Page 113 of The Contract

CHAPTER 37

Riley

He pulls Mila into a hug, but his gaze sticks to me. I may as well be hand-dipped in chocolate with a sign that reads: Free Dessert.

Jesus.

From everything she’s told me, Mila’s taste in men remains terminally fucked. Honestly, she should’ve stuck with the biker—give me leather jackets, ink-covered muscles, and brooding glares over frat-boy entitlement any day.

“You came!” she gushes, practically glowing. “How’d you get here so fast?”

He shrugs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I, uh, was in the area.”

Which should set off every goddamn red flag, considering the only things remotely worth being “in the area” for are the sleazy X-rated bookstore and the sketchy vape shop selling everything from Special K to airtight alibis.

He slides a hand onto her ass, and the way Mila’s spine instantly stiffens tells me she wasn’t expecting it. Or remotely appreciating it.

I’m half a breath from stepping in when Mila eases him back, flashing me a sharp, don’t-you-dare look.

“Riley, this is Decker.”

He winks, flashing a smile that belongs on a wanted poster. “Decker Callihan. Of the New England Callihans.”

I blink, completely deadpan. “Who?”

Mila giggles—nails-on-a-chalkboard nervous. “She’s such a kidder.” She turns back to him, voice pure syrup. “You did promise we’d skip the line.”

The weasel shrugs, pulling her tighter by the waist. “For a price.”

He leans in and claims her mouth.

And it’s just—eww.

Like he’s trying to wet-vac every calorie of her last meal straight from her teeth. It’s about as romantic as watching someone deep-clean a fish tank. With their tongue.

Well, with that, I’m thoroughly annoyed, hangry, and entirely not in the mood for Decker.

Or, as I’ve now permanently branded him in my head, Dick-curd.

He finally detaches his jaw from hers and struts toward the front of the line, dragging Mila along—who latches onto my arm like I’m her newfound emotional support animal.

I exhale a slow, aggravated breath.

Yes, I need a night out—I won’t deny it.

But what I absolutely do not need is to play the deflated third wheel in one of Mila’s infamous, inevitably catastrophic romances.

And that’s exactly what this is.

Take Dick-curd, add tequila, shake vigorously. His face will be buried in someone else’s cleavage before you can finish saying, “Another round of shots.”

He ushers us up front, sliding a card to the bouncer.

“You owe me,” he murmurs to Mila. And to me.

“I was perfectly happy waiting in line,” I lie, smiling with enough artificial sweetness to stock a gas station pastry aisle.

“You’d have waited a long fucking time, sweetheart,” Decker drawls, arrogance oozing from every polished syllable, perfectly paired with his American Psycho vibes. “This place requires a membership, and tonight’s VIP only. Been meaning to check it out.”

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