Page 73 of Wild Ever After
“Oh, right.” Her eyes light up, which makes me chuckle.
She tips her head up to kiss me. “I need a drink. Wanna come with me?”
“Always.”
Jade leads me to one of two bars set up for the party. She orders for us and then hands me a glass filled with something blue.
“What is that?” I ask, taking a sniff.
“Mad Dog, what else?”
I chuckle at the mention of Maverick’s favorite liquor. He’s always drinking this shit. I take a small sip and then grimace. “I have no idea how he drinks this.”
“I kind of like it.” She takes a bigger drink and then grins. “It’s strong.”
“Easy, baby. You have plans later.”
“I do, huh?” Her brows lift.
“Someone left me hanging this morning.”
She sticks out her bottom lip. “How do you think I feel every morning?”
The thought of Jade wanting me that way when she wakes up alone on every other day of the week when I get up early to work out has my blood pumping faster.
“Sounds like we need to sync our schedules.”
“Oh no. You get up way too early for me.”
“The early bird gets the worm and all that.”
“The early bird gets no sex, apparently.”
A chuckle shakes free from my chest. “Touché.”
“This is really growing on me.” She takes another drink and stares over at the house. “Have you seen inside?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I helped him move.”
“Of course, you did. You’re such a good guy.”
“That almost sounds like a bad thing coming out of your mouth.”
“No, I like it. You’re a gentleman in the streets but a freak in the sheets.”
I bark a laugh into the night. She’s too fucking much. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the house.”
“Oooh.” She has an extra pep in her step and I’m not sure if it’s her excitement to see the house or if she’s already feeling the effects of the stupid-strong alcohol.
I’m a crappy guide, but Jade doesn’t seem to care that I lead her straight to the powder room at the front of the house.
“Oh, this is so nice,” she says, turning in a circle. “I can’t get over everyone’s houses. You should see some of the dumps I lived in growing up.”
An ache forms in my chest at her admission. She doesn’t talk about her childhood or her mom a lot, and I haven’t pushed because I know what it’s like not to want to relive painful memories.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “It wasn’t that bad. I had a home and food, and my mom was great most of the time.”
“But not all the time?”
