chapter 20

Her phone chimes with an alert, and like an overprotective bodyguard, I bristle when she doesn't immediately tell me who she's getting a message from.

I stew in my irritation, downing what's left of my drink and signaling for the bartender to bring me another.

"I have a gala to attend in three days."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Her eyes lift, meeting mine for the first time since I sat down at the table.

"It's not a good idea. There's too much shit going on right now."

"I'm not just going to stop living my life because Dona is in trouble."

"I'm not asking you to stop living your life," I snap because this sounds much like the argument I had with Dona a million years ago when she was going out every night instead of spending time with me when I was on leave. Fuck, why didn't I see the signs back then? They were like flashing red lights, but all I could see was my beautiful wife. "You just need to hit the pause button for a while."

"I'm obligated to go, but if you're so concerned for my safety in the middle of a huge crowd, feel free to tag along."

Not a chance in hell.

"That won't happen," I spit. "Those events aren't my thing, but I'll send one of the guys."

I can't believe I'm conceding right now but going by the look of pure determination in her eyes, short of locking her in a room, she's going to that damn party whether I like it or not.

"Good." She smiles wide, and it's a look I've seen a hundred times when her and Dona were getting ready for some trouble. "I suggest sending Brooks because he's smoking hot and beyond charming."

****Anna

It's been an hour since our conversation about the gala, and Dean might as well be made of stone. Other than lifting his glass to his lips, he's made no other movements, including his mouth. Not one single word has left his lips. I don't know if he took my suggestion under advisement, or if he's pissed.

Let him be mad, just like I was when he shot down my idea of him attending the gala with me. I wasn't asking him out on a date or anything, but that still didn't ease the biting sting of rejection. He didn't even take a moment to consider it… just no. Hello wounded ego. It's been a while.

But no worries because I'm curing my shattered self-esteem with every sip of whiskey I take.

The more I drink, the worse I get at hiding the fact that I can't stop looking at him. When did he go from the goofy guy making Dona laugh to this serious-as-hell commando guy? Of course he was more serious at court that day, but the situation didn't really call for jokes and ridiculous dancing.

Right now? The way he watches the door like he expects ninjas to fly in with samurai swords swinging is something I never thought I'd see. I guess we've both changed though, more him than me.

He's always been good-looking. I can admit that in my head, but he's somehow managed to take those boyish charms I used to roll my eyes at and turn them into a muscled guy with more sex appeal than a stage full of oiled-up strippers. Like seriously, is it hot in here or is the sight of him lifting his glass to his lips making me overheat?

Maybe he thinks this tough-to-crack hard exterior will keep me away, but honestly it just makes me want to drill down under the toughness and find all of his mushy spots. The more I drink, the better of an idea it seems.

"What exactly does your company do?"

"Security and consulting."

I clench my jaw. "I knew that from reading the wall outside your office."

"Then why did you ask?" He rolls his head on his shoulders to face me, and damn if the pink in his cheeks from the alcohol doesn't make him just a little more human and appealing.

I grin at him, resisting the urge to bite my lip when he smiles back. Yep, he's just as tipsy as I am.

"Dean," I grumble. "Tell me."

"We do all sorts of stuff."

"That explains everything. Please, say no more. I'm suffering from information overload right now."

His chuckle washes over me, and I take a moment to just let it settle around us.

"We're hired out for personal security." I nearly reach out and squeeze his bicep but have enough control over myself right now to drop my hand before I touch him. "Sometimes, we have to find people. Sometimes, we have to find information."

"Like a PI? You follow cheating spouses and stuff?"

"Sometimes," he answers with a shrug, but from what I can gather, there's more to it than what he's letting on.

"I bet the women just flock to your team."

He lifts his glass back to his mouth, and I'm entranced until he lowers it back to the table. Has he been running his fingers over the rim this whole time? If so, why do I only now feel that same caress like he's swirling that thick tip on the inside of my thigh?

"Are you denying it?" I shove his shoulder, and he either lets me move him a few inches or he's wasted.

"No." His grin widens. "Brooks is quite popular. Quinten doesn't ever have trouble finding fun."

"What about you?" I empty my glass, filling it once again with the bottle the bartender left at our table to hide my embarrassment.

"Me?" He runs his hands over the scruff on his chin, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he's actually considering the question and not rubbing himself there in that douchebag way college frat guys do right before they wink at you and say something ridiculous like, "Bet."

"I don't do relationships." His tongue snakes out, sweeping over his lips before he looks back to the front entrance to the bar. "Not really my thing."

"I bet you just haven't found a woman you're sexually compatible with." My eyes widen. Did I really just say that to this man?

He doesn't answer, and the alcohol swimming in my system tells me that now isn't the best time to let it go.

"I mean, it's hard to find a woman who likes to be hog-tied and gagged." He shifts in his seat, but I know he heard me. He's the one who put the thought in my head earlier when he threatened me with it.