"A fucking blessing, you mean." Donovan holds his finger up to the bartender to signal for another. "Take my advice, Asher. Never get married."
I smile tightly, not trusting myself to respond.
"Some men simply can't be tamed, Donny," West says amicably, but he's already eyeing the exit. This is what two minutes around Donovan does to people.
"I pity the poor woman who ends up with you next, Donovan," Thomas snipes, still pissed. "I can't believe Emma lasted six years."
Donovan swivels his sweaty, red face toward Thomas. "I married down with that one," he barks, and it takes everything in me not to knock his teeth into the back of his throat. Thomas shakes his head, and even West snorts with that little lie.
"Fuck off," Thomas growls. "We all assumed she was pregnant at the wedding. Why else would someone like hermarryyou?"
"Like she had a choice," he mumbles.
Per usual, my skin crawls with the knowledge that his swollen, meaty paws ever got to touch Emma, but Donovan's words manage to break through my cloud of fury and I turn sharply.
"What did you say?"
"Oh, looky here," Donovan sneers, ignoring me. "Speak of the she-devil."
I follow the path of his narrowed eyes, my heart already racing.
The crowd parts across the bar, revealing several couples occupying the pristine white booths lining the back walls. In the one directly across from us sits Emma. Her long, dark, curly hair is loose, and a simple black dress hugs her curves, stopping just below the spot where her knees cross, revealing the softest-looking legs in human existence. She's talking to a man across the table from her. He eyes her with disdain, but also ownership. Like she's a piece of meat he's picked out for his evening meal.
"Uh oh," West says under his breath. "This won't be good."
But I can't concentrate on anything but my own primal instincts thundering throughout my body to the rhythm of one word over and over.
Mine.
Chapter two
Emma
"Emma?"
I turn toward the masculine voice and force a smile for the man I've agreed to spend the next few hours with tonight.
At least I'm out of the house and giving love a chance, right?
On Valentine's Day.
Because I'm clearly a sadist... and a masochist. Hmm, what is it called when you're both?
Self-destructive.
"Charles," I say smoothly, like I'm not having an identity crisis and questioning all my life choices. I slide out of the booth to offer him my hand, but he's already sitting down, so we end up in an odd handshake over the top of the table. I giggle, but he givesme a tight smile and then huffs in irritation as he reaches for the drink menu.
Okay.
He's tall and not bad looking, but I can already tell there is no spark. His eyes are too familiar. Or at least the coldness behind them is. But I've already got a drink, and it was insanely expensive, so I plan to finish every last drop before I bid Charles adieu.
I take a large sip from my glass and toss my hair over my shoulder before attempting to start the conversation.
"So, what made you pick this place? Do you work nearby?"
"Yes."
I nod, but he doesn't continue.Um, okaaaay.
