Page 68 of Mexico Can Choke On It
With zero regard for propriety or manners, I lunge for the napkin in Bryce’s lap. My other hand lands on his muscular thigh for balance. I spit into the napkin as if survival depends on it.
I’m about to grab his water when I realize my grip is on his very firm—
Wait.
That isnothis wallet. Not a phone in his pocket. Not a bonus breadstick tucked under his pants for later.
Our eyes lock, and in that split-second, I get it.
Me:Holy shit.He’s as turned on as I am.
Vagina:Told you so.
Me:Not. Now.
This isn’t a power play. Not somedistract Petragame. He’s very aroused by whatever the hell this is between us.
And the proof under my palm is wood big enough to build a canoe with.
“Bryce, darling!” Fiona’s voice slices through our tension. “When can we expect Amanda to join us this week? I enjoy her company so much.”
I snatch my hand away from Bryce’s lap so fast I nearly dislocate my shoulder.
Amanda.The woman he’s going to marry.
Bryce goes rigid, his warmth turning to stone. That nervous tic starts up—tap-tap-tap against his thigh where my fingers were moments ago.
“Sadly, Amanda is unable to make it,” he says with practiced politeness. “Her mother continues to need her assistance with recovery. But she sends her warm wishes.”
“It’s probably for the best,” she agrees with a dismissive wave. “When you get engaged, we wouldn’t want her to be jealous that your wedding can’t be at Casa Cashmere.”
Whenthey get engaged?
I thought they already were. At the gala, his mother definitely implied it.
My mind pinballs between confusion and clarity. The flirting. The innuendo. The gifts. He’s been doing all this while he has a girlfriend back home. A girlfriend he’s on the verge of proposing to.
And then—like a brick to the face—I remember the joke I made earlier to Sebastian at my fitting. The one about being Bryce’s mistress.
Did he take that seriously? Is that what this is?
Oh God.
That’s why he arranged our rooms to be next to each other. Not because of proximity or convenience. No. It was logistics. Privacy. Strategy.
A fucking affair.
I glance around the opulent dining room, taking in the sea of polished, powerful guests. This is how their world works—wealthy, restless people locked in loveless marriages made for money, image, and legacy.
They play the part in public, then scratch the itch in private. With someone reckless. Someone forbidden. Someone forgettable.
Someone like me.
Is that what Fiona’s doing too?
My gaze darts around the dining area, searching for the lanky man in tight leather pants. He’s conveniently not present(same as Bryce’s conscience).
The one percent understands how to cover their tracks. How to lie with a smile and a napkin on their lap. How to raise a toast with one hand and stab you in the back with the other.
