Maybe it's the scotch. Maybe it's the weight of two months of rejection sitting heavy on my mind. Maybe I'm just tired of being the one who always looks the other way.
I push the door open.
A woman who definitely isn't Natalie is pressed against the far wall. She's stunning in that effortless way that takes hours to achieve—dark hair falling loose from what was probably a sleek bun, her red dress pulled down to her waist, breasts exposed and bouncing as Blake's hand works between her thighs. His other hand grips her hip, holding her in place as she gasps against his neck, her head tipped back, eyes closed.
Blake's fingers move faster. She makes a sound that's half-moan, half-plea.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
Blood rushes south despite every rational thought screaming that this is wrong. Heat pools low in my gut despite the disgust churning in me.
Three years of celibacy. Three years of saying no to every woman who looks at my bank account before my face. Three years where my most reliable relationship is with my right hand and a bottle of lotion.
Yeah, three years of discipline and control andthisis what gets me hard?
Watching my best friend with another woman while hisfiancée sits at home planning seating charts and choosing flowers.
What the hell does that say about me?
What the hell is going to happen when I actually meet a woman who deserves to be touched?
Blake notices me first.
But he doesn't stop. Doesn't pull away. His hand keeps moving, fingers pumping faster while he grins at me over his shoulder like I just walked in on him checking his email.
"West." His voice is steady. Unrepentant. Amused, even. "Give us a minute?"
Her eyes snap open. She sees me, and for a split-second something flashes across her face—surprise, maybe, or calculation, like she's already running through scenarios for how to handle this—before smoothing into cool composure.
She pushes Blake's hand away with practiced efficiency and tugs her dress back up, adjusting the fabric like she's straightening her collar after a business meeting.
"Mr. Prescott."
And that's when it clicks. The voice. The face I've seen in email attachments with groomsmen’s wedding plan.
Scarlett Thorne.Their wedding planner.
"Get out," I say to her.
Blake laughs. "Come on, man. Don't be—"
"Get. Out."
My voice drops into the register I use on the ice. The one that makes rookies shut up and veterans take a step back. The one that says I'm done being reasonable and if you push me right now, you're going to regret it.
Scarlett hears it. Recognizes it for what it is. She grabs her clutch from the bar and walks past me without another word, her heels clicking against the marble floor with the confidence of someone who's been thrown out of better places than this.
The door clicks shut.
Blake's already at the bar, pouring himself another drink like nothing happened. Like I didn't just catch him with his hand up another woman's dress a week before his wedding.
"You want one?" He holds up the bottle.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Blowing off steam." He takes a sip, grimaces slightly. "Wedding planning is stressful. You'll understand when it'syour turn."
"You're getting married in a week."
