Page 21 of Tying the Knot
The bar area downstairs is cosy but not stifling, according to the leaflet on the dresser. Maybe I could grab a drink and something hot to eat while I’m down there.
I slip my trainers on and head out, sliding the keycard, my phone, and the debit card into the back pockets of my jeans.
Minutes later, I’m sitting at the end of the bar, far enough away from a couple of businesspeople on their laptops and phones, having an end-of-day beer.
“White wine,” I murmur to the guy behind the bar when he asks. “Are you doing food?”
He slides a menu across to me, and I peruse it while also thinking of what I should text to Rayne. I know she’s out of town, but I don’t want her to hear her dad’s spin on this. She is the closest thing I have outside of the pack; even that is debatable. I know they made her feel so uncomfortable when she came to visit me last time by belittling me in front of her and throwing excessive compliments her way. I noticed, but I didn’t say anything. What could I say?
I end up ordering a hot roast beef sandwich, not really feeling like anything else and wait for it to arrive, tapping my fingers on the dark wood of the bar with one hand while the other cradles the cheap glass of wine.
“Morgan.”
The sound of my name freezes my tapping fingers, and I hunch further down into the seat, ignoring whoever it is, hoping they will go away when I don’t respond.
No such luck.
He drags a bar stool over next to mine and sits down facing me, leaning his elbow on the bar, his fingers under his chin.
“I know it’s you; I’d recognise that scent anywhere.”
I turn with a stern expression to the officer who threw me into his car the other night. “Fuck off.”
“Ouch,” he says with a smirk. “What are you doing here? Don’t you live in Kensington?”
The question hangs there like a stinky, lingering fart, heating my cheeks as I don’t know how to answer him.
“Waiting for someone,” I lie, eventually, but he’s not daft. He knows it’s a fib.
“Pint of bitter,” he murmurs as the bartender comes over to take his order. “I’m sorry,” he adds, leaning forward.
I shake my head and tear my gaze away from his too-cute face. “Don’t.” My voice quivers, and I curse myself for being weak.
“I know this has been a difficult time for you, but you can talk to me…”
His words suddenly light a fire under me. One that has been simmering since I was left standing in Castello’s like a fuckwit while my pack were arrested for being murdering drug sellers.
“Difficult?” I roar, getting in his face. “You think this has beendifficultfor me? Losing everything, my pack, my home, my sense of everything?” I grab his shirt front, standing on the rail of the bar stool, so I loom over him. I bend down so close to him that I can smell his subtle aftershave that smells like sandalwood and embers. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word difficult, you sanctimonious prick!”
Everyone is staring at me acting like a crazy person, but I don’t give a shit. He has no right to come in here and speak to me like he knows what I’m going through.
He grabs my fingers and gently peels my hand out of his shirt. “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologising!Youdidn’t do anything wrong. The more you apologise, the angrier I get, just stop it. Stop it!”
My cheeks are flushed with heat, and I’ve started sweating. My hands are shaking as I yank back the one he has hold of. It feels too perfect, too comfortable. I sit heavily and pick up my wine, glugging back the rest of the nearly full glass in one sitting. It burns my throat and my nasal passages when I swallow it. I almost gag on it but keep it down by the sheer force of will that has come from my anger.
I glare into his light brown eyes. My head goes fuzzy, and I lower my gaze. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling like an idiot.
He snorts. “You definitely don’t have anything to apologise for. I’m glad you got angry. You should be. Those arseholes completely fucked up by doing this and losing you.”
I meet his gaze again.
He narrows his eyes. “Did they lose you, Morgan?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “How can I answer that? I’m mated to them.” But even as I say it, I know it’s over. It practically rips my heart out, and with a sob, I scramble off the stool and head for the stairs, needing to get away from him and back to my room. This was a mistake. I wasn’t ready to face people, and I wasn’t ready to talk about this.
“Morgan, wait,” Dylan calls after me, following me into the reception area.
