Page 51 of Player Misconduct
“Still punctual,” Tarron says when I reach him, that easy, charming smile sliding into place like he’s practiced it in the mirror.
It’s the same smile that once made me forget every red flag waving in front of me.
“Takes one to know one,” I manage, adjusting the thin strap of the crystal-studded clutch Vivi lent me. The one that matches the shoes perfectly. Then he leans in and presses a soft, too-familiar kiss to my cheek.
His hand lingers at the small of my back, just long enough to remind me how much I used to love that touch, and how much I hate myself for noticing it now.
“You look incredible,” he says, his voice dipping the way it always does when he wants something.
He’s not lying. Vivi’s dress hugs every curve, Isla’s jewelry sparkles under the entrance light, and Cammy’s pep talk still echoes somewhere in the back of my head.
But the compliment doesn’t land.
It never does anymore, because I know he considers his compliments as currency. He’s trying to buy something… like my trust, self confidence, a night in his bed.
He won’t get any of those, but he can certainly try.
“Thank you,” I say, polite but clipped. “You clean up well too.”
He smirks. “You used to like when I wore this suit.”
I did. I also used to think the man wearing it was responsible for hanging the moon and stars in the sky.
A hostess appears before I can reply, bright smile and clipboard in hand. “Mr. McCoy, your table’s ready.”
Of course it is. Tarron’s name still carries weight. Even after everything.
He gestures for me to go first, and I force my legs to move. The restaurant is dim and warm, lit by candles flickering on every table. Glass clinks, laughter ripples, and the smell of roasted garlic and seared steak turns my stomach in an instant.
Not from disgust. From nausea. Again.
Being quarantined and thinking you might die in a desert motel in the middle of nowhere was enough reason for me not to clock the missed period as odd for me.
I swallow hard as we follow the hostess toward a window booth overlooking the water. The drizzle has started again, tracing slow rivers down the glass, blurring the city lights outside.
“This is nice,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.
He flashes that winning grin that used to make me melt. “It’s good to see you, K.”
That nickname again. The one only he uses.
The waiter arrives before I can respond, all professionalism and charm. “Can I start you two off with drinks?”
Tarron doesn’t even hesitate. “She’ll have a Moscow Mule, and I’ll take a Whiskey with a splash of coke.”
My throat tightens. I haven’t had a drink since Nevada. And now with what could potentially be, I’m relieved I haven’t. I certainly don’t want to risk it now until I know if I’m pregnant or not.
“No,” I say quickly–too quickly. The waiter blinks. Tarron looks up, surprised. “I mean… water, please. Just water to start.”
The words tumble out too fast. I clear my throat, forcing a light laugh. “I’m driving.”
The waiter nods and disappears with a polite smile. Tarron leans back, studying me.
“You’ve never turned down a drink at a nice restaurant before.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I say.
He tilts his head, that old, calculating gleam flickering behind his eyes. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
