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Marcus drags a hand over his face, wiping off rain.

“Jesus, this weather.”

“You’re telling me,” I say, panting slightly from the run and looking out at the storm.

Cole stretches out in the backseat. “We can wait it out.”

The hail seems to stop but the rain continues, and after about ten minutes of mostly comfortable silence, I pull out of the parking garage.

The drive to Cole’s penthouse is suspiciously quiet.

By the time we get inside, we’re all soaking wet. Cole offers us dry clothes, but I’m too wide for his shirts, and Marcus is even wider.

Not to mention that everything Cole buys is tailored within an inch of its life.

I head directly to Cole’s bar, rifling through the bottles to find some top-shelf tequila, a brand I’ve never even tried.

“That one’s from Mexico,” Cole explains.

I don’t care if it’s from Ohio.

I pour myself a couple fingers over ice.

Cole joins me and pours himself a Scotch.

Marcus just stands there, soaking wet, dripping onto the expensive marble, glaring at us.

“So Marcus is still pissed,” Cole says.

“Thank you, Mr. Points Out the Obvious.”

“You’re welcome.”

Marcus lets out a short breath.

“I’m not pissed.”

“You look pissed,” I tell him.

“You definitely sound pissed,” Cole says unhelpfully.

Marcus groans and uncrosses his arms. Crosses them again.

“Fine. Maybe I’m a little pissed.”

“At us?” I ask.

“At the situation.”

“So you’re not participating in the bet.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Cole’s green eyes light up.

I look between the two of them warily. This could get ugly.

“But I’ll warn you both,” Marcus says in a low, dangerous tone that makes my eyes snap to his. “I plan on taking her for myself.”