Cannon (Carolina Reapers 5)

Fuck that. I might not have been the right man for Persephone, but she was far better than any of these clowns.

“I’ve had quite enough investment bankers in my life,” Persephone fired back with a shrug and a smile. Fuck, if that didn’t make me want to lean down and kiss the shit out of her, audience and all.

“For now, maybe,” he said softly.

It’s not smart to wave the red cape at the bull, douchebag. I reined my temper in tight. Persephone’s first rule was that I not get into any fights or make any scenes, and I wasn’t about to break it in the middle of our fucking engagement party, even it was fake.

“You’re an investment banker?” A smirk rose on my face. I’d been right.

“What of it?” His eyes narrowed on mine. “I work with millions of dollars every day, using my Harvard education, not my body to move upward in life. After all, one day my body might give out, but my mind never will.” He dared me with a smirk of his own.

Logan’s mouth opened, but Delaney’s hand flew to grip his, effectively silencing my best friend. The girl was as southern as Persephone and recognized warfare when she saw it.

“It’s impossible for your body to give out when it hasn’t shown up in the first place,” Sawyer glanced meaningfully toward the bankers and nodded at the passing waiter. He thanked him as he replaced his and Echo’s empties with full glasses.

I pressed my lips into a flat line to keep a dark laugh down at Sawyer’s obvious shade.

“How do you guys survive so many blows to the head, anyway?” Andrew asked with a perplexed expression on his pompous face. “You must have really thick skulls.”

“Well, you know what Sartre said.” Michael lifted his glass. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

His buddies chuckled, along with Andromeda. Persephone jolted forward, but I kept my grip on her waist and subtly lifted so her feet were an inch off the floor. She gasped softly, and I set her back down in a move so subtle no one noticed it had happened except my wife, who hopefully got the point that I didn’t need her to fight my battles for me.

“Sartre, huh?” I questioned. “Your Harvard education cover philosophy?

He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. “Among other things. Where did you matriculate from? Assuming you went to college. I know so many young athletes get pressured to go pro too early and miss out on the benefits of a good school.”

“University of Michigan,” I answered. “They offered me a full-ride scholarship for hockey and threw one in for my little sister.” That last part had been off the books, but a handshake later, Lillian had early acceptance.

Persephone looked up at me with such a tender expression that I couldn’t help but return it, knocking loose one of the bricks that held up my emotional defenses. God, she was beautiful, and for the next couple of months, she was mine.

“Scholarship, huh? Guess they don’t care about your grades up in Michigan as long as you’re racking up the points on the scoreboard,” Michael snapped, losing the edge off his civilized mask. Guy was outright pissed that I’d married the woman he’d set his sights on.

Made sense, really. Persephone was flawless in every way, even as she arched a delicate eyebrow at me as if asking what I was going to do about the outright shot he’d just fired at me. I winked at her, and her eyes flared bright with amusement and something else I couldn’t let myself ponder. Managing to rip my gaze away from hers, I turned back toward the douchebag brigade.

“Well, it’s not Harvard up there, but at least they taught me that it was Nietzsche who said, “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Not Sartre.”

Persephone’s arm slid around my waist like she was claiming me, too.

Everyone looked at Michael like this was some kind of fucked-up tennis match, and I’d fired the ball back across the net.

He scoffed. “Bullshit. It’s Sartre. I minored in Philosophy.”

All the eyes turned back toward me.

“You’re wrong.” I shrugged as Andromeda gasped. Guess I stepped across the line of southern manners. “It’s in Twilight of the Idols.”

Ball’s in your court, asshole.

He blinked. “I’m not wrong. You’re wrong.”

And now we were back in kindergarten. Phenomenal.

“Guy reads a lot, and I mean a lot. My vote goes to Cannon,” Delaney announced with a nod.

“It’s Sartre!” Michael snapped. “He believed that we had to be aware of existence and our own strengths.”

“You’re close,” I admitted with a nod. “Sartre believed that we should be aware of our existence without the assumptions we naturally inherit through our routines, but Nietzsche authored the other quote.”

Michael’s face turned red. “You’re wrong!”

“I’m not.” I shrugged.

“Someone look it up!” His hand shook slightly. And somehow I was the one with a temper problem?