The Billionaire's Ex-Wife (Jameson Brothers 1)

Funny, he thought. I don't remember it ever being this busy before. He nursed his Manhattan and gazed around in dim curiosity. This had been an old haunt of his, back when he still had a permanent office in New York.

What he found less funny was Eddie's insistence on keeping his own schedule. Sam had agreed to meet his brother here two days ago, after the initial meeting with Trinity. He wasn't sure why Eddie wanted to speak to him alone; a part of him guessed his brother had seen reason in regard to the online sexual harassment course, but he wasn't going to hold out hope.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Sam turned, his annoyance at Eddie's lateness already rising to his lips, when he was once again surprised to find Trinity standing where he had expected his younger brother to be.

His ex-wife looked even more stunning standing in the bar than she had when they were first reunited. Her tawny hair was swept back, exposing the elegant curve of her neck, and her earrings were shimmering strands of diamond that revolved and winked every time they caught the light off one of the flickering candles. She was otherwise dressed conservatively in a black skirt and blazer; the shirt that peeked out from beneath her ensemble appeared to be the same bold red as her lipstick, but Sam couldn't be certain of it in this low light. He craved a closer examination to be sure. When Trinity got to coordinating, she never just stopped at matching her outerwear.

"Eddie's still in a meeting with a client. William's there." He could tell by the way her face pulled sli

ghtly inward that she hadn't liked how the order of her words came out. "He still intends to meet you here tonight. Eddie, not William. Boy, it's hard keeping track of you Jamesons now that you've finally decided to start working together."

Sam nodded. He wasn't really listening. He was just summoning the courage to prod at her a little—maybe to ask her why she was always forced to play errand girl for his errant brother—when the crowd suddenly made a collective and unexpected surge toward the bar. Trinity gasped as she was pushed into Sam. She threw her arms out instinctively, snaking them around his neck for balance. Sam brought his shoulder up to deflect anyone else who might attempt to shove forward.

"Shit," Trinity muttered.

"Forgot how crowded it gets here," Sam said in the same moment. Their eyes locked, and her arms constricted almost imperceptibly—but it might have only been a muscle spasm. He shouldn't read anything into it. His track record reading emotions in others was historically poor.

But maybe—with Trinity—it wasn't as poor as he assumed.

Sam slid down off the stool, enjoying the familiar feel of her body pressed in close. He knew he shouldn't deliberately steal moments like this, but he couldn't bring himself to hold back. He let his hands slip down the tight, familiar curves of her ribcage and waist. Before Trinity could pull away, or open her mouth to form a protest, he lifted her up onto his vacated barstool.

"Sam…" she murmured. She glanced around the bar, looking fervent, almost guilty. It didn't come as any surprise when the bartender immediately returned to take her order. When a woman like Trinity alighted at your establishment, you paid attention.

"A gin greyhound for my…friend, please." Sam placed the order, and the bartender nodded as he turned to start pouring. Trinity arched an incredulous eyebrow at him, and he wondered if he had made the right choice by falling back on old habits. Their habit of ordering for one another suddenly didn't feel like the innocent game it had once been.

"Confident as always. How do you know I still even drink greyhounds?" she asked him.

"If the amount you put down after our wedding reception couldn't turn you off them, nothing can," Sam replied. Trinity's smile pulled against whatever restrictive measures she had put in place, and a flood of sudden warmth swept through him, warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been served.

Speaking of servings, Sam tracked a movement over Trinity's left shoulder. "No," he instructed the bartender. "Not that one. That glass, please." He indicated the rack of highballs. The bartender nodded and traded out the martini glass he had been about to use. Trinity burst out laughing.

"Speaking of things that don't change! I see you're still obsessed with proper drinkware."

She grinned and rolled her eyes at him, and Sam felt vaguely annoyed. "There's a standard for every drink," he said. Launching into his time-honored monologue only increased the playful grimace on Trinity's face. "If I had ordered you a martini…"

"It can be both, you know." Trinity tossed her head and accepted her drink from the bartender, dropping him a conspiratorial 'thank you' that didn't escape Sam's notice. She was always making peace treaties for him before he was even aware he had started conflict. "There's no agreed-upon right or wrong way to drink a greyhound. Hell, sometimes at home I drink them out of a little Mason jar."

"Please don't say things like that," Sam groaned.

"Sometimes I even like it."

"I'm sure you do." Sam plucked up his Manhattan and raised it to her in toast. "To accepting each other's quirks," he said.

Trinity toasted him back. "To glassware—whatever shape it may take."

His eyes lingered on her as they both drank. He loved watching her throat work as she swallowed. It was one of the things he had immediately noticed about her when he first met her in college: her ability to put away drinks while making it look like the most sensuously feminine pursuit imaginable.

"You know I still don't have a favorite bar in L.A. Speaking of preferences," He drained his glass and set it down. "I always liked the atmosphere here. I like it even more now that I realize it can't be easily replicated. Most things worth having in your life are one in a million."

Trinity set her glass down and swiped at her lips meditatively. Sam didn't know for sure if it was her finger, or his words, that had suddenly banished the smile from her face. "You're romanticizing the past, Sam. Everything looks rose-hued when you know you can't get back to it. I'm sure the Manhattans aren't helping."

"I don't need their help to tell you how I feel."

Trinity blew her lips apart with a heavy sigh and scowled. "We fought here all the time too, or don't you remember?" she demanded. "Used to be that no establishment was safe."

"You make it sound like I lost my temper," Sam said. "I never lost my temper."

The bartender had returned to hover across from them; he retreated quickly now, taking their glasses with him.