Not tonight. Not ever.
“Nonsense,” Maverick says smoothly. “I’ve already secured our ride.”
I glance toward the gate and nearly trip over my own feet when I see him standing there beside a limo.
A limo.
“Hell yeah,” Skip shouts. “Nowthat’swhat I’m talking about. Can I drive?”
“My driver will drive,” Maverick says dryly. “That is what I pay him for, after all.”
“You have a driver?” I ask, not sure why this surprises me anymore, considering everything we’ve learned about him lately.
“I can’t very well ride my bike when I’m doing… Don stuff,” he smirks.
“It’s not that kind of ballet, Maverick,” Riley says. “We don’t need to arrive in a limo.”
“Considering how you ladies are dressed to kill,” Maverick replies, eyes sweeping over the group, “it would be a shamenotto arrive properly.”
Sunny laughs. “He’s not wrong.”
“And,” Maverick adds casually, as Mike opens the gate. “Cody reserved the VIP section. A limo simply feels… respectful.”
Skip claps his hands together. “Say less. I’m in.”
“How did you know about tonight?” Riley asks as we make our way toward Maverick. “You look very dashing, by the way.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he says with a slight bow. “Cody mentioned it last week. I’ve attended many ballet performances over the years. I’ve seen him dance more times than he knows.”
“You’re not at all like a normal man, are you?” Lila asks, eyes narrowed with curiosity.
“No, my dear,” Maverick replies smoothly. “I’m far more dangerous.”
“Speaking of dangerous,” Eli says quietly, his gaze shifting behind us.
Almost on cue, four doors open down the row of houses.
Spike steps out first, adjusting the cuffs of a tailored black suit like he was born wearing one. His tie hangs loose around his neck, sleeves crisp, posture commanding. My brother is very handsome.
Max seems happy as he walks with his head held high, looking very comfortable in his navy blue suit and tie.
Bones follows, his movements sharp, jaw tight as he shoots Maverick a glare. He’s dressed similarly…dark suit, black shirt…but there’s nothing refined about him. He looks like violence wrapped in expensive fabric, like he might snap at any second and enjoy it.
And then Tank.
No jacket. No tie. Just black dress pants sitting low on his hips and a white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to be criminal.His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing thick forearms dusted with dark hair, just moments from busting through the fabric.
He looks lethal.
I swallow hard, forcing my eyes to stay above his shoulders like a good, well-behaved woman.
It doesn’t help.
Because I’ve seen him shirtless a hundred times. I’ve seen him bleeding, sweaty, furious, half-dead. I’ve seen him brutal, broken, and terrifying.
But this?
This version of Tank…the one dressed like he belongs somewhere elegant instead of a fight ring…does something to me.
