Page 122 of Mess With Me

Back at the bar, the server looks over at us as she whispers to her coworker. Her hands are clasped against her chest like she’s having a heart attack.

“There a lost kitten beside us or something?”

Sasha glances the servers’ way and smiles.

“No. Just you.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the walking definition of big, strong boyfriend, and you’re practically holding me on your lap.”

“Husband.”

“Right,” she says, her eyes going soft.

Fuck, I really want to kiss her right now. But those women are still staring at us.

“I don’t know how to keep away from you,” I say.

“Then don’t,” she whispers. She leans in, brushing her pillow-soft lips against mine. I don’t care who’s looking now. She tastes so fucking good.

“I want to go home,” I say against her mouth, tucking my finger into the top of her jeans and tugging her even closer.

“Too late,” she laughs. “That your friend?”

I glance over. Ford’s just walked into the bar, his eyes scanning the space. Not just for us, I know, but for possible threats. It’s what I’d do if it wasn’t my hometown and I wasn’t wrapped up in Sasha Macklin.

“How could you tell?”

“Tall, handsome, dresses exactly like my husband. Looks like he could knock a guy out just by looking at him. You two could be brothers.”

I clear my throat, my insides unsure whether to linger on the “my husband” part of what she said or go back and get irritated by the “handsome.”

I lift up a hand even though he’s already seen us. Then I slide Sasha’s chair back in place. I think better of it a second later and bring her back halfway to where she was before.

“You done?” she whispers. “Oh my gosh. You must be Ford!” she says exuberantly before I can respond, practically leaping up out of her chair to greet him.

Ford smiles appreciatively and holds out a hand. Sasha ignores it, throwing her arms around his shoulders. He blinks but hugs her back, giving me a raised eyebrow over her head.

I’m about ready to crack my beer glass in half now, but I manage to keep from yelling at him to sit down, preferably at the far end of the table.

“Ford,” I grit out instead.

“Griffin.”

Sasha looks between us as Ford takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, thank God, her lips rolled between her teeth.

He’s still too close to her, but at least there’s a slab of wood between us.

“Do you guys always keep it to one syllable, or do you branch out into two sometimes?” she asks.

I frown, but Ford laughs. He’s got one of those big, deep laughs, and just like his smile, it tends to make women fluttery.

I clap my arm down over the back of Sasha’s chair, wondering how I’m going to make it through the night.

“I just follow the big guy’s lead, mostly,” Ford says.

When they’re done laughing at me, Sasha glances at her watch.

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