Joe.
Three seats down.
I watch him from the corner of my eye. He’s got that “nice guy next door” face—usually the mask worn by the biggest assholes on the planet. He laughs obnoxiously at something his partner says, then steals another quick glance at Sloane.
My blood simmers under my skin.
Who the hellishe? And why did Sloane react like that?
She never loses her cool.
She handles corporate crises, impossible clients, and my dysfunctional family without flinching. But one stupid wink from Mr. Pastel Sweater over there sent her straight into shutdown.
Is he her ex?
Probably.
Did he hurt her?
Definitely.
Does she still love him?
That one hits like a punch to the gut. Jealousy curls through me—cold, sharp, vicious.
I want to stand up, walk over there, and ask Joe if he’s having trouble seeing straight—or if he’d like me to fix his vision permanently.
But I can’t.
I have to stay calm.
I have to give her space.
If I turn into a caveman now, I lose her.
And I’m not losing her.
I want to win her.
I want to prove I’m the man who stays—not the one who explodes the second something touches a nerve.
I take a long breath, trying to steady my pulse—which is already too damn high before the sensors are even attached.
“Gentlemen, take your seats!” Aunt Tina bellows, snapping the riding crop through the air with a level of enthusiasm that should concern us all. “Hook yourselves up to the Heart’s Truth Machine!”
I sit.
A tech slaps the adhesive sensors across my chest. His hands are cold, but I’m burning.
I scan the other couples.
Sarah—Joe’s partner—is shrugging off a transparent jacket that somehow managed to covernothing. Underneath, she’s wearing a sequin dress so tight I don’t understand how breathing or walking is physically possible. The neckline defies gravity and shows off a chest that’s way too big for her frame and glistening with body oil.
She leans down, whispers something to Joe, laughing in that grating, high-pitched way that makes my eye twitch.
He smiles at her—but his gaze slides right back to us.
To Sloane.
