Page 13 of Stealing Blinds

“Does your family know you’re on a date as a cover for a heist or as part of it?”

Bitterness sears my throat, and my heart hammers my sternum. Fear is a prison. I will not spend my life locked up.

“Why are you here?” I don’t spit out the other questions burning my tongue.

Who sent you? How are you involved? What does E want now?

He hears them anyway. His jaw locks for a beat before he cups his hand on the back of my neck beneath my hair, his stubble scraping my cheek, his lips wetting my ear. “You in trouble, Sly?”

That concern reads as genuine, which would mean he isn’t here on behalf of anyone. Is he just a fuckboy on a mission? That seems doubtful since he has an entire city of women panting after him back in NOLA. And it would mean he brought his family with him to, what, ask me out?

How messed up is my life that I would celebrate that as an outcome?

“I’m never in trouble, Noire. I find it, play with it, own it, and dispose of it.”

“Perfect.” He pulls his chin back, those smoldering blues roving all over my face. “Consider me found. Step two.”

I should move away from him, but the proximity offers answers I desperately need confirmed. “And the owning and disposing, are those appealing too?”

Another panty-dropping grin. “If you want to own me for a night and throw me away in the morning, I won’t complain about being your plaything.”

Fuckboy it is.

“Wow,” I gasp, taking another sip of my coffee and setting it on the table. “For a split second, when you asked if I was in trouble, you nearly had me fooled into believing you thought with something other than your dick. I still wasn’t interested, but I had a modicum of respect for you.”

An expression I can’t discern passes over him, a shadow blocking out the golden rays of seductive loftiness that seem to be his traditional state, but I can’t let that deter me.

Rod is still oblivious of my detour—or simply unbothered by it. But if I attempt to flee in the other direction, Cash will follow. As it is, before I make it three steps toward the bar, his hand glides across my lower back, curling around my hip to hold me in place.

Damn him for the heat his fingertips brand into my skin. For the shiver and the laughter and the butterflies I don’t want. For whatever bullshit he’s about to spew to convince me to be his slut for the night and forgotten tomorrow.

“Don’t walk out on fate a second time. What are the chances that we met at Mardi Gras and then here? In the city of my pitiful movie ploy, without the dollar bill?”

Odds are good if he tracked me down. Gangster-style. I loathe that this would’ve had me swooning a few years ago. That I was pathetic enough to buy it, stupid enough to let someone steal that innocence, and reckless enough to blow up my life in response. I’m not better off in any realm. Certainly not with this guy.

“This wasn’t the city that brought them together. New York was.” After one brief glance at his full lips—purely as a taunt—I flick my eyes to his to drive home my point. “But either way, I don’t trust fate. If I did, I wouldn’t tempt it with something disposable. And even if this was a coincidence, I don’t pay attention to those until the third.”

I’m not sure why I leave him an opening. Maybe to fuck with him. Maybe because I don’t hate the way he drinks me in. Or maybe because having a king-of-the-underworld Noire connection could come in handy. Regardless, his gaze on my backside as I strut away scorches like sweet triumph.

Especially as he calls out, “Bet.”

CASH

“You guys have zero fucking chill. You looked like a bunch of deranged puppies.”

Axel smirks at me as I resume my seat at our table. He’s cool and collected. His arm is around Zara, his cognac is nearly gone, and his sapphire eyes are glinting with amusement. “You’re the one who invited us to witness the proud moment.”

Maddox tips his drink to me, his mouth pouted in feigned pride. “Your boy is all growed up, Papa Axe.”

I invited them to throw her off. If I’d shown up alone, she’d have known I hunted her down, which may have been alarming. They were supposed to be my casual disguise, but instead, they exuded escaped-an-asylum vibes.

“Girls like puppies,” Jax argues, considering that a beat longer than necessary before tacking on, “Bernard gets me a lot of numbers.”

Bernard is our bulldog—well, technically, Ryker and Mercy’s bulldog. Remy named him after our head concierge, who is essentially our honorary grandfather. It’s only confusing sometimes.

They dive into a conversation about how both Bernards are cute and deranged, spiraling like they do, while I wave the waitress over.

“Mind if I use your pen”—I check her name tag—“Gina?”