Page 10 of Made Man

The man takes a hand from his pocket and rubs the back of his neck. I know that hand. Didn’t I hold it for three years straight in high school?

Everything inside me bottoms out—my stomach, my heart, whatever air had been circulating in my lungs. I straighten my spine. I feel called on. Called out.

But no one’s paying attention to me except Alex.

“See someone you know?” he asks.

I want to click him off. X out of his tab. I can’t be in the same room with Wyatt Foster for the first time in eight years and pay attention to this guy at the same time. I especially can’t talk. I can hardly breathe.

Without conscious thought, I rise to my feet.

“Mira?” Alex grabs my arm to get my attention.

I yank it free, already walking away, down the steps to the dance floor. I skirt the edges, heading for the bar. I have zombie feet.

What am I going to say?

I’ve imagined this moment a hundred times, and I’m always with a hot guy—my rich, powerful husband—and I cling to this new love of my life so that my huge diamond ring shows, and Wyatt sees it, his face falls, and he says my name—Mira—like he still loves me with every cell in his body, just like he used to say my name before he abandoned me like the leftovers from a bad meal.

My feet deliver me to the finance bros before I’ve figured anything out, and for a few seconds, I stand there, mouth working like a fish, like that’ll pull out the words choking my throat.

“Hey, there,” the head bro says, noticing me first. “How are you this evening?”

He was really into his story, but I’m not bragging when I say I stop traffic. Cars stop all the time. I’ve got the porn star package—blonde hair, killer rack, and toned ass that says “pilates” but was actually a gift from my mother.

Wyatt turns to see who his bro is talking to, and we’re face to face.

I clutch the ruched side seams of my silver lamé dress because I have to hold onto something.

He’s taller than he was when he left. And bigger in general. He’s mostly muscle—it’s clear he works out—but he’s also got a little paunch. Not much. Just enough that the fabric of his navy checked shirt pulls across his stomach.

I want to rub his belly. Squeeze the biceps that also strain the fabric of his shirt. Throw my arms around his neck and burst into tears.

I’vemissedhim.

He doesn’t seem to feel the same.

He looks like he’s run into a bear on a trail, and he’s trying with every ounce of his being not to show fear. His eyes flick over my shoulder, and he tenses. I don’t have to turn around. I know it’s one of my men, come to loom a discreet distance away. I can smell the Acqua di Giò. They all wear Acqua di Giò.

“Go back to the table,” I toss over my shoulder without taking my eyes off Wyatt. When he runs away from me this time, I’m going to watch him do it.

“You gonna introduce us to your friend, Foster?” the head bro asks, circling the table, grinning widely.

Wyatt says nothing. He stares at me, teeth clenched, brooding brown eyes flicking from part to part of my body like a skipping stone—eyes, nose, lips, tits, legs, hair, hands. The lamé is getting damp, wadded in my fists.

“I’m all here and accounted for,” I say to him.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He still has a strong, thick neck, and I see he still nicks himself shaving. He always had shit hand-eye coordination.

“What are you now?” I ask. “An accountant?”

“Foster here is our Director of Strategic Analytics, and if he keeps making deals like he did today, I say you might be looking at the youngest VP in company history,” the head bro says, slinging an arm around Wyatt’s shoulder. The move looks about as easy and casual as slinging an arm around a refrigerator.

“What’s a Director of Strategic Analytics?” I ask Wyatt.

The head bro and the others laugh. Wyatt keeps staring.

“Good question. Wish we knew.” The head bro cracks himself up. “And who are you, darling?”

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