Page 7 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, putting her perky tits on display for me—a sugarcoating on her snark. “You can’t change a three-year-old’s name, so that’s nonnegotiable. But go ahead. What’s next?”

The sight of her after all this time is disarming. I clench my jaw and command my eager dick to stand down because this is where things might get dicey. I’m counting on my casino expertise to guide me. It’s all in how you deal.

“Condition three is that you go on one date a week with me.”

“I really don’t understand what’s going on with you.” She halts there, a laden pause rife with interest and pure bewilderment. And her mouth hangs open like a cod fish.

Stumping a lawyer is more entertaining than expected.

Why stop there? “As my fiancée.”

“Fiancée,” she stammers. “I did not see that coming. Why are we engaged in this scenario?”

“I’ve had some issues with a woman who doesn’t take no for an answer, so it will make my life a hell of a lot easier.

You’ve been on the books at La Lune Noire.

We’ll say you’ve been handling our other properties, that we started casually because of the distance, but with you back in New Orleans, we’re taking the next step.

Anything less will seem trivial and sound as though I’m still available. ”

Martina Nicholson and her infatuation with me might finally be a gift instead of a constant thorn in my side.

Mercy’s face scrunches up. “So, I won’t be able to date anyone else?”

My blood boils. “No, and neither will I.”

“For how long?” she bites out.

“Indefinitely,” I bark.

She grits her teeth, seething. “That’s asinine.”

“An engagement won’t appear legitimate or be effective if we’re dating other people. The point is that I will no longer be seen as an option to Martina.”

“Martina Nicholson? Oh my God.” She smacks both her hands over her mouth, seemingly delighted. “She’s still after you? It’s been, like, a freaking decade.”

“Yes,” I sigh.

“And you’re going to sacrifice the droves of women drooling over you and throwing themselves into your bed to keep one off your back?” Mercy’s hands fly all over the place, as if she were envisioning those droves of women in the room with us. “Make it make sense.”

“I don’t consider it a sacrifice,” I tell her honestly.

“And based on Chad , I’d say the dating pool has been dry for you.

Or itchy, considering that goddamn mustache.

You won’t be sacrificing anything either.

You’ll be doing exactly what you love, have your license in good standing, no gap in employment, be making well above the salary of most of your peers, be living in lavish accommodations, with a group of people who will support you and help you raise your son.

The drawback is that you’ll have to wear a ring that can be seen from space, tell people you’re mine, and be on my arm and let me spoil you rotten in front of a crowd once a week.

How will you survive? The only asinine thing would be for you to say no. ”

“You’re right. Where are my manners? This is a Cinderella story.

” She clasps her hands in front of her chest in a puppy-dog-eyed plea until she sobers to stone.

“Is condition four a requirement to be in your bed? Are you bringing me back as a lawyer or as your whore who gets to play in the law offices when I’m not on your leash? ”

“You paint a colorful picture, Miss Phillips.” I wink, and it makes her blush despite herself, which is all the encouragement I need. “There is no fourth condition, no requirement to be in my bed. If you agree to the first three, you’ll be begging for that anyway.”

There’s a two-second pause when her breath hitches in her throat as she dissects the credibility of that statement.

But then she bursts out cackling, like a goddamn hyena, as though begging to be in my bed is the most ridiculous notion she’s ever heard.

And I’m torn as to whether I think that’s adorable or incredibly insulting. Both. It’s definitely both.

But the two-second pause was far more telling. I can work with that.

Since this seems like a good time to quit while I’m ahead, I rise from the couch. “It’s getting late, and you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll let you get some rest.”

She stands, too, undoubtedly with a million thoughts swimming around in her head. I saw it in the car, all she was holding on to, all the reservations shackling her here that she refuses to share. Getting her back home will win half the battle.

“Okay, well, the bathroom is down the hall. It should have anything you need. I’ll get you some blankets and a pillow. I only have the couch to sleep on—”

“It’s fine,” I assure her.

“Good. That’s good.” She walks past me, but slows her stride and reaches for my hand, glancing over her shoulder. “I don’t know about this, and I get that you’re mad at me. I’d be mad at me too. But I … I missed you, missed this.”

“Me too.” I glance away, trying to decide how to phrase this without being a complete asshole. “I miss when you trusted me.”

“That’s fair,” she concedes, releasing my hand. “I miss my best friend. But since you’re not that anymore, I need to understand this. The motivation. Axel—”

“Needs someone he can trust.”

“That makes sense, but that alone wouldn’t have brought you here. And surely, there are hundreds of women who could do this fake fiancée thing for you. So, if we aren’t friends, then why the conditions and …”

I lean into her, forcing her to take a few steps backward into the wall. Bracing one arm above her head, I glide my other hand over her throat, my thumb sweeping over her battering pulse point as I drink her in. She’s so damn breathtaking.

“He tore you down, made you forget who you were. And you’re still lost.”

Again, one of those laden pauses.

Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes frolic all over me, from my face to my shoulders to my waist. She drags her lower lip between her teeth in the sexiest little pout.

Until those brown gems—rich with subtle flecks of gold and greens within mahogany outer rims—rise to mine, and she nods with a whispered, “Yeah.”

Such a small gesture, yet it feels like a treasure. While I want her to fight, I also want her to be real with me. She’s strong but stuck. Fractured.

As I brush her dishwater-blonde hair back from her face, I notice how the lighter hue suits her and brings out her freckles. I wish I could freeze this moment, simply gawk at her and convince myself she’s not a mirage, that she’s finally with me again.

Since I can’t, I tuck a butterscotch strand behind her ear and offer her the truth. “All I want is to be the man who builds you back up.”

She’s momentarily speechless, a slight wobble to her chin that she’s trying like hell to mask.

Every cell in my body is urging me to coil myself around her, kiss her until she forgets that bastard ever existed, and bulldoze any semblance of friendship we ever had, but it isn’t time for that.

So, I step away, grab my suitcase, and walk toward the bathroom, content that I ended the night the way I’d wanted to.

But the lawyer in Mercy can’t have that. She has to be the one with the final jaw-dropping revelation.

“Ryker,” she calls out in that sultry rasp that is my undoing.

“Yeah?”

“Um … Jett … his name …” She glances at me sheepishly, which has me confounded because Mercy was never shy with me. “It’s Remy, short for Remington.”

“Remy?” I parrot, the weight of her saying she chose my middle name as Jett’s new one slamming into me.

She swallows and nods, and I don’t quite know what to make of it.

I don’t want to turn it into a bigger deal than it is because she’s consistently given me reason to believe that she doesn’t see me as anything more than a friend.

And ever since she ran, I’ve questioned if she even valued our friendship.

But, Jesus, that makes my chest tight. She might have chosen it innocently.

It’s possible she wanted something that felt familiar and it popped into her head.

Doesn’t fucking matter. All it does is light a fire under my already-blazing obsession.

Champagne and delusions.

“You’re right, Merce. He should definitely keep that name.”