Page 11 of Whiskey Throttle
My stomach drops, not from fear. From the rush that this is real, and she’s not playing. She’s setting the terms like women set up prenuptial agreements with their attorneys. Like I’m something she’s willing to risk for. Willing to risk everything, the club, her reputation, and possibly my reputation if I have the balls to meet her.
I let out a low whistle, stepping farther away from the guys. They’re arguing about which direction to ride, oblivious to the fact that my world just tilted on its axis.
Very discreet. Very careful. Very sure.
My thumbs hover over the keys. Knowing I should say nothing. Or turn her down. Hell, even ghost her. Which I do to most chicks when I’m not interested or it’s over. Delete the thread. Block her number. Ride away from this entire thing like I never looked back. That would be the smart thing to do. I glance at Dom again, and he’s watching the rest of the group. Then I decide.
I’ve never been that smart.
I’ll be all those things
And more, Babs
I hit send, waiting for regret and guilt to knock my ass down. To shove my face in the gravel for lusting after my best friend’s mom. I gaze over at Dom to see his visor turned to me.
Watching me.
My heart beats even faster, overtaking both my throat and chest. He points to my bike, wanting me to get on it. Not busted me. A bit of relief until she texts.
I’m looking forward to it.
CHAPTER 4
BABS
It’s been three days since I last texted him. He responded with a simple smiling emoji. The thing has taunted me ever since I crossed a line I can’t uncross. Letting boredom, fantasy, and a bit of wondering what it feels like to have a younger man interested in me. Curious what my ex has been experiencing for years. And the appeal, I’m beginning to understand it.
Hollister Morgan Harrington III is trouble.
Said as much and meant every word. His reply was simple, cocky, confident, and deliberate.
I’ll be all those things
And more
I haven’t answered, not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t know what would happen if I did. I thought ignoring him would kill the current. It hasn’t.
If anything, it’s only grown louder, buzzing in the back of my mind every time my phone lights up. Every time I walk past a mirror, I remember the way his eyes dragged over me. Not with disrespect but with hunger, curiosity, and heat.
The way his fingertips danced across my skin, leaving it blazing in the quiet room long after his departure. I miss the way that felt. Miss being desired so purely and primally that nothing else matters. The force of my ex-husband and me was one to be reconciled with back in the day. Two love-sick kids, barely old enough to know anything of life, are having a baby of their own. The most challenging one at that.
Sure, I’ve dated since the divorce. Very quietly, a dinner here, an opera or ballet there, but nothing that resulted in me feeling the heat I did the night of the charity gala. The night I wept out of anger, hurt, and disgust for the charade of my ex and his young woman, coupled with the sting from my bitter son. The pairing was too much. I never expected comfort from his friend, not the lust in his eyes that met mine when he downed his whiskey.
“Game, Babs,” Leslie calls, tossing me a winning smile as the ball grazes past me untouched.
I blink, drag my focus back to the court. We’re at the club. Early spring sun warms the clay. Linen umbrellas cast lazy shadows over courtside tables where we usually lunch. My friends are dressed in matching shades of generational wealth.
White, beige, and pale blue. I’ve played tennis with them for years, gossiped with them, traveled with them, and buried myself in their routines to survive the last few years of my marriage, and the after.
But today, I can barely make it through a match. Ladies’ doubles. The club’s annual charity tournament is in two weeks. The four of us are signed up again, with the same partners, dresses, and stories.
I force a smile, walking off the court behind the other ladies. We finish the last set with a loss and three increasingly suspicious glances cast my way. They know I’m off. They just can’t name it. And I’m not about to hand them a headline.
“You okay?” Elise catches my elbow when I toss my racket in the chair, ready to enjoy the freshly served iced tea.
“Fine,” I lie, moving further into the shade of the umbrella.
“You seem distracted.”
