Page 40 of Beautiful Desire
“Do not tell me he’s about to mansplain throwing darts to that poor woman,” Grace grumbles, right before he does exactly that. “Ew, why?”
“Because Grace, how would a sweet, helpless woman know how to do such a hard task, if not for a big, strong man showing her?” Charley asks, using her best caveman impression, and it has the three of us howling. The guys turn their attention on us, which, of course, only makes us laugh harder. Catching her breath, Charley says, “Yup, that’ll do it. I’ll be going home alone tonight.”
In a shocking—and hilarious—turn of events, the women end up kicking Fletcher and Davis’s asses in the game, which has the three of us clapping, earning us a chilling side-eye from the sore losers. “I think you’re actually supposed to hit the board, fellas,” I tease as they make their way over to our table.
Pulling up a chair, Davis drops down next to Charley, the brunette woman wasting no time sitting on his lap and getting cozy, while Fletcher flips me off and playfully sticks out his tongue with a smirk as he saunters over to the bar. The blonde girl joins him, and I allow myself a moment to look her over. Wearing a tiny black dress and a pair of knee-high turquoise cowboy boots, she’s gorgeous, and if the way she’s batting her long, black eyelashes at Fletcher is any indication, she’s definitely attracted to him.
Not that I can blame her.
Ignoring the way that thought sits in my stomach like lead, I turn my attention back to the table, but it’s only a minute later when they return.
“All right, motherfuckers, we’re doin’ shots!” Coming up behind me, Fletcher sets the tray on the table and passes them out. When he hands one to me, his lip twitches, and there’s a twinkle in his eye as I take it from him. Once everybody at the table has their shot and a lime, he holds the glass up and toasts, “May your shots be strong and your hangovers be short. Cheers!”
Using the flat of my tongue, I lick the salt off the back of my hand before bringing the glass up to my mouth. The liquor warms a path down my throat as I swallow, but it’s Fletcher’s darkened gaze watching me as I sink my teeth into the lime that sets my body ablaze. The weight of his stare is visceral, and for a moment, everything around us—the music, the chatter, everyone at the table—fades away.
And then, in the blink of an eye, the moment is gone when Miss Flirty Blonde giggles and leans in, resting her hand onFletcher’s chest, like she has any fucking right, while saying something to her friend beside her that I don’t bother catching. My stomach sours, and there’s a bitter taste sitting on the back of my tongue, and I can’t bring myself to look away, no matter how much I know I need to. It’s like there’s some masochistic part of me that has to watch this stunning woman flirt with him.
I don’t understand why I’m so bothered. Who gives a shit if she’s flirting with him and probably wants to fuck him?
I don’t.Okay, clearly, I do.But why?
Sure, Fletcher and I have hooked up, and yeah,maybeI want to do it again…but why should that matter? I’m not somebody who gets jealous…like, ever. She’s hot, he’s hot, and I’m sure they’d have hot sex together. Normally, that would turn me on, and if this were any other situation, with any other person, it would. So, why is my pulse racing and my ears pounding? And why does the idea of him touching her have my vision going red?
Someone nudges my shin, finally pulling my attention away, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest when it’s my sister’s gaze I’m met with. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I respond quickly, even though it’s a lie.
Her brows knit together. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Swallowing thickly, I nod, pushing back my chair and standing up. “That shot isn’t sitting well with me, though, so I’m gonna call an Uber and head home.”
“Oh, I can leave with you,” she offers.
“I’ll go with her,” Fletcher cuts in, heated gaze finding mine across the table. I didn’t even think he was paying attention.
Forcing a smile on my face, I say, “No, that’s okay.” My eyes cut over to the woman standing beside him who, thankfully, isn’t touching his chest anymore, before I add, “You look pretty busy here.”
Something like confusion wrinkles his forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to the same place. I’m coming with you.”
My eyes narrow, and I bite down on my molars, wanting to argue but knowing there’s no logical reason for me to. “Fine,” I bite out. “Let’s go.”
Ignoring the concerned look my sister is still giving me, I say my goodbyes and leave, not bothering to see if Fletcher’s behind me. My chest is tight, and sweat pricks along the back of my neck despite the slight chill in the air as I step outside. Standing on the sidewalk outside of the bar, I pull up the Uber app, then I quickly decide against it. I’d rather walk home than stand here with him and wait for a car to show up. After shoving the phone back in my crossbody, I set off in the direction of my house. It’s only a couple of miles, and I’m wearing tennis shoes. It’ll be fine.
The music from inside the bar gets louder for a moment before it’s muffled again. “Um, hello?” Fletcher’s sassy voice reaches my ears, but I don’t stop walking. I can’t. Not when my heart is pounding a mile a minute, and my chest is so tight, it feels like I can’t breathe. My skin tingles, and there’s a jittery, obnoxious feeling clawing at my stomach, and for the life of me, I don’t fucking understand why I’m feeling this way. The sound of footsteps on the pavement reaches my ears, and a second later, a hand wraps around my forearm, forcing me to stop. “Georgia, where are you going?”
“Home.”
There’s a pregnant pause, and then he asks, “Were there no cars available?”
“I have no idea.” I shrug. “I didn’t look.”
“Georgia, you’re not walking all the way home in the middle of the night.”
“Yes, I am,” I grit out.
Fletcher’s gaze burns a hole in the side of my head, but I don’t look at him. I’m well aware of how ridiculous I’m being. It’s like I’m a petulant child throwing a tantrum after not getting her way, yet I’m completely incapable of doing a damn thing to stopit, apparently. It has to be the tequila. It’s the only explanation as to why I got so jealous back there. But what is there to even be jealous about? Someone flirting with Fletcher? My fuckingstepbrother?
Jesus Christ, get a fucking grip, Georgia.
