Page 49 of Shark’s Edge

I inspected the ground again. “Well, hell.”

“Looked more like you’d been to heaven and back by all the stars that had collected in your eyes.” She bumped up a coy shrug. “But whatever you say. If you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s cool. I want you to know though, Abs”—she waited until I met her brandy-colored gaze—“I’m here when you decide you are, okay?”

“Why?” I leveled, still battling the guilt of not sharing. “Why, if you noticed all of that, did you not say a word?”

Rio shrugged. “I think I was hoping that if I shoved the guy’s behavioral blip aside, you would too. I also know you, little sister. Discussions involving affairs of the heart happen on your terms. And not a moment before.”

At my nod, she added with a small lift of her mouth, “Actually, I think that’s a Gibson genetic predisposition.”

“So then what? You thought—or hoped, rather—that I’d come to my senses and forget about Sebastian and go out with Viktor Blake instead?”

“Let the record show that I wasn’t the one to bring up the hot Russian this time. But now that we’re here—”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, Abs. You know it’s not a complete conversation with me if the Russian hunk angle isn’t exploited.”

“Well, I’ve had enough exploitation lately, all right?”

The trash can wobbled after I viciously tossed in some avocado pits, and Rio let a heavy pause go by. Then another.

“All right,” she finally uttered. “You know Sherlock Gibson isn’t going to erase that one from the notepad.”

Crap, crap, crap.

New heat crawled up my neck and spread across my cheeks. I dug my fingernails into my palms to extinguish the emotion. “Okay, listen. I’m not a victim here, Rio. Shark may have been holding a figurative gun to my head, but all the bullets were in my hand.” I opened my fingers from a fist to reveal my empty palm, as if there were bullet casings lying in my flat hand between us. “I agreed to his ultimatum with barely a fight. I did it willingly.”

“His . . . ultimatum?” A confused look replaced her half smirk. “Okay, slow up. What the hell are you talking about, ‘ultimatum’?”

I returned both hands to the avocado task. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Can you indulge me? Pretend I don’t know what it sounds like. Because I don’t like the way my brain wants to fill in those blanks.”

“Fine.” I started chopping avocadoes like a ninja shredding balsa wood. “When Shark and I were . . . talking . . . out behind the snack hut, he told me he’d consider asking the police to close up the food-poisoning allegations—after I had dinner with him.”

“After you had—” She squeezed her eyes shut while mouthing a countdown in order to cool down. I tracked the silent four, three, two . . .

“Shit, Abbi,” she finally muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to go. There. I said it. I wanted to go, Rio.” I watched her shift her gaze heavenward before looking to me to continue. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. But it’s the truth. I’m attracted to him. Very attracted to him, as a matter of fact.” I felt heat creep up my chest and neck again, just at the admission.

“So what happened? He made you literally put the proof in your pudding? And likely expecting some juicy ‘side dishes’ too.” After she air quoted the innuendo, she propped her hands to her hips and waited. “And Mr. Uptown actually drove to Torrance for this?”

“Oh, dear hell.” While I loved my bohemian corner of the world, the idea of Sebastian stepping foot in my condo was as ludicrous as it was disturbing.

Really disturbing.

Yes, even after everything we’d shared last night.

Because when all was said and done, even after all the romantic razzle-dazzle, none of it was supposed to be more than a casual fuck. A way to get what we both wanted. I’d have a check mark on the bucket list, closure on the food-poisoning claim, and an orgasm I hadn’t rubbed out for myself. He’d have a nice notch on the bedpost, the best chocolate cake of his life, and an orgasm he didn’t have to rub out for himself. Everybody was supposed to take home a W.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the winner’s circle.

“Dear hell indeed.” Rio’s high gasp sliced into my thoughts. “Does . . . that mean . . . ohhh, shit, Abs! Did you go to his place? His mansion?” She laid heavy emphasis on the last word.

She finished it by pushing the bowl of salsa toward me with enough force that the stainless-steel bowl slid across the worktop and almost sailed right off the edge. I caught it with a scowl.

“Easy, killer.” That would’ve set us back at least thirty minutes we couldn’t spare.