Page 3 of Wild Card

“Yes.”

She chews on her bottom lip, assessing me closely. I cast a glance over to see if anything seems off. “Are you in trouble? Is someone bothering you?”

“Last question. You’re not wearing a ring, but that means nothing. Are you married?”

“Listen, sweet?—”

“No, he’s not,” Ford answers with a smug grin.

“Good, you’re a perfect fit.”

“Perfect fit for what?” I try to pull my hand from hers, not interested in getting involved with a whackjob.

“You’re hot and my friend is getting hit on by a sleezebag who won’t take a hint. Instead of telling him to beat off, she’s threatening to bail. I have been looking forward to this nightforever.”The woman emphasizes the word while twirling her finger and rolling her eyes dramatically. “My girl needs a nightout… you can’t imagine how much she needs this. Her latest charity project fucked her over.”

“Charity project?”

“That’s what we call the slim-dick, narcissistic, douche-canoe she dated. She needs to brush his bad aura away. Tonight is the night. I need to find a solution. And you’re the solution.”

“I’m the solution?”

I follow her line of sight to the high-top in the corner. More specifically, the brunette leaning away from a man who’s at her ear. Her gaze darts around, landing on her friend, then roving to me. Even from this distance, I can make out the misery in her green eyes.

My heart stills, my gaze locking on the move of her throat as she swallows. The delicate tip of her tongue licking her pink lips.

“Shit, man. Leaving this to you.” Ford slaps me on the back. “Motion if you need me.”

The blonde glances at me hopefully. “Do you think you can…”

It would be easy to head over and take care of this guy with only a look. But something about the woman intrigues me. She’s not the typical Tom’s clientele, or I would have noticed her.

An idea hits. “How far can I take it?”

Her mouth splits into a wide triumphant smile. “She may slap you if you try to feel her up, but a little flirting and pretending she’s your world?—"

“Got this.” I make my way to the table.

The brunette’s eyes never leave mine, growing wider with each step closer.

“Baby.” I slide next to her, shoving the man with more force than necessary.

“What the hell?” he sputters.

“You were invading my woman’s space,” I answer without breaking eye contact with her.

“Man, she didn’t say anything about a boyfriend.”

I skim my fingers over her collarbone and around her neck, slanting her face to mine. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay.”

I stare down the guy who has the audacity to appear pissed. “You need something?”

He studies me, his mouth curling into a cocky snarl. “You’re a Casanova. No way this is your girl.”

The term Casanova has become a term of endearment to our crew. But this asshole is pissing me off, along with the stale odor of whiskey. “You’re right, she’s my woman. You wanna discuss this outside?”

I don’t wait for his answer, drawing my attention back to the woman. A buzz ripples through my chest at the sight of her close up. The distance earlier didn’t do her justice. A few small freckles coat her cheeks, almost blending in with her creamy complexion. The scent of vanilla and citrus floats in the air, drawing me in even closer.

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