The steadiness in her tone does something to my pulse. “Two minutes. If I don’t feel better after the cold water, then I go home for my Xanax.”
“Or, you order a third margarita, and I drive your truck to bring you home.” She lifts her glass in acknowledgment. “Go.”
I walk toward the back hallway of the restaurant, past the bar, past the kitchen doors, tension still threading through my shoulders. This is exactly the sort of entanglement that complicates everything I’ve built. Amber is a giant pain in my ass, and even though we’ve been divorced for a while now, she’s getting worse.
Would she really get me fired, though?
I push open the men’s room door. The room is empty. Good. I brace my hands against the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
You are not reckless. You have handled worse. Amber cannot dismantle you unless you panic.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water against my face. The shock steadies me. I straighten, dry my hands.
Perry was right—it helped.
I am fine.
The door opens behind me.
It’s Perry.
“What are you doing in here?” I say, sharper than intended. The question is absurd the moment it leaves my mouth.
She steps toward me like she belongs here. “Regrouping.”
“This is the men’s room.”
“That’s why I knew you’d be here.” She smiles seductively. She looks different under fluorescent light. Less softened than in the booth. More defined. Determined.
The sink still runs faintly behind me. Water drips steadily into porcelain, echoing in the small, tiled room.
“Maybe I need to spiral. You don’t understand what she can do,” I say quietly.
“I understand what you’re letting her do.” She steps closer. Close enough that I can feel her warmth through the thin space between us. “Damian,” she says, and my name in her mouth is both soothing and incendiary, “you are not a man who lets someone else dictate your mood.”
“This is not about mood. It’s?—”
“Yes, it is.” Her hands settle at my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. The contact sends a current straight through me. “You’re wound so tight right now,” she murmurs.
I catch her wrists instinctively. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but this is reckless.”
She tilts her head. “Didn’t you say you like measured risk?”
“This isn’t measured,” I reply. “This is…a public bathroom.”
She leans in, pressing her lips to mine. Not softly. The kiss steals my argument. My grip on her wrists loosens without conscious decision, and her hands slide lower, deliberate, testing.
My breath shifts. “This is a public restaurant,” I murmur against her mouth. “Anyone could walk in.”
“Which makes it exciting.”
The thought spikes through me. I should step back. I should reestablish control. Instead, I feel my restraint fracture under the combined pressure of fear and desire.
Her hands move to the front of my jeans.
My body responds before my brain finishes protesting. “Perry?—”
She presses a finger lightly to my mouth. “Relax.” The word feels less like a suggestion and more like a command. She drops slowly, gaze never leaving mine. Not even as she unzips my jeans.
