Page 12 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Exactly." She sets her fork down carefully. "About that. We should probably..."

"Yeah."

"I mean, we need to..."

"Absolutely."

We stare at each other over our pancakes. Her cocoa-brown eyes, sharp and unreadable, hold mine. Last night was too much of a blur to appreciate just how stunning she is—thick, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, the soft curve of her mouth, the way the ridiculous gold lamé robe hangs just a little off one shoulder, exposing smooth, golden skin.

"This is ridiculous," she finally says, breaking the moment. "We're adults. We can handle this maturely."

"Completely maturely." I gesture with my fork, trying not tolet my eyes drift too low. "Just two professionals dealing with a minor administrative error."

"Exactly. A small clerical issue that happened to involve Elvis."

"And poker chip rings."

"And matching robes."

We both look down at said robes, then back at each other.

Her lips part slightly, and I swear my brain short-circuits.

"Oh god." She drops her head to the table, groaning. "We're in public in Elvis robes."

"Very expensive Elvis robes," I offer, grasping for anything to keep my thoughts from slipping into completely inappropriate territory. "The gold lamé really brings out your eyes."

She lifts her head just enough to glare at me, but there’s a flicker of something else there—something that makes my pulse do a slow, lazy roll.

"Why aren't you more freaked out about this?"

"Who says I'm not?" I reach for my coffee, my fingers tightening around the mug. "I'm just better at hiding it. Also, I won a yacht."

"You what now?"

"A yacht. Though technically I haven't won it yet." At her confused look, I explain, "Alex, Grayson, and I made a pact in business school. Last one to get married gets the yacht."

"You have a yacht?"

"We have a yacht. Joint purchase after our first successful ventures. Grayson's freakishly in love with his girlfriend Roz, Alex is getting married in two months..."

"And now you." She runs a hand through her hair, and I watch, hypnotized, as the strands slip through her fingers. "Though I'm pretty sure accidental Vegas weddings don't count."

"Probably not." I watch her add more syrup to her pancakes, the movement oddly sensual, and—fuck. I need to stop lookingat her mouth. "What about you? No marriage pacts in PR school?"

"Didn't have time for pacts." She keeps her eyes on her plate. "Between work and Dad's medical bills and my sisters... marriage wasn't exactly a priority."

"Until Will?"

"Until Will." She sighs, dragging the tines of her fork through the syrup. "Though that was more about... I don’t know. Stability? The idea that someone else could handle things for a while?"

"And how'd that work out?"

"About as well as your high school sweetheart situation, I'm guessing."

I wince. "Fair point."

"What happened there?" She looks up, and for the first time this morning, her expression softens. "If you don't mind me asking?"

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