One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

I tilt my head to the side and sneak another glance. “Explains why I don’t recognize her. She’s very beautiful.” A cramp burns in my stomach.

“Oh, she’s more than that.” His eyes twinkle, and I can’t even imagine. “What everybody knows, and nobody’s saying, is before that bright day in November, our lovely Paige was swinging from the pole at VIPs.”

“What!” I hiss. I have to hand it to him. C.J. knows how to drop a bombshell. “She was a stripper?”

“Exotic dancer, please. And girl, she wasn’t just any stripper. Goldie Lux was a star.”

“Her name was Goldie Lux?”

“Stage name, darling, keep up.”

That burning cramp moves higher into my chest. “Well...” I have no idea what to say. “Good for her.”

“Good for all of us. I’ve been waiting to see how this was going to play out.” He looks back over his shoulder, and I can’t help it. I follow his gaze. “Smart move hooking up with Mr. Chicago himself.”

Paige and Marcus are standing very close together, facing each other. Her hand clutches his forearm, and she leans into his ear. Whatever she says makes him smile. She laughs, and I want to throw up.

“They seem very cozy.” My friend takes another sip and murmurs, “Well played, Goldfarb. Well played.”

I don’t mean to stare. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until our eyes meet and lightning flashes all the way to my toes. His hazel eyes widen, and he has the decency to appear stunned. I’m pretty sure shock and horror are plastered all over my slightly inebriated face.

“I’ve got to use the restroom,” I say, fighting my absolutely ridiculous response.

I laid the ground rules. I said no relationships. Fuck him if he wants to fuck her. Oh my fucking god, if he marks her body... I can barely see to walk.

“I’ll be here,” my friend calls after me.

Only one other woman is in the lavatory, which is unusual for a bar. I thank all that’s holy and step to the dark wood counter where two white basin-sinks are perched.

Amber-covered light fixtures separate two round mirrors, casting the entire space in a muted-yellow glow. My eyes are blurry with rage as I wash my hands. I have no idea why I’m washing my hands. I haven’t even used the restroom.

I’m not acting like this. Things were moving too quickly, and now the problem is solved. But I don’t understand...

The other woman leaves without a word, and I contemplate splashing cold water in my face. Clearly I’m drunk. It’s the only explanation for why I’m acting this way. I slide my palms down the front of the coral slip-dress I’m wearing. I chose it because it’s light and casual and reminds me of the spring shows. Now I’m wishing it were more substantial. I feel naked and vulnerable.

Scooping up my clutch, I head for the door. I’ll tell C.J. goodnight and go home. I need some rest. I need to spend some time talking to Sylvia. Get my head straight again.

I did not expect Marcus to be waiting outside in the small foyer, in all his sexy glory, leaning against the wall. I stop in my tracks and he looks up at me under heavy lashes.

“Amy.” His voice is a low vibration tingling under my skin.

“Hi,” I say, not stopping.

Crisp linen assaults my senses as I attempt to push past him, and he catches my upper arm. I have to fight a whimper.

“Wait.” It’s a sharp order. Stern, like that day on the boat. Stop it, Amy. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” I don’t meet his eyes and attempt to twist out of his grip. It only tightens.

“Fuck, Amy.” His voice breaks, and my insides feel like they’re being run through a pasta cutter set to spaghetti. “You don’t understand.”

“Nothing to under

stand.”

“Something came up. Something... unusual.”

Focus on his shiny black loafers. Don’t say it. “Is she your gala date?” Too late.