Switch drops back onto the floor. “Should’ve married richer.”
Bella tosses a napkin at him. “You married me.”
“Exactly.”
We keep playing. Money shifts hands, alliances fall apart, fake threats start flying. Blade ends up owning half the board like the smug bastard he is, Switch is salty about every bad roll, and Bri is plotting revenge like this is actual warfare instead of cardboard and tiny plastic houses.
The buzz settles in after a while. I’m not drunk, just lighter around the edges, laughing easier than I probably should. It almost works, pretending the empty spot across the table doesn’t matter, pretending the one person I actually wanted to see tonight isn’t out somewhere with some other guy.
THREE
BROOKE
I checkmy reflection in the hallway mirror for the fifth time and immediately regret it, because now I’m second-guessing everything instead of just walking out the door like a normal, confident woman who absolutely did not spend twenty minutes debating between two nearly identical shades of lipstick.
Not that I look bad. I look… really good, actually. Hair smooth and loose over my shoulders, makeup soft but polished, black dress that hugs my waist and skims my hips just right, and heels that absolutely mean business. The kind that makes my legs look great.
Grant told me to wear the heels. I hate that I liked that.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and my stomach does that stupid little flip I told myself I was done with years ago.
Grant: Outside.
Okay. Showtime. I grab my purse, double-check that I’ve got my phone, my keys, and the tiny can of pepper spray and taser I never leave home without, then do a quick scan of the house like I’m leaving for a week instead of a few hours. Old habit. Whenyou’ve spent years being responsible for other people, you don’t shake that instinct easily. I lock the door behind me and step onto the porch.
His car is pulled up beside my Mercedes, black and sleek and expensive. Grant steps out the second he sees me, and yeah… he looks unfairly good in a tailored suit, crisp white shirt, jacket open, broad shoulders filling it out like it was custom-made for him. When his eyes land on me, his smile turns slow and appreciative, and heat creeps up my neck in a way that’s annoying and flattering all at once. “Wow,” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way he looks me over. “You look incredible.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly very aware of how exposed I feel standing on my own front porch. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Whitaker.”
He laughs, low and confident, and opens the door for me. When I slide into the passenger seat, his hand settles at my lower back, steady and warm, and just a little too intimate for a first date. It lingers for a second before he closes the door, and I tell myself I’m overthinking it. I always overthink everything.
“Seatbelt,” he says softly when he leans in to make sure I’m settled, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp and very him. I buckle up, and he shuts the door, walks around the front of the car, and pulls out into the street.
“So,” he says as we merge into traffic, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other on the console between us. “Nervous?”
“Should I be?” I tease, trying to keep it light even though my heart is very much not taking this as casually as I am.
He smirks. “Only if you’re worried about having a good time.”
Okay. Confident. Flirty. I can work with that.
We head toward the city, streetlights flashing past the windows, and at first the conversation stays easy enough. Work, how insane the housing market is right now, how busy he’s been lately. He talks a lot, but I tell myself that’s probably just nerves. Everyone gets a little talkative on first dates, right?
He tells me about closing deals, about development projects, about investors calling him at all hours of the day.
“I don’t really sleep,” he says, like it’s a brag. “But that’s the price you pay when you’re building something big.”
“That sounds… exhausting,” I say carefully.
He chuckles. “It’s worth it.”
Then he turns onto a street lined with valet stands and glowing restaurant signs, and my nerves spike all over again. When I catch the name on the building, my breath actually stutters.
No way.
“Oh,” I say quietly, peering out the window. “Is this… Aurelia?”
He glances at me, clearly pleased. “You’ve heard of it.”
