“This is why you need to eat. Hangry is not a good look on my beautiful wife,” I say with a half laugh. “Apparently testicles are a delicacy in Montana. I’m sure you’d enjoy having a good suck on mine the next time you’re on your knees.”
“I think you’ll find that’s bull’s testicles, not overly confident gangster’s. And if hangry covers a hatred for all things Souza, then yes, Husband, I’m hangry.”
I throw my head back and laugh from deep within my belly. “Didn’t take long for you to say it.”
Her forehead creases. “Say what?”
“Husband,” I say simply, watching flustered realization creep over her cheeks and settle. “Now that you’ve accepted your position, let’s toast to new beginnings. To friends forever.”
“Friends?” she scoffs, cocking her left brow. “The prospect of friendship is a bit premature, don’t you think? We’d actually have to like each other first.”
Her wry smile sizzles through me, reminding me of the countless smiles we’d once shared. When it warms my chest, antsiness explodes, and the happy feeling subsides. “Raise your fucking glass,” I repeat, my gravelly tone harsher than before.
“Say please,” she counters.
Her eyes focus solely on my mouth until I’m convinced she wants me to eat her alive.
“Raise your glass… please.”
Our gazes connect and our glasses clink. Then she takes a sip while I drain every last drop. A handful of servers file in, their trays overloaded with dishes. Once they’ve unloaded everything and left us in peace, I grab a soft, syrupy pancake and sink my teeth in, making a deep groan of appreciation. While she pretends not to hear me, my phone rings.
“Letterman,” I answer. “You here?”
“Ready and waiting, parce.”
“Coming now.” I end the call, unfazed by the meeting with investors for a new business venture.
“Eat. Drink. And enjoy your orientation morning. You’ve got my number if you need me, Sin.” I slide out of the booth and crook two fingers at the closest security guy, beckoning him over. “All eyes on my wife. Don’t make it obvious. I’d rather not draw unwanted attention to her.”
I glance down at her feast, inwardly convincing myself this killer attraction is temporary. But when she picks up a bright-red strawberry and pops it into her lush mouth, I’m oddly overcome and jealous of a stupid piece of fruit. It's unsettling and completely absurd.
“I’ll take you home later. Don’t leave the hotel without me.” I unpocket my aviators, the champagne not helping my hangover as much as a line of coke would, and cover my eyes.
“Yes, sir,” she mocks, drilling crystalline eyes into my dark lenses. “I’ll stay up here in this ivory tower.”
——
“Are we all in agreement?” I steeple my fingers and eyeball the suited businessmen around the table, each one ruthless in their own right—just not at the very top like me. “Fuck with me on this, and it’s the last skyscraper the collective will ever build in my city.”
Augustine, the French billionaire with little construction knowledge, asks a question at the exact moment my attention flits. It’s drawn to the glass partition separating the boardroom and an informal seating area. I’m instantly sucked into a wormhole, muscles braced, fists clenched, and jaw locked so tightly my teeth almost crack.
There she is, my wife. Loitering in the corridor, her long ebony hair cascading over dainty shoulders, its sheen glossier than a still pond under moonlight. A vixen-like smile apples her cheeks and her hands move as she explains something.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. Instead, she’s holding a conversation with a walking broomstick who has a mass of wiry chestnut hair scraped into a topknot and an ugly bird tattoo on his throat. It’s probably meant to be a bird of prey like my own; however, from where I’m sitting, his resembles a basic pigeon.
Beyond them I recognize the bar manager, David, who’s talking on his cell phone while my wife and a stranger get to know each other.
Through the surge of adrenaline powering through my body, I hear Letterman answer Augustine’s question, batting it away from me. He’s aware my fingers are twitching over the cold, hard steel of my revolver. In a lapse of sanity, I fish my phone out of my pocket and type a text instead of officially losing my shit.
Husband: STOP FLIRTING.
The second it arrives, she scoops her device out of her back pocket and quietly reads. Her alarmed gaze roams every doorway until she locates the boardroom at the far end of the corridor and settles on the scowl, freezing my expression like black ice.
She visibly takes a deep breath and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, pausing in the aftermath of my demand. After a tense moment, when I’m certain she has understood, a reply lands.
Wife: I’m only talking. You can’t control everything I do.
She turns her back to me and continues to engage the lanky cunt, who laughs at something funny. My heart rate soars higher than it would from a nose full of premium cut coke, causing palpitations that make me jittery. It takes every grain of self-discipline to keep my gun holstered and my ass in the boardroom. Doing my best to hide my temper from my associates, I send another message.
