"I'm aware." He pours a second glass, slides it across the bar toward me like we're having a friendly conversation about sports instead of his systematic betrayal of someone who trusts him. "When's the last time you got laid, West? Two years? Three?"
"That's not—"
"Three years," Blake says, grinning wider now. "I remember. The Caroline disaster. You've been a monk ever since."
He gestures toward the door Scarlett just walked through. "Seriously, man. You need to loosen up before your celibate cock falls off entirely."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Not embarrassment—anger. The kind that sits cold and sharp in my chest, waiting for a target.
"I could call Scarlett back," Blake continues, like he's offering me a beer instead of his mistress. "She's very... accommodating. Might be fun. The three of us. Consider it a bachelor party preview."
My hands curl into fists.
Three years since I've touched a woman, and he's dangling temptation in front of me like I'm some desperate rookie who can't control himself.
The worst part? My body is still half-hard from what I walked in on, and he knows it. He can see it. He's weaponizing it.
"You're serious."
"Why not?" Blake shrugs, pouring himself another drink. "No strings. No consequences. Scarlett loves an audience. And you clearly need it—I saw your face when you walked in. You looked like a man dying of thirst."
The anger crystallizes into something cold and sharp.
"That's not happening," I say.
"Your loss." He drains his glass in one swallow. "But don't come crying to me when you're forty and still jerking off to memories of your college girlfriend."
I could hit him.
Should hit him, maybe.
In hockey, this is when you drop the gloves.
It wouldn't be the first time I put a guy through the boards. Once I hit a player so hard his helmet cracked. Broke his nose.Two games suspended, twenty grand in fines.
Worth every penny to watch him learn respect.
But in Blake's world, you smile and play nice.
Well, screw Blake's world.
Blake sees the calculation in my eyes. The way my weight shifts forward. The way my hands are still curled into fists.
He grins wider.
"There he is. TheShutdown Center." He sets his glass down carefully. "Go ahead, West. Throw a punch. Just avoid the face—I need to look good for the photos. Won't change anything, though."
"You really think this is fine," I breathe slowly. "Screwing the wedding planner while your fiancée picks centerpieces? What's next, Blake—banging the florist during the rehearsal?"
"It's really not that deep." Blake shrugs like we're discussing restaurant choices. "Natalie wants the fairy tale. The Prince Charming. The ring. The perfect wedding. I give her that. She doesn't need to know how the world really works."
My chest constricts. "She's not a child."
"She's twenty-three," he says lightly. "She still believes love fixes things. That if you just care about someone enough, everything works out." He pours another drink. "I let her keep that. It makes her happy."
"By lying to her."
"By not forcing her to see the dark parts." His eyes flick toward the door. "That's what women like Scarlett are for. The parts Natalie doesn't need to see. The parts that would hurt her."
