Page 77 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)
Chapter seventy-seven
I did not touch the hot dogs. Did not make a comment either.
Let them have their little rebellion. Let them pretend they caught us off guard.
I opened an app, ordered from Commander’s Palace, filet, truffle mac, something with more integrity than what was sweating on paper plates.
Delivery in forty-three minutes. Too long to pace. Too soon to walk it off.
So I brought out the good bourbon and my travel humidor and set them both down on the patio table. A declaration.
Devon raised a brow but took the bottle. Brooks, ever the golden retriever, grinned and handed out cigars.
The lighter clicked to life. The first curl of smoke rose like a warning.
Then they came back.
Bobbie dr opped onto Devon’s lap and could not have looked more natural or comfortable. Did not say a word, just leaned back with the smug serenity of a woman who knew exactly how much chaos she had stirred.
Reagan, though...
She slid into Brooks’ lap, casual as a cat, her bare legs draping over his with infuriating ease.
She was in a tiny sundress I had not seen before. Probably bought just for tonight.
He tucked his arm around her waist, he could not help it. But her eyes were on me. Always on me.
She leaned over the table, slow enough to draw blood, and popped open the humidor I had just set down.
Took her time picking one, then did that little shake by her ear. She was listening for a rattle, probably saw that in some old movie one time.
No one does this. But she had a point to make.
The move was theatrical. Intimate.
She leaned in close, just past Brooks, until I could smell her, sin and fire.
"Can you circumcise this for me... and give me a light?"
The cigar dangled between her fingers.
Her mouth was curled in a smirk, but her eyes were daring me. Green with gold. Waiting for my reaction.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
No one said a word. Even Devon went still.
I took the cigar from her, clipped the end in one smooth snap, and struck the match.
Lit it slow, deliberately toasting it for her, holding her gaze the whole time.
"Careful, little fawn," I said, low enough only she could hear. "You are not the only predator at this table."
She blew her first puff of smoke sideways, lips still curled.
Brooks’ hand tightened on her thigh, he was trying to remind her who she was sitting on. She already knew. So did I.
She settled back into Brooks’ lap, pleased with herself, drawing on that cigar like she had done it a hundred times before.
Maybe she had. Or maybe she was just a quick study, sharp enough to know the right way to tempt a man like me was to flirt with danger, not safety.
I watched the way her legs crossed over his. The way his hand slid absently along her thigh. Half possessive. Half reverent.
She did not correct him. Did not pull away.
She was not mine. But she was not not mine either.
The smoke curled in my lungs, slow and bitter. I held it. Not for the flavor, but for the silence it gave me.
Silence to think. Or try to.
Brooks said something, some offhand remark to Devon that earned a short laugh, but I did not hear it.
All I could hear was her voice again. Can you circumcise this for me...
God, the way she said it.
Like she knew what she was doing. Like she wanted me to lose the last thread of control I had been clutching since the tree.
And I was. Losing it. Piece by piece.
I came out here to steady myself. To draw the lines back in after letting them blur.
But now she was sitting six inches to my right, licking smoke from her lips, pretending she did not just tip my world on its axis with a joke about trimming a cigar.
And the worst part? She knew.
She knew what she was doing to me.
I took another sip of bourbon, but it did not burn enough. Nothing would tonight.
Because I was not thinking about dinner anymore. Or the cleanup. Or whatever bullshit excuse I would give for needing to talk to her alone later.
I was thinking about how she had looked that night. Wild and furious and flushed with adrenaline in that tree.
And how I have not drawn an easy breath since.