Brass raised his glass, too.
“I’ll put my money on marriage.”
The room seemed to be evenly split—half of the club believed Ironside would cave, while others believed he would remain unchanged and single, smoking his cigars, drinking his bourbon, and keeping the younger members of the club in line.
Ironside tipped his head back, beseeching the heavens for patience.
“It’s comforting to know my love life amuses you dipshits.”
As I ate my steak, I glanced around the room, and understanding seemed to finally sink in. So much of my life had changed in such a short amount of time.
Dad’s heart attack and ensuing hospital visit. The ordeal with Sweeney. Discovering Pretty Boy and I had mutual feelings for each other, despite my best attempts to resist accepting that reality.
Now, Dad had retired. I was practically engaged. And Pretty Boy wore the President patch on his chest.
But through it all, I still had this club and the people in it. My family, my home.
No matter what came our way, no matter what the future held, we would face it together.
As the evening wore on, Pretty Boy draped his arm across the back of my chair, idly tracing his fingertips along the nape of my neck or down my shoulder. I studied his profile while he talked with Hades and Psycho about what, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was too busy memorizing the square angle of his jawline,the ridge of his nose, and the faint laugh lines beginning to start crinkling around his eyes.
I didn’t see any sign of gray in his chocolate brown locks, but I looked forward to the day when I did find them. Watching him grow old alongside me.
For the longest time, I resented him for exactly this—the potential he carried within himself to become a leader, a man that everyone would one day rely on and look to for guidance and strength.
How ironic that the thing I resented him for was now the thing I admired about him.
Then Pretty Boy leaned over, nuzzling against my ear.
“Lila, honey, you have to stop looking at me like that. I can’t pop a fucking boner in this room full of people.”
I cackled softly and skimmed my hand along his thigh. He hissed a breath through his teeth, grabbing my wrist.
“Would it help if I told you the color of panties I’m wearing?”
A muscle clenched in Pretty Boy’s jaw. He growled, low and menacing as he kissed my neck.
“No. It would not.”
“You can guess, if you want,” I offered.
“Goddamn it, Lila,” he groaned. Then after a pause, “Hot pink?”
“Nope. Try again.”
He thought about it for a moment.
“Powder blue?”
I shook my head, biting the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. It was so fun to torture him.
He grumbled and shifted in his seat, trying to tug unobtrusively at the tightness in his jeans.
“Red? Black? No, wait—purple?”
"Wrong again." I nipped at his earlobe. Pretty Boy groaned and his eyes slid closed. “Do you give up?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Yes, I do. I give up. I wave the white flag of surrender. Have fucking mercy on me, woman.”
