“I was about to say the same thing to you,” she says. “Whoever he is, he must really be something.”
I smile into my drink. I’m downing it at a possibly alarming rate, but I don’t get to drink tequila very often. I don’t get to do any of this very often. And I need it.
God, do I fucking need it.
“What makes you say that?” I ask. Though I know the answer.
“Because you have the attention of every man at the bar right now, and you aren’t even batting an eye. You’re smitten.”
I finish my drink. “I am not smitten. I am just…” I trail off, and we both laugh.
I order another drink. Electra keeps prodding me to give her more info. Of course, I can’t.
“What’s his name?” she asks. “At least tell me that.”
“I shouldn’t say.” My lips are getting loose, so I bite them.
“Fine. No names. A photo, then. I’m sure you have a picture of him in your phone.”
Again. I shouldn’t.
But right now I just don’t give a shit. I’m so tired of living my life with secrets. Skeletons in the closet that resemble some kind of mafia nightmare.
So I fucking do it anyways.
“Wait,” Electra smiles, it fades, then she smiles again. “Fucking wait. Is that…”
She looks at me and I nod.
“Your boss. You’re dating your boss?!”
I cover my face with my hands, half because I am turning red, but also because I can literally feel her judging me and I don’t need to see it.
“I knew it,” she says, and I pull my hands away.
“What?”
“I knew it! I knew when he showed up on that double date that something was going on. So tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” I shake my head and lie through my teeth.
“Nothing? You’re fucking your hot billionaire boss, wearing his money all over your body, sleeping in his bed?—”
“Shh!” I try to cover her mouth with my hand, but she keeps going.
“No wonder you’re working so many hours. It’s because you’reworking so many hours.”
I shake my head again, but I’m smiling. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, and walk off before she can say anything else.
Meanwhile, I can’t stop smiling.
I make my way down the dark moody hall, lit with lanterns on the walls, passing smaller, more private rooms and coves where other couples are sitting.
Then, as I round the corner, I stop.
Because standing in front of the women’s room, blocking my way both ways, is Tristan.
“Hello, Amara,” he says, and I hate the way my name sounds on his nasty lips. It doesn’t belong to him.
