Page 17 of Power

Damn her for that knowing look.

“He probably wasn’t even listening to what I was saying,” Dakota claimed. “He was too busy staring at you withlet’s get it onmusic playing in his head.” Myformerbest work friend glanced over her shoulder before returning her face to me, smirking victoriously. “He won’t stop looking at you.”

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you make ascene. We’ve become the car accident in the bar.”

“Puh-lease. He’s eye-fucking you from across the room.”

Desire heated in my lower belly at the mere thought.Great. Even my freaking hormones are betraying me now.I clenched my fists at my sides, willing my body toheel.

“Where are you going?” I balked with eyes so wide, my forehead ate my eyelids as she tossed her purse string over her shoulder.

“I want details Monday.”

Oh, hell no. “If you’re leaving, I’m leaving.”

“I have an appointment,” she claimed. “Forgot to mention it.”

“You drove me to work this morning. You said nothing about an appointment, and it’s Fridaynight.”

“Like I said, slipped my mind.”

“Don’t you dare leave me.”

“He’s waiting to talk to you,” she pointed out.

“He could be a serial killer.”

“That can be one of your opening questions,” she suggested. When I cocked my head in my not-amused tilt, she countered with, “Statistically, he’s more likely to be a guy that’s good in bed.”

“This so isn’t like you,” I countered.

“You need cheering up. He looks like a body full of cheer.” Another wiggle of her eyebrows. “I want details Monday. Byyyyeee.”

“Dakota!”

Goddammit. She was out the door before I could stop her, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I knew she was trying to “help” in her own way, but she knew me better than this. She knew I didn’t have casual sex, even though I wasn’t morally opposed to it, and she should know that flirting or having sex with some stranger was the last thing I’d do to make myself feel better.

It angered me that she left me here, having to find my own ride. If she couldn’t drive me today, fine, but now I had to rely on a rideshare, which, in downtown Chicago on a Friday night, usually came with a freaking seven-year wait.

Punching in the order—and firing off aget your ass back heretext to Dakota that I knew she’d never answer—I plopped down on the barstool in defeat.

“This is from the gentleman at the end of the bar.” The bartender appeared, motioning to Jace.

In addition to a fresh drink I’d be having (mental note: Jace took the time to order the drink I wanted, not just a drink.Girlies, allow swooning to commence), the bartender set down a napkin with neat penmanship on it that read:

You look like you don’t want company, thus the note versus an in-person invasion. But I have one question: What made your day so terrible?

I didn’t look to my left, but I could feel Jace there, his presence as tangible as the air in a gathering storm. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why he was this intrigued.

It must be the Revenge List.I guess it’s not every day you meet a woman who’s written a fantasy of felonies and misdemeanors on a napkin.

“Can I have a pen and a napkin, please?” I asked the bartender.

To his credit, the guy, who sported tattoos all over his hands, smiled like he thought this was adorable (it wasn’t; it was just a method of communicating with someone who didn’t deserve to be ghosted) and handed me a stack of napkins.

A stack.

Didn’t need it; this was a one-napkin text exchange.