He pats my head like I’m a dog. “There’s a good girl.”
Swatting at his hand, I open my mouth to curse him out, but Lexie does it for me. “Are you always this much of an ass?”
“It’s in their blood,” Ethan interjects.
“Speaking of blood,” Ford returns wryly, “Any bets you’d like to make for the evening, Morgan?”
Suspicion weaves its way through Ethan’s expression. His eyes narrow into slits. “Depends. What are we playing?"
“Like I said, it’s ladies’ night.” Ford hooks his thumb behind him toward the stage. “Weren’t you paying attention to my little speech?”
Ignoring his question, Lexie asks, “And…what does ladies’ night mean?”
A mischievous glint sparks in Ford’s eyes. “It’s for men to know and ladies to find out.” His attention shifts to Ethan. “Follow me.”
Giving his little sister one more sharp stare, he grumbles, “Don’t forget the rules.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She wiggles her fingers in a little wave. “Bye, big brother.”
“Good luck, Vi,” Ethan adds, giving me another onceover that leaves my skin tingling and not in a good way.
I wait for Jagger to follow the stench of masculinity, but he hangs back with us, instead, and honestly, it confuses me. He confuses me. Why are you here, Jagger Harden? Not at the party. He's the host, for Pete’s sake, buthere. In front of me. It only makes me want to squirm more. Seriously, it’s a good thing I’ve never dated a man like Jagger. I can barely hold his gaze,and he’s been nothing but an asshole since the moment we met. Can you even imagine how awkward I’d be if he was actually nice to me? I’d probably start speaking in tongues and forget how to function entirely. Not that I’d want to date a guy like Jagger. The man’s a Harden. He’s cocky and manipulative and entitled and the last person I’d ever want to be in the same room with. And it’s not like I’m any better. He said so himself. I’m not his type.
So why is he still here?
Without a word, Jagger studies me over the rim of his beer like he has all the time in the world. It only unnerves me more.
“There a problem?” I finally blurt out.
“Are you here to steal more of my shit?”
I roll my eyes and reach for the bottle in his fingers. I’m not sure what makes me do it. Sheer stubbornness, I suppose. But it works. He’s so stunned, he doesn’t bother fighting me off. Instead, he gives in and lets me take it, watching as I bring the beverage to my lips. “Maybe I am here to steal more of your shit,” I quip. Tacking on a syrupy sweet smile, I take a sip from the bottle and start to turn away, when his hand darts out. It wraps around my bicep, keeping me in place. And it’s weird. Because Ethan’s hand was on me, what? Two minutes ago? And all I wanted was for him to let me go. To be fair, I want Jagger to let me go, too, but for an entirely different reason. Because this? The heat of his palm. The slight scratch of his callouses against my skin. It’s…unnerving. He’s unnerving. Prickles breakout along my arm, and I swallow thickly. This is not a normal reaction I should have when someone like Jagger touches me, and I don’t know what to do about it.
“I want to talk to you,” he decides.
I share a look with Lexie, exchanging a silent conversation in a way only best friends can.
Her: You good?
Me: I’m okay.
Her: Want me to slap him for you?
Me: I’m good. Really.
Her: Want me to give you two a minute?
Me: Yes, but only because I don’t want to cause a scene.
Her: Fine, but I’ll be watching. If you need help, let me know.
Turning her concerned look into a warning stare that could curdle milk, she gives Jagger a once-over. “I’m gonna grab a drink.” Then, she strides a few feet away, leaving me alone with Jag Off.
Shying out of his hold, I take another sip of his beer, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue as he stares at me with those dark eyes. The same ones that’ve been haunting me for weeks. The skull makeup doesn’t help. Or maybe it does. Pretty sure the man has never looked sexier. They look so…hollow. Add in the sharp jawline and the way his dark hair falls forward, and my mouth goes dry. Talk about Stockholm Syndrome. Blood thrums through my veins, making my cheeks heat for a reason I refuse to identify as I fight the urge to squirm. Again. Because apparently, it’s a regular response of mine whenever I'm around this guy.
So maybe I should stop being around this guy,I silently tell myself.
Swallowing past the sandpaper coating my throat, I whisper, “Stop looking at me like that.”
