Page 69 of Mexico Can Choke On It
The thought makes me ill.
I flirt. I tease. I joke. But this?Thisis not a game I signed up for.
He’s got a girlfriend. I’ve got a line. And I don’t cross it.
And Isure as hellwill not be a pleasure toy for a bored billionaire.
“Still, it’s sad,” Fiona chatters on. “Amanda will be missed. She always makes things more fun when it’s the four of us. But it’s nice making new friends too, right Petra?”
I’m so done with the lies. My brother and I both deserve better. He’s a good man, and I won’t sit by and watch Fiona cheat her way down the aisle.
I lean forward, elbows planted firmly on the table(screw it), and the dam breaks.
“Ya know, speaking of new friends. Somebody is missing from this dinner party,” I say accusingly. “Fiona, where’s that guy I saw you with earlier?”
Her smile doesn’t just falter—itmalfunctions. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? That wasn’t you with the artistic, Jack Sparrow–looking dude? I was sure it was you, but hey, maybe there’s another platinum blonde heiress wandering this castle.”
“How funny you are, Petra!” she exclaims, her voice soaring like a helium-filled balloon ready to pop.
“She’s theabsolutefunniest!”Hana chimes in, her head bobbing so frantically I can hear her diamond earrings clacking against her jawline.
“It’s not a joke. It’s what I saw.”
Gavin sets his fork down—hard. “Fi, what is she talking about?”
I part my lips, ready to deliver the killing blow—to describe in vivid detail how his bride-to-be was practically glued to another man—when I feel it.
Heat. Pressure. Skin against skin.
Bryce’s caress curled around my bare thigh, his palm scorching through the high slit of my dress. His eyes lock with mine—a clear warning.Stop talking. Don’t make a scene.
Fat chance, buddy.
But then—God—his fingers sweep upward, tracing delicate patterns on my inner thigh, inching higher with devastating precision. My entire body liquefies on the spot, muscles turning to warmhoney. The dining room dims at the edges as all my blood rushes south to follow his tapered touch.
What was I saying? Those things with… letters? How do they work again?
My legs part slightly of their own volition.
Wait. What the actual hell am I doing?
I slam my thighs shut with the force of a Venus flytrap, nearly crushing his fingers in the process. My knee knocks against the table hard enough to rattle the crystal. Miss Muffy lets out an indignant yap from her throne.
I toss Bryce a look that could freeze tequila:Touch me again, and you’ll be eating escamole larvae through a straw.
“Petra, how could you?” Fiona gasps. Tears—actual, glistening tears—well in her eyes. “You’ve ruined the surprise!”
I’m sorry, the what now?
My brain screeches to a halt like a cartoon character leaving skid marks.
Fiona presses her napkin delicately to the corner of one eye. “Miss Muffy, would it be acceptable to present my surprise ahead of schedule? It seems the secret is out.”
The Maltese gives a crisp, pointed bark.
Nigel translates. “Miss Muffy graciously permits Miss Whitfield to begin her presentation ahead of the planned schedule. Send in the special guest!”
