Page 114 of Headstrong Like Us

“What?” Donnelly is shocked.

Oscar shakes his head, and Thatcher’s brows knit together, confused. They all are, and while I text him back, I tell them, “There are strippers at the other party.”

“Shit,” Oscar mutters, his eyes softening on me.

I’m mostly concerned that Maximoff is in crisis-doomsday-mode right now, and I’m not with him.

I send the message:No one here hired strippers for you or me.And I pocket my phone. “You boys want to migrate?” I broke one rule tonight. What’s another one?

Immediately, they all stand, willing to break this one too.

24

MAXIMOFF HALE

What…thefuck.

DEAFCON 1 is here. In the form of three chiseled male strippers, the bulkiest one approaching in nothing but a metallic-silver G-string. I slide my phone in my back pocket.

Farrow and SFO didn’t order them, and I’d ask Janie about it, but to get to her, I have to pass Silver G-String and his gelled brown hair. I think his muscles are glistening.

Did he oil himself?

Jesus Christ.

Shock roots me in place. I linger near the bar, four temp bodyguards separate me from the stripper, and all of security are talking in their mics, their stoic expressions hard to read.

I wonder if they think someone in the wedding party hired the half-naked men, which is why I’m not surprised when the temps let Silver G-String pass.

Fuck.

“Hey, Groom.” He reaches me with a warm, flirtatious smile. “You might be having a good time, but it’s about to get better.”

My natural instinct isn’t to run away. Isn’t even to tell this guy tofuck off. Because he’s just doing his job. He’s here—for some reason—and I don’t want to be a dick at his workplace. This is his workplace, right? Technically, he’satwork—and okay, I don’t know why I’m thinking about this of all things.

The stripper steps closer.

People invade my personal space all the time. It usually doesn’t bother me, but this is one of those gray areas that makes me uncomfortable. Worse, I start thinking about how Rowin encroached my space on the yacht, and a chill slithers down my spine.

Instinctually, I just want to throw a punch. To get him away from me as fast as possible. But I war with that instinct. Because I’m doing this thing now where I try not to blow a fuse.

Unfortunately,restrainthas put me in a silent, shocked and frozen state. I manage to say, “I’m not interested, man. But thanks anyway.”

“It’s okay, I don’t bite.”

“No, I’m serious.”

Silver G-String smiles seductively (he’s not even close to seducing me). “You must be a shy one.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t think,” he says huskily, “and you’ll enjoy the ride.” He bridges the distance and thrusts his hips in my direction, trying to grind on me.

I snap.

And I shove him. I thought my force waslight, but he stumbles back and hits the edge of the bar. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, a fifty-ton severity icing my voice. “I’m not joking around.”

Jasper, my temp, overhears and seizes the stripper around the shoulders. Finally, he realizes they’renotsupposed to be here.