Page 22 of Mr. Wilde

“I think you’re going to be you.” There’s no need to sugarcoat it. Frank knows he’s the wild card amongst my friends. While I’m certain he’ll be on his best behavior, I’m nearly as sure he takes great glee in pushing my buttons.

He slaps my shoulder. “Relax. I’ll only flirt with women who make the first move.”

My eyes flick to a few of the overly flirtatious servers who work here. “That’s not reassuring.”

He grins wider as we start toward the main room. “You’re just mad because I’m better looking. And I’m about to have more fun than you.”

Jesus. I don’t even want to know what that means.

Frank comes to a dead stop so abruptly I nearly walk into his back. “Bro,” he murmurs. “I think my brain just shut down.”

“And that’s new, how?” I follow his gaze without thinking.

A cocktail server is bent over a table, silver tray balanced on one hip as she pours drinks for a trio of suits. The dress clings to her in all the right ways. Smooth lavender fabric stretches over her curves, accentuating her toned ass and thighs.

My mouth goes dry and my dick gets that familiar twitch.

Jesus. What the fuck is happening to me?

I’ve been around more beautiful women than I can count, in and out of this club. Models, actresses, heiresses, women whose entire personalities are built around being desired. And yet somehow the sight of this nearly perfect backside has my body humming with electricity in a way none of them have induced. Except that pink haired new hire I saw the last time I was here.

Frank exhales. “Well, hello, my future wife.”

I grab his arm. “Jesus, Frank. Keep it in your pants.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I’m just appreciating the craftsmanship.”

“This isn’t a car show, dumbass.”

And then she straightens, turns, and the universe decides to mess with me. It’s her.

Cassidy.

Those big blue eyes and that same look of quiet focus I can’t get out of my head. Shit. Did she hear him? All of a sudden, her gaze flicks from Frank… to me. Her brows knit together slightly.

Oh. She definitely heard him.

Frank gives her a lazy grin. “Evening, sweetheart.”

Her shiny lips purse, unimpressed. Then her gaze bounces over to me. Something in her expression shifts. It isn’t anger. At least I don’t think so. Disappointment, maybe?

Fuck. That somehow feels worse.

She says nothing. Just pivots on her heel and walks back toward the bar, shoulders straighter than I’ve seen them since I first laid eyes on her. She may seem skittish working here, but her dignity is fully intact.

Frank watches her go. “Wow. Feisty. I love it.”

I’m still staring. And suddenly very aware of two things. One: my body is doing something incredibly inconvenient. Two: I’m worried this woman thinks I’m as crass as my Trust Me Bro, buddy here. “Congratulations,” I mutter, finally dragging my eyes away. “You just made me look like an asshole.”

Frank slaps my back. “Nah, bro. You did that all on your own.”

Yeah. And now I’m standing in the middle of an exclusive club of high rollers, flustered over a pink-haired server who probably thinks I’m just another entitled dickhead.

Fantastic.

We approach the VIP section. “Hey, guys. You remember my buddy, Frank,” I introduce on the off chance anyone can forget my raucous friend.

The men in attendance respond with a chorus of hellos, to which Frank waves them off.