Page 58 of Irresistibly Risky

“That’s great.” He sets to cutting more into his steak, eating his own meal now, and I do the same, forcing myself not to overthink anything. “You didn’t finish your story,” he prompts.

“Oh. Right. Well, it’s difficult coming back from an injury like that. Knees especially take a long time to heal. But I loved the idea of being able to repair injuries like that, and sports medicine is where I ended up.”

“I think it’s great—”

My phone chimes in my purse, cutting him off. “Sorry,” I say, pulling my purse onto my lap and digging for my phone. “It could be my mother about my son.”

He waves me away. “Not a problem. I get it.”

Unlocking the screen, I read the message. It’s not from my mother. It’s from Asher. And at first, it has my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Player: Look to your left.

What in the hell? Reflexively, I turn my head, scanning through the sea of diners until, about ten tables over, my gaze collides with a set of furious silver eyes, intensely trained on me.

16

The girl is barely a minute over twenty-one, has the IQ of a flagpole, and the most annoying high-pitched, squeaky voice I’ve ever heard in my life. There’s also not an inch of her face that hasn’t been injected or surgically altered, which, at her age, feels sad. But the real bonus of this is that she hasn’t stopped talking about herself once since I picked her up half an hour ago.

I hate that I’m here. I hate that I agreed to this.

I hate that Wynter never replied to me, and I have an awful feeling she’s out on a date. I keep checking my phone, but I know she won’t respond, and I continue to resist the overwhelming urge to blow up her texts until she does.

“Mr. Reyes?”

My head snaps up, away from my phone. “Yes?”

“Your table, sir.”

I nod, gripping my phone in my hand like a psycho, as the host leads us to our table. People are whispering as we walk by. They’re taking covert pictures that aren’t the least bit covert. I grit my teeth and push out a grin, then take my seat across from… Fuck. I forgot her name.

She drops forward on the table, her fake tits using the tablecloth like a shelf, pushing them up and causing them to spill even further out of her tiny dress. I don’t take the bait. I’m not even tempted to, and generally, I have zero problems with fake tits.

“We should get a bottle of champagne to celebrate.”

I hold in my snicker. “What precisely are we celebrating?” I ask, giving the menu a quick perusal. Freddy said the food here is very good. I wonder if I could fake an emergency and get something packaged to go.

“Us, silly.” She laughs. It’s like nails on a chalkboard.

“Us?” I raise an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Yeah. You know. Like us hooking up and stuff.”

My dick has never been less interested. “We’re not hooking up.”

She rolls her eyes, and it’s not nearly as adorable as when Wynter does it. “Obviously not now since we’re in a restaurant. But later, I’ll fuck you. We can video it if you want. I know someone who will leak it for us.”

I blink, stunned and completely at a loss for anything to say to that.

Thankfully, the waiter comes over and interrupts us. The mouse orders a bottle of freaking Cristal like I’m a rapper at a club. A few minutes later, he returns with the bottle, and I decline a glass because, not only is champagne seriously not my drink of choice, I am not toasting or celebrating us with her.

I pull out my phone and check it again. Still nothing. Dammit, Wynter. You’re killing me.

I text Freddy instead.

Me: How do you know this girl, and what’s her name again?

Freddy: I met Saline at a party a few months back. She’s a friend of a friend of a friend. She seemed nice. A bit fake, but who isn’t these days?

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