He raises an eyebrow at me, his lips curving into a suggestive smile that makes my skin crawl and my pulse spike with anxiety. Despite every instinct screaming at me to look away, to keep walking, I force myself to give him a subtle nod.
His smile widens, and he stands.
I don’t look back as I walk to the bathroom. It’s empty, and I heave a sigh of relief at that. I grip the cool porcelain of the sink, splash some cold water on my face, and gaze into the mirror. “You can do this. You have to do this. Just flirt with him a little, get his number. There’s nothing sexual about it. It’s just harmless flirting. Come on, Reaper.”
I pause, take a deep breath as I hear the bathroom door open.
Then I turn around, Adriana’s words echoing in my mind:it’s time to put my sexy ass to work.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Adriana
Thirty seconds pass while the time dribbles down my skin, making me itchy like ants crawling across my body. A minute passes, and the ants have formed an anxious nest in my hair. Then another minute, and I can’t even fake disinterest for the audience of the old women — several of which are talking about my fears, that Reaper is taking way too long in the bathroom — and instead am shifting, moving, my eyes locked on the hallway, wondering just why the fuck my man is spending so long in the bathroom with a flirtatious Chinese gangster.
Fuck, I just called him ‘my man,’ didn’t I?
And it felt… kind of right.
Behind me, the older women have decided it’s a good thing that Reaper is apparently bisexual. It gives them more opportunities to set him up, and one of the old women has decided she’s going to slip him the phone number of her very available grandson, who is on the Los Angeles City Council and has his eyes on even higher office.
Just as I’m about to whirl around and yell, “He’s mine,” at the geriatric matchmakers, Reaper appears at the entrance to the dining room, his arm around the Triad guy, the two of them smiling and laughing.
Reaper sits down next to me, chuckling under his breath, while I stare at him like a second head has sprouted from his shoulder and started speaking Spanish.
“What the fuck happened in the bathroom with that guy?” I hiss at him, all while trying to keep a smile on my face and our cover, like I’m some ignorant tourist just out for dumplings with her boyfriend who has no problem being incredibly flirtatious with gangsters.
“You mean with Yichen?” Reaper says.
“Is that his name?”
“Come on, you know it is. Unless that dumb tourist act of yours isn’t really an act,” he says, winking at me. “He’s a good guy. Well, for being an awful gangster. We talked; the sparks weren’t there — even he said so — but we still hit it off. He’s got season tickets to the Lakers, almost courtside, just a few rows back. We might go sometime.”
“Did you get his number?”
“Fuck yeah, I got his number,” Reaper says, taking out his phone and showing me the screen. There’s already a sizeable text chain between him and Yichen, with more than a couple of GIFs and memes.
“Should I be jealous?”
“Maybe. They’re great seats.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he grins that cocky grin that makes my stomach do something complicated and unwelcome.
"You're enjoying this way too much," I mutter.
"What, making friends? Building connections for our little operation tomorrow night?" His voice drops to that teasing register that makes my skin prickle. "Or are you talking about how you're sitting there looking like you want to stab poor Yichen with your chopsticks?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." He leans closer, his voice a low rumble meant just for me. "You’ve got that look, Adriana. That territorial look. Like when a cat sees another cat in its yard."
The heat that flashes through me is immediate and unwelcome. He's right, and that realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I am jealous. Actually, genuinely jealous of a Triad gangster making plans to watch basketball with this broken, beautiful disaster of a man sitting next to me.
When did that happen? When did I start thinking of him as mine?
I force my expression to stay neutral, but something must show because his grin widens.
"There it is," he says, satisfaction coloring his tone. "You are jealous."
