He reaches our table and slaps his free hand down on the surface hard enough to rattle the silverware. “Look at you two. Brooke Bennett and Dominic Midnight, sitting at the same table. Somebody call the fire department.” He laughs at his own joke, loud and braying.
“Oh, hey Tommy,” Brooke says, her smile polite but tight around the edges. “You’re looking... well.”
Generous of her.
“Oh, you too, Brooke. You too.” He gives her a look that lingers way too long, his eyes sliding down to her chest and her legs like he’s got every right to look.
Something ugly twists in my gut and my hands curl into fists under the table. Which is insane since I have no reason to be angry on her behalf, but I still want to break Tommy’s fucking nose.
He pivots to address the rest of the table like he’s hosting a talk show. “You guys have no idea. These two were legendary back in the day. The fights they used to have. The whole school would stop to watch.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Remember that time outside the principal’s office? I thought you two were going to literally kill each other. Half the senior class was taking bets.”
The table has gone very quiet. Tim is back to studying the centerpiece. Anne is looking at her salad like it might save her. Even Marjorie has nothing to say.
“Good times,” Tommy announces to no one in particular. “Good times, good times.” He straightens up and points at the room at large. “Well, I gotta make the rounds, but I’m comingback to catch up with you two later. We should get a drink, talk about the old days.”
Great. Something to look forward to.
He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to slosh his drink, then stumbles off, presumably to terrorize someone else.
Silence settles over the table and Brooke lifts her wine glass and takes a long sip, her composure flawless. But I can see the tension in her, and I know the feeling.
“Well,” Marjorie says finally, looking between us. “That was something.”
“Tommy’s always been a lot,” Brooke says smoothly, setting down her glass.
“Mm-hmm.” Marjorie’s eyebrows say she’s filing this away for later. “And you two werelegendary, huh?”
“Ancient history,” I say flatly.
“Very ancient,” Brooke agrees.
We glance at each other. It lasts maybe a second, maybe less, but it’s enough. Her eyes are dark and unreadable and I push back from the table.
“I’ve got a demonstration to set up,” I say. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I don’t look at Brooke as I stand, but I feel her eyes on my back the whole way.
And I hate how much I like it.
CHAPTER 8
Brooke
Dominic retreats across the gymnasium like a man escaping a crime scene, and I take a long sip of wine and try to focus on Marjorie’s story about her niece’s wedding venue drama.
“So then the caterer says he needs another three thousand for the ice sculpture, and my sister nearly has a stroke right there in the—Brooke? Honey, you still with me?”
“Hmm?” I blink and find Marjorie watching me with a look that makes me want to crawl under the table. “Sorry, Marjorie. Really. Just a long day.”
“Mm-hmm.” She follows my gaze toward the far side of the gym where a crowd is gathering around a large taped circle on the floor. “Long day. Sure.”
I ignore the implication and set my wine glass on the table. “I’m going to stretch my legs for a bit.”
“You do that, sweetheart.” Marjorie’s smile is far too amused. “Stretch those legs.”
He’s crouched near the edge of the circle checking the tape, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms flexing as hesmooths down a corner. His jacket is off now, his dress shirt pulling across his shoulders every time he moves, and I hate that I notice. Hate that my eyes keep tracking the breadth of his back, the way his slacks pull tight across his thighs when he shifts position.
“God, look at him,” one of the women murmurs to her friend. “If my husband looked like that, I’d never let him leave the house.”
