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Fine.

What I don't like is that they know enough to rib me in the first place.

“How exactly do you know about Layla?”

Now that gets their attention.

Tank's eyebrows rise. Luca's grin gets bigger. Koa looks like he's trying not to laugh. Dane just watches me.

“What?” I ask.

“You called her Layla,” Luca says.

I stare at him.

“That's her fucking name.”

“Yeah,” Tank says. “But you call everyone Miss or Mrs. And the way you said it like Layla.”

“How the fuck else would I say it?”

Koa loses the battle and laughs.

I hate married men.

Apparently, marriage turns otherwise reasonable human beings into smug assholes with an unnatural interest in other people's relationships.

“Answer the question.”

“What question?” Tank asks.

“What do you know?”

The four of them exchange looks. That bothers me more than it should.

“No, seriously. What the fuck do you know?”

Luca straightens. “Well, we know you brought her to New York.”

“Who told you that?”

Another shared look.

Fuck these people.

“We know about the gala,” Koa says.

Of course, they know about the gala. Half of Manhattan had a fucking phone pointed at us.

“We know you danced with her,” Tank adds.

“People dance.”

“Not you,” Dane says.

I turn to him. He has the fucking nerve to raise an eyebrow.

“I dance.”