Page 112 of Breakaway Bet

“Yeah. I like all of them. You pick.”

It feels a bit indifferent, as if he doesn’t really care which one I pick, but then…in some ways, it has felt that way all along when it comes to his tequila launch. Like, for example, the fact that he wasn’t even planning to launch a tequila brand at all and only did it so he could find a way to see me again.

It’s sweet, actually.

Launching an entirely new product just to see me.

I walk into his chest, and he pulls me in and settles his hands on my ass. “This dress is soft.”

“It’s velvet.”

“I want to rub my cock all over it. And you.”

I laugh. “That would be awkward if your friends walked in and you were doing that.”

He squeezes my ass again, and he leans forward and drops his lips to mine. “I like how your dress matches the bottles.”

“You noticed.”

“I notice everything about my wife.” His voice is a low rumble that pulses an ache squarely between my legs. He kisses me again, and then he pulls back. He walks over toward the television and puts on some music channel through his soundbar, and the room fills with party sounds.

He told me that the party is meant to be laid back and casual, a place to celebrate a long week of camp, and that the guys will serve themselves both food and drinks. He likes playing bartender, and West usually jumps in and helps, so he nixed the idea of me hiring a staff to serve the food and drinks.

Instead, I get behind the bar and pour us each a small glass from one of the bottles of Nocturno. He walks over and picks up a glass.

“To a fun night that ends with me rubbing my cock all over you and your dress,” he says.

I giggle as I clink my glass to his, and we each shoot it down. We follow it up with one more kiss across the counter before the doorbell rings, interrupting us.

“Party time,” he says softly against my lips, and he moves to open the door to find West and Kellan there.

He greets his friends as I stand behind the bar. I glance at the bottles in front of me, and I draw in a deep breath. Here we go.

An hour later, everyone is here, and I’ve stayed behind the bar most of the night testing our tequila. So far, everyone seems to love Nocturno. I’ve even gotten some good feedback on which bottle is the winner, and it just so happens to be the one I liked the best, too.

I spot Cash over in the kitchen by the food laid out on the counter, and he and West are talking. Their backs are turned toward me, and I saunter across the room to loop my arms around my husband’s waist when I hear Cash’s words to his friend.

“Delete it, man. Why do you still have it?”

“Insurance,” West says.

I stop short, and I’m not sure why.

“You’re going to fuck this up for me,” Cash warns.

“Don’t put that on me. You were fucked from the start by agreeing to the bet in the first place,” West says. He holds up his phone, and I can’t read the whole thing from here, but I swear I see something about Bradley on there.

“What bet?” I ask, interrupting their conversation.

Cash whirls around, and West is so surprised by my voice that he drops his phone.

I’m quicker than him after his week at training camp followed by a night of shitty food and too much alcohol. I pick up the phone and read the text that’s pulled up from West to Cash.

Bet: If Cash gets a ring on the Bradley girl’s finger first, I owe him $100,000. If I do, he owes me $100,000. Bet expires Sept. 20.

My heart sinks down into my stomach.

Then I spot Cash’s reply.