I stare. “Youlikethat?”
She shrugs. “Apparently?”
I lean back, utterly baffled. “Whois this man?”
“That’s the thing—I barely know.” She bites her lip. “He was already at the private lounge when I got there, brooding in the corner like some gothic nightmare in a suit. Tall, built like he wrestlesbearsfor fun,scarred knuckleslike he’s been in too many fights to count. And hisvoice, Bella—low, rough, like a cigarette and a secret.”
I blink. “Youstayed the night withthat?”
“Not just stayed,” she says dreamily. “Ilingered.”
I gape. “Youneverlinger. That’s, like, your entire thing.”
“Exactly! That’s how youknowI’m in trouble.” She gestures at her phone. “And now he’s texting me, and I don’t know if I should text back, but my fingers keep hovering over the keyboard like I’m possessed.”
I exhale. “Okay, real talk—do you think he’s aserial killer?”
“Possibly,” she says, far too casually. “But honestly? If I go out, I want it to behishands around my throat.”
I slam my forehead onto the table yet again. “We need therapy.”
“Youneedto call your mafia daddy and get your wallet back.”
“Stop calling him that!”
Before Elena can respond, the yoga instructor’s voice cuts through the cafe. “Five minutes until Hot Power Flow!”
Elena jumps up. “Shit! I can’t miss another class—they’ll give my spot to that bitch with the designer yoga mat!” She shoves her bag over her shoulder, then points at me. “This isn’t over. We aremakinga plan.”
I groan. “Iam making an escape plan. You are making poor life choices with men who sound like assassins.”
She winks. “You love me for it.”
I watch her stride toward the class, shaking my head.
I wish I could be as carefree as Elena right now. But unlike her, I am currently being haunted by the aftermath of the worst (and possibly hottest) mistake of my life.
I sigh, pressing my palms to my face. What thehellam I going to do? I need my wallet. I need my car. And I need tosomehowpretend last nightnever happened.
But before I can spiral too hard, a strange sensation prickles down my spine.
Something shifts in the air.
I lift my head—andthat’swhen I see them.
Two men.
Dressed all in black, standing just outside the cafe.
Not in the casual rich-guy-athleisure way. No, these men look like they werebornin the dark, tailored suits cutting sharp against broad shoulders, posture too stiff, gaze toointent.
And they arewatching me.
17
Bella
“The line of credit requires a minimum payment of—”
