Page 132 of The Billionaire's Baby
"Not as important as love," Ava insists.
"Love," I snort, "that stupid thing that doesn’t really exist, and even if it did, I don’t believe in it."
"Of course, you do." She nods her head. "You only need to adjust your expectations."
"Expectations?" I blink rapidly. "Whatever do you mean by that?"
"That maybe, falling in love means you need to give first, before you get back."
The headache behind my eyes intensifies. "But what if the other person did something that hurt you so much, you can't forgive him?"
"Can't forgive him, or don't want to forgive him?"
I hunch my shoulders. "I’m still trying to figure that out."
Ava’s gaze softens. "Maybe you need to give this time before arriving at any conclusions?"
"I’m with young Ava here." Isla nods. "It seems whatever Arpad did was because it was the only way he knew how to express what he was feeling."
I snort, "You mean being a neanderthal is all that any of the Seven know?"
"You’ve worked with them; you should know," Isla replies. "Either way, just take SOME time to reflect on how you actually feel about him."
"Right." I do know what I feel about him. Problem is, I don’t like it very much. But there’s no need to reveal that here, is there?
"Meanwhile," Isla adds, "focus on moving forward, you know? Concentrate on your job, your life—"
"Shit, my job." I blow out a breath. "The Seven are my biggest clients at the moment. If they decide to take their business elsewhere—"
"They won’t." Isla frowns. "Will they?"
"I hope not." I square my shoulders. "Either way, I’m going to use this opportunity to expand, look for new clients. Something I should have done a long time ago." I’ve become complacent, happy with the easy business the Seven send my way. No more. I am going to take things into my own hands, forge my own way out of this mess.
I raise my shot glass. Ava and Isla clink their glasses with mine. I toss the drink back and it explodes in my stomach. A fire sizzles down my spine, and I slap my glass upside down on the bar counter.
"Right then," I laugh, "who’s ready to party?"
44
Arpad
I watch from the edge of the dancefloor as she sways her hips to the music. I’d tracked her to the bar earlier. Yeah, yeah, I’d said I’d leave her alone. Doesn’t mean I can’t look out for her, right? From a safe distance. That is, until the evening had worn on, and she still hadn’t come out. So I had taken things into my own hands and walked in to find her dancing.
The vibrations pulse out across the bar, the beat picks up, and she raises her arms in the air. She closes her eyes, throws her head back as she grinds her hips, once, twice, thrice.
She sinks down until she’s almost squatting, then bumps her way up to standing again.
Eyes still closed, she places her palms flat across her stomach, rotates her hips again, moves her shoulders in a sinuous shimmy. The blood rushes to my groin. My pulse begins to thud.
A man steps in front of her—tall, broad shouldered, asshole has a mohawk which, no doubt, he thinks is cool. He mirrors her moves, moving to the right, then the left. Drops down with her, then rises to his feet. He leans in, touches her shoulder and I see her jerk visibly.
What the hell?
He moves with her and she smiles up at him. Eyes gleaming, she increases the pace of her rhythm, swivels her hips, thrusts out her breasts, and his gaze lowers to her chest. He plants his hands on her waist and my anger pumps through my veins. How dare he touch her? How dare he dance with her? She’s mine. Only mine.
I shoulder my way through the crowd on the floor. A couple gets in the way and I growl at them. The man and woman glance at me. Their gazes widen and they skitter away. Good. I plough forward and a man steps in my path, jumping up and down in tempo with the rhythm of whatever godawful song they are playing over the sound system. I glare at him. He pales and leaps aside. Wanker of the first order. I stomp across the remaining distance, reach the bastard who’s dancing with my woman.
I plant myself in front of them, fold my arms across my chest. They keep moving, don’t even glance at me. What the bloody hell? I tap his shoulder, and he swivels his head to stare at me. "Move," I jerk my chin.
