Page 17 of Whiskey Throttle
“Was that Babs Barrett?”
His eyes squint past me with the kind of curiosity that turns into rumors at the next fundraiser. The old man has no right to look at her that way. It makes my blood boil. I suddenly move into his line of vision, blocking her from his view, and he frowns.
“No idea,” I lie.
“Thought it was,” he mumbles more to himself, then shakes his head. “Your father spoke so highly of her husband back in the day. Real shame how that ended.”
“Yeah, real shame,” I deadpan, glaring at him now.
For one, I hate gossip, having been the subject of it too many fucking times. For two, when men do it, it’s fucking pathetic. For three, he better not even think about approaching her. She’s far too good for him, a million times over.
He claps a hand on my shoulder.
“Speaking of your father, tell him I’ll see him at the annual Harrington regatta dinner next month. I assume you’ll be there, too?”
“Not sure.”
“Oh, come on now,” he chuckles, like we’re old pals.
Like I don’t want to pound him into the concrete path we’re standing on. Suddenly, I feel all grumpy and moody like Dominic. Wanting to beat asses and not care who I offend.
“He’s very proud of you, you know. Says you’re the only one of the bunch with the balls to break tradition. Engineering, was it?”
I step out of his grip, inching away. Pre-law, dumb fuck, not engineering, but it doesn’t matter. None of this bullshit matters.
“Something like that.”
“Smart. Very smart. Not much future in commodities these days. At least not unless you’re winning.”
Having no fucking idea what the old man is blabbering on about, I step back. My hand tightens over my racket with the vision of rapping him over the head with it.
“Yeah. Excuse me, sir. I’ve got to . . .” I gesture vaguely toward the clubhouse.
Like I’m chasing a tee time instead of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walk away from me. He mumbles something I couldn’t care less to hear and waves me as I break into a jog.
Last glimpse, she didn’t dive into the club, but veered to the right toward the parking lot. She’s just stepping off the curb when I finally catch up, her hand on the driver’s side door of a pearl-white coupe that looks more like a sculpture than a vehicle. Classic, impeccable, and completely her.
“Babs,” I breathe out, coming to a stop at the rear of her car. “Wait.”
She freezes.
Hand still gripping the handle. Shoulders rigid beneath that sleek tennis outfit. Like she’s weighing whether to keep pretending I’m not here.
“Babs,” I say again, softer this time.
She turns. Sunglasses still on, but I can feel the tension radiating off her like heat off the pavement. Her bag hangs loosely in her hand, with her racket sticking out. Having at least zipped it closed in the time she was running away from me.
“What happened?”
My breath is heavier than it should be. Not out of breath from playing tennis and racing after her. More swallowing down the worry that has me reaching out, and her shrinking away from my hand.
“Did I do something wrong or . . .”
I don’t know what to say. I thought everything between us was fairly innocent. She lets out a bitter breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“What happened?” she repeats, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. “People were starting to notice. The ladies next to us. We were on full view of half the women I brunch with.”
Her voice is controlled, but I hear the edge beneath it.
