You’re hurt.
Not me. My pride. But just because he was my first doesn’t mean I was his first, despite what he claimed at the time. For all I know, he only said that because he knew he would be terrible in bed.
But he wasn’t. Terrible, that is.
Only because I didn’t know any better. And I need to stop arguing with myself.
And I need to stop noticing how hot Wyatt is now.
So what if the James Dean, dark-haired devil look that made every girl in my high school swoon has matured into a delicious male package? And who cares that his eyelashes are long and thick, or that his eyes are stunningly blue? Not cold, but warm and arresting…like a sparkling summer ocean.
What I should do is punch and ruin that perfect blade of a nose, which is sitting above a pair of full lips that can kiss like a dream. He deserves that, and more.
On the other hand, maybe not. I shouldn’t let him know how much he still affects me.
Because I’m not affected. No way. Not in the slightest.
I’m just annoyed because he popped up after Mom did her best to waste away my morning, trying to convince me to marry into money. And not just any money, but Wyatt money. The fact that he got lucky enough to become a newly minted billionaire proves the world is an unfair place, that assholes finish first, and that we might as well send tributes…er…volunteers into a reality game to kill each other for shits and giggles.
“I’m here to meet Salazar,” I say to Dane, keeping my tone as even as possible. “I didn’t realize you’d commandeered his table.” I start to leave. I’m not spending any more of my precious time in the company of Wyatt, of all people.
“Sit down.” As usual, Dane’s voice is cold enough to replace the restaurant’s air conditioners. “We’re waiting for him, too.”
“You aren’t on the agenda,” I say, doing my best to match his frigid attitude. I refuse to look at Wyatt. I’d rather stare at a close-up of a cockroach’s anus.
Wyatt clears his throat. “He made an exception for me.”
That only stokes my irritation. My boss’s schedule isn’t something you alter on a whim. I’m the gatekeeper, the dragon guardian of his time and space. “And why would he do that?” I ask, doing my best to sound temperate, not because I give a damn about Wyatt, but because I don’t want to make a public scene. “It isn’t like you’re his friend.”
“As a favor to Dane. And we actually are friends.”
Hardy har har. Salazar’s eldest is so frosty that it’s a miracle there aren’t icicles sticking out from his body like hedgehog spines. Then there’s the asshole factor. If Hallmark has Hallmark Moments, Dane has Dane Moments. He once called one of his brothers’ wives a “charity case.” And that isn’t even the worst of it.
I wait for Dane to scoff, for Tyrannosaurus Rectum to emerge. Instead, he gives me a small nod.
“You have a friend?” I ask, stunned.
“Shocking, isn’t it? He also has a wife and a child,” comes Salazar’s dry voice from behind me.
Oh, shit. My boss doesn’t care for people badmouthing his children, especially when it’s one of his employees. I manage to smooth my expression like nothing’s wrong before turning to him. “Hello, Salazar.”
He’s old enough to be somebody’s grandfather—in fact, he is a grandfather—but you’d never know from looking at him. His dark hair is expensively cut and styled, with just a hint of dignified silver at th
e temples. His glowing skin is almost wrinkle-free. It’s also sag-free and age-spot-free. There’s hardly any fat on his trim figure, and the man positively radiates mature, masculine perfection in an expensive tailor-made white dress shirt and dark slacks. There’s a reason he was able to seduce so many twenty- and thirty-something women, and it wasn’t all his money, although I’m sure that didn’t hurt.
“Well! Now that we’re all here, let’s have lunch,” he says jovially, gesturing for me to take a seat.
I hesitate, hating that it’s a booth. Wyatt and Dane should share a bench, since they’re such good friends. But no. I either have to sit next to Wyatt or Dane.
Chlamydia or gonorrhea. A rattlesnake or a water moccasin.
The world is full of crappy choices.
Salazar takes my option away by parking himself next to Wyatt. At the same time, Dane stands, takes a step back and gestures at me to sit down. My jaw slackens. When the hell did he become a gentleman? This has to be something his wife taught him.
Smoothing my face to hide my shock, I slide in, ensuring there’s as much space as possible between us on the bench. I don’t want to get frostbite.
It’s actually not too terrible to be next to Dane, because at least I’m not next to Wyatt the Jerk. On the other hand, now I’m sitting directly across from him and am going to have to avert my eyes for the entire meal. Restaurant tables really should come with a partition. That way, you could raise it to block people you don’t want to see or interact with, like with a business- or first-class seat on an airplane.