t risking our relationship on the chance she said no.

Fuck it. I was tired of thinking about this shit. I was just going to have a good time. Whitley was back in town. Which meant that I wasn’t going to sit here with strangers and sulk.

Sam must have seen the glint in my eyes because he started laughing. “Good luck.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I know you’re about to make a fool of yourself. I commend you on doing it so thoroughly time and time again.”

I gestured to the redhead on the dance floor with Whitley. “Why don’t you get out there with your wife?”

“Because my wife knows that to get me on the dance floor would be a feat in and of itself and a short-lived victory. She takes her wins where she can get them.”

I snorted. “Basically, you don’t like to dance?”

“Nope. But go get ’em.” He pushed me toward the dance floor, and I didn’t look back.

I barged right in on the group of girls, dancing like a maniac on the floor until even Katherine Van Pelt had a smile on her face. Court appeared a minute later with a literal tray of shots. English giggled as she snagged one. I grabbed two shots and met Whitley’s eyes with a raised eyebrow. She took two as well and winked.

Good. Good. That was way better. Just how it had always been. Real flirty and a current of desire under every interaction. I’d liked her the first time I met her, but she and I were the same in that neither of us ever seemed to want to settle down. I’d thought our endless flirting was standard order until I realized that maybe that flirting was going somewhere.

Sure, it’d gone somewhere—up in flames.

Court made some ridiculous toast, and then we downed the shots. Whitley wobbled on her heels. She was pixie short. Even in her heels, I towered over her. I liked that. Her makeup was light, highlighting her big honey eyes and her pouty, full lips. They were certified DSLs—dick-sucking lips—and looked like she’d injected several vials of filler into them, but they were just her lips. They were currently a soft pink color, and man, I was trying not to think about exactly what she’d done with them when we hooked up on vacation.

We danced the night away, as if she hadn’t been gone at all. I was even on the drunk side by the end of the night. Whitley grabbed my arm as I stumbled toward the bar.

“Hey,” she said, stopping me. “Can we talk?”

My eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah, sure.”

We moved away out of earshot.

“I just … I wanted to say thanks for not making this awkward.”

“Why would it be awkward?” I asked, grinning down at her, waiting for her to admit why she’d left.

“Shut up. You know why.”

“Oh, but I want to hear it.” I leaned toward her.

She rolled her eyes and slapped my arm. “You’re obnoxious.”

“Am I?”

“I’m trying to thank you, and you’re flirting with me.”

“Have we ever done anything else?”

She paused, as if giving it real thought. “I think we have.”

She was right. We had. We’d spent two weeks in paradise, doing a lot more than flirting.

“I want things to be like before.Before, before. You know?”

“Before what?” I asked, really pressing the issue.

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