Page 129 of Hate You More

Troy orders himself a beer, and though I’m not looking his way, I’m aware of everything. The angle of his shoulders and the way his hand loops the long bottle neck. His ease with the middle-aged bartender and the way he taps the edge of a beer mat against the brass rail.

Morse code?

But then he appears next to me. Tall, wide, and smelling divine.

“Is this seat taken?” His question strokes like a caress.

I slide him a covert glance, lifting my shoulder in answer. Take it or leave it, I don’t care. I’m playing my chosen character, and it does feel safer this way. That’s not to say I’m not a tiny bit terrified also.

He sits and takes up deliberate space with those wide shoulders and manspread-y thighs, his fingers drumming now instead of the beer mat. “Buy you a drink?” he asks, his voice a touch lower than usual.

I half turn and give him a smile that doesn’t feel like mine. “Depends,” I answer as my gaze flicks over him. “Are you interesting?”

His mouth twitches. “My wife doesn’t think so.”

I almost protest—the reason we’re here is because I find him far too interesting. But I remember the roles we’re playing, even if I don’t recall my piece of paper noting a cheating spouse.

“That’s rough,” I say. “I guess you’re gonna say she doesn’t understand you.”

“Clichés are a thing for a reason,” his low voice rumbles. He signals the bartender with two fingers, and it’s hard to think straight for a minute, remembering how good he is with them.

“What doesn’t she understand?” I eventually return, moving my head from Fingering Land to his smirk.

“How hard I try,” he says smoothly. “How little it seems to matter.”

I click my tongue sympathetically. “That’s almost tragic.”

He laughs then, soft, genuine, and for a second the game wobbles. I press my knee into his, bringing him back to the person he’s supposed to be.

The bartender arrives. He looks unimpressed, and for a beat, we both struggle to keep in character. Was I ever this judgy? Troy orders me another white wine—not that I’ll be drinking this one—and the bartender pours, then sets it down in front of me.

“You were telling me about the ways your wife doesn’t understand you,” I prompt, once he leaves.

“I work so hard, but it’s never enough for her. And she complains so much about my raging . . . sex drive.”

I purse my lips so as not to snicker. “That sounds . . .” Almost familiar, though without the complaining. “Sad.”

“She can’t meet my needs.”

I bet she could, comes my internal retort. If only she’d let herself.

“What about you?” he asks, angling his attention my way. “What brings a pretty girl like you here all alone?”

“I’m not alone.” I give a silly little shimmy. “I’m available.” How I manage to say that with a straight face, I don’t know.

His gaze drops over me, bold and seductive, making my insides heat and shimmer. When his attention returns to mine, his gaze seems sharpened somehow.

We talk a little. He asks where I’m from, and I tell him nowhere significant. I ask how long he’s been married, and in answer, he tells me his wife is very important to him. I get a stupid little tug in my chest when I hear that, until I remind myself that we’re pretending.

Then he asks how I like to spend my nights, and I stop short from admitting they’re best when I’m with him. The way we circle each other is both ridiculous and exciting, and I tell myself it’s better contained this way. Flirtation and sex tied tight within a boundary wall. We’re allowed to want each other within these confines, this little pocket of pretend.

Outside of that, the most we can hope for is to be friends.

Or maybe that’s just my hope.

Troy leans in quite suddenly, his lips almost brushing my ear. The sensation echoes between my legs. “Want to go somewhere quieter?”

I glance around, feigning innocence. “Where do you have in mind?”