Page 9 of Sold to the Bratva
“So,” she says, raising her glass in return. “Exactly what your father raised you for.”
We clink our glasses. The sharp, familiar chime almost convinces me everything is normal. Just a girl grabbing drinkswith her best friend instead of a lamb being marched to the sacrificial altar.
Evie studies me, expression unreadable. “So,” she says, “tell me about your groom.”
I groan and let my forehead thump against the sticky tabletop.
Evie’s brows shoot up. “That bad?”
“He’s infuriating,” I say, dragging the word out in a full-bodied whine.
“That bad,” she answers her own question.
“He’s calm and calculated, snarky too. That awful smirk is permanently glued to his face, and he’s dominant in this quiet, unnerving way that makes me want to throttle him.”
Evie takes another sip, a smug grin curving her mouth. “So, he makes you horny,” she teases.
My head snaps up.
“Evie,” I huff, flinging a straw wrapper at her.
She shrugs. “What? I’ve known you since we were eleven. I know that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one you use when you’re trying very hard not to admit you find someone hot,” she answers coolly. “You used the same exact tone when you had a crush on Tommy Del Grazio in the tenth grade.”
I scoff. “Isaac is not hot,” I sputter. “He’s the enemy.”
She lifts one brow. “A hot enemy?”
I retaliate with a tortilla chip. She dodges effortlessly and steals one off my plate.
“Okay,” she says, “how long has it been since you saw him?”
“Three days.”
Her lips twitch. “And how many of those days have you thought about him?”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not a number.”
I sink lower into the booth. “All of them.”
Evie leans forward, grin widening. “All of them?”
I cover my face. “Every single one. It’s like he’s in my head on purpose. Like I left that meeting with the intention to forget him, and instead he built a condo in my frontal lobe and started redecorating.”
She laughs, a wicked, delighted sound. “Oh my God, you’re in trouble,” she sing-songs. “What a shame, you’re attracted to your future husband.”
“I am not!” I protest, a little too loudly.
She laughs, taking a long sip of her margarita.
I bolt upright, palms flat on the table as though bracing for impact. “This marriage isn’t happening,” I declare. “He’s going to call it off.”
“You think?”
