Page 156 of Joker

I’m in real trouble.

***

The party starts at sunset.

I don’t know it’s happening until Mac and Emma and Kya basically corner me after dinner and tell me to “go put on something cute but not stress out,” which is both wildly unhelpful and immediately suspicious.

“What is happening?” I ask, already being steered toward my room.

Emma grins. “Tradition.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“No,” Mac says cheerfully. “But it is all you’re getting until you’re dressed.”

Kya, who at least has the decency to look only mildly amused by my confusion, adds, “Relax. It’s a good thing.”

That somehow does not help either.

Still, twenty minutes later I’m in jeans and a black tank with my hair loose down my back, staring at myself in the mirror like maybe my reflection will explain what the hell is going on.

It doesn’t.

It just looks suspiciously like a woman who is starting to feel too much for a man she maybe should’ve already accepted she’s not surviving unscathed.

By the time I make it downstairs, the clubhouse is fuller than usual.

Music is up. Drinks are flowing. The brothers are mostly gathered in the main room and around the bar, cuts on, laughter bouncing off the walls. The women are spread through the space like they own it, which, in a way, they absolutely do.

And Joker—

Joker is leaning against the bar in dark jeans and his cut, one hand around a beer, the other hooked in his pocket, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever made and every good one I might want to start making immediately.

The second he sees me, he straightens.

Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough that my stomach flips like it’s trying to embarrass me in public.

His eyes move over me once, slow and deliberate enough to make heat climb my throat. Then he pushes off the bar and comes straight toward me.

No hesitation. No pretending. No caring who sees.

The room fades around the edges the second he gets close enough to slide one hand low around my waist and bend his mouth near my ear. “You look pretty, angel.”

That should not hit me as hard as it does. It really does.

I swallow and manage, “You clean up okay too.”

His mouth curves. “Liar.”

Before I can answer, Logan’s voice cuts across the room. “Alright, assholes.”

The volume of the clubhouse drops just enough to turn everyone’s attention toward the bar. Logan stands there with Mac tucked under one arm, a beer lifted in his free hand, looking every bit like a president used to owning a room. The grin on his face as his eyes settle on Joker and I tells me he’s enjoying this entirely too much.

And then I realize.

Oh no.

Absolutely not.