Page 14

Zayden lands one final punch in Xavier’s leg before returning to his seat. Resting his hand on the back of my neck, he strokes his thumb across my nape, something he knows I love. “You’re far too pretty to go to jail, Q.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Kiss-ass.”

“There it is,” Yale says, and he’s right. We’ve finally beat the streets of LA and arrived at our goddamn destination.

Parking takes as much time as you’d expect on a Friday night, so thirty minutes later, we’re walking into Clovers—the newest, most exclusive hotel and restaurant in the city.

Zayden slides his arm around my waist. “Do you want to get a drink while I deal with the reservation?” he says low into my ear, and I nod. He kisses my temple, and I’m seamlessly passed to Yale. Xavier keeps close, and his quick wink at the hostess and her following blush meaning he’s likely dodged a bullet with his outfit.

The restaurant that’s connected to the five-star hotel isn’t overly dim, which makes it perfect for people-watching. The sleek white and silver décor could feel futuristic and tacky if it weren’t for the soft, almost rustic lighting that lines the walls and flooring. Piano music floats from the solo performer to my far left, and the conversation is murmured, as if everyone here understands the noise level must be adhered to, otherwise it’d be a scandal. People are draped in diamonds and designer, and their laughter feels as polished as their cutlery.

Nine years of drifting among these people and my skin still crawls at the thought of anyone thinking I’m one of them. My childhood was food stamps and sparse Christmases, and I’m okay with that. Our bank balance wasn’t the problem—my father was. Zayden grew up with money, but even he says these places set his teeth on edge.

We’re in this fishbowl of wealth for two reasons only: one, people-watching is my guilty pleasure. I could create endless tales about those surrounding me and never get bored. Two: this is the only restaurant offering chocolate spaghetti, and I want to know what the heck that is.

“I’m surprised they let you in. You’re too lucky for your own good,” I say to Xavier as we reach the bar. I’m already hunting through my purse for lipstick.

“Three beers and a Seven and Seven,” Xavier says to the bartender, not even bothering to look at me. “It’s charm, Q. Not luck.”

I grunt in response to Xavier’s tone and scan the bar as I apply my lipstick, attempting to ignore the eyes on us. It’s the brothers they’re looking at, not me. After all, it’s incredibly rare to see identical triplets, let alone ones as handsome as the Silver brothers. But I still feel like they can pick up on my unease—the glare of not belonging.

It’s frustrating. Thirty years old and still feeling sixteen. Unsure of what I’m doing, certain I’m doing most things wrong. The only difference now is that I don’t have the pressure of being my father’s daughter—I just have the scars.

Yale moves close, resting his hand on the bar behind me, essentially boxing me between him and his brother. I’m trapped between muscles and expensive cologne, and I resist leaning into Yale and the safety he and his brother provide just by being close.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

Yale nods, taking a swig of his beer—the only one he’ll have tonight. “Fine.”

“She’s my brother’s wife,” Xavier suddenly snaps. “Keep looking at her ass and this glass is going in your eye.” I glance behind me in time to see a man duck low in his seat.

Yale sighs. “I was trying to be subtle, X.”

My chest warms a little at how quickly they jump to my defense, even Xavier, and I note several women watching us—in particular, a redhead at the end of the bar. I frown, and this time I do lean into Yale and make a point to remove some non-existent lint from Xavier’s T-shirt. The woman smirks knowingly and raises her glass before a dark-haired man whispers in her ear and they disappear to the other side of the restaurant.

I snatch my hand back when I notice Xavier is watching me with a perplexed expression, my pinched fingers hovering over his chest. “What are you doing?”

“Bullet hair,” I mumble, turning away.

Why do I even care that women are looking at them? Yale hasn’t been on a date in God knows how long, and he’d make a great boyfriend. I doubt Xavier goes more than a few nights without bringing someone home, but maybe he’d like to get to know the beautiful redhead.

I blink when Xavier presses the tip of his index finger between my eyes. “Stop frowning. It’s your fucking birthday.”

Slapping his hand away, I pull myself out of my thoughts and scan the room, and as I do, Zayden and I lock eyes. He’s waiting by the hostess as she types into her computer, and his gaze cuts quickly to my right, then back to me.

Following his attention, I spot a blonde man at the end of the bar, drinking alone. He’s watching me and raises his glass.

My cheeks warm, my heart races, and a pleasant tingle works its way between my thighs. I offer the stranger a smile, then meet the heated gaze of my husband.

“Q, you ready?” Yale asks, sliding his arm around my waist. I nod, and he guides me to the table.

Zayden pulls my chair out and leans in close as I sit.

“Are you wet?”

I almost choke as I try to swallow, landing an elbow in his ribs, and he lets out an “ooft” as if I’ve shot him.

Asshole.