Bull (The Buck Boys Heroes 1)

I work to swallow past the urge to cough when I hear that.

The man he’s referring to is still on my do-not-fool-around-with-again list. I haven’t forgotten that Graham barged out of the library with my torn panties right after I came.

He didn’t even have the decency to hang around and make small talk or pull me in for a standing, weak-in-the-knees cuddle.

He bolted when someone on the other end of the phone registered higher on his importance meter than I did.

I haven’t wanted to think about whether it was a woman, but I can’t stop wondering.

If it was a woman, I don’t want to know because I’d feel even more humiliated than I already do.

“She also has impeccable taste in martinis,” Graham adds. “She’s particularly fond of the ones from the bar across the street.”

That’s a stretch.

I had one in a hurry when we were avoiding Bette, the chef who wants to be a spy.

I tilt my head and wait for whatever is going to drop from my husband’s lips next.

He doesn’t say anything.

Lloyd beats him to the punch. “Why don’t you two go across the street and have a drink? It’s the perfect way to unwind for the day. I’ll read a book and hit the hay soon.”

“I’m tired,” I say quietly. “I was thinking of hitting the hay too.”

More precisely, I was daydreaming about crawling into the bed I’ve been sleeping like a baby in. It feels like a cloud.

I checked the tag on the mattress because I’m considering buying one just like it after my divorce.

Even though I know the end of this marriage is inevitable, my stomach still knots at the thought of signing the divorce documents.

“Sela and I enjoyed our after dinner drinks.” His gaze floats upward. “Whenever I go out for a drink now, I order one for her. It brings me comfort to see it sitting there.”

“Come with us,” I say, reaching over to cover his hand with mine. “Come for a drink. You can tell me more about Sela.”

“Sela would tell me to give the newlyweds a chance to make memories of their own, so you two go ahead. Toast to her for me.”

I glance at my husband to see a slight smile on his face.

He catches my eye before he looks at Mr. Abdon. “We’ll do that, but we’ll also raise our glasses to you, Lloyd. If it weren’t for you, I never would have met my wife.”

I pop an olive into my mouth and narrow my gaze as I watch Graham sip from a glass of sparkling water.

He opted not to order anything stronger, which made me wonder why I had.

I ordered first, but then, he waited a few seconds before he told the server to bring him a glass of water.

She asked if he preferred a specific brand or whether he wanted sparkling or plain. He chuckled and told her to surprise him.

Judging by the bubbles and the lemon wedge propped on the rim of his glass, I suspect she chose the most expensive brand of water.

“There’s a question swirling in that brilliant brain of yours.” Graham grins. “Spit it out, Trina.”

Shaking my head, I smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“The corners of your eyes crinkle when you’re inquisitive,” he points out. “Your left brow perks the slightest bit right before you ask a question.”

That can’t be accurate.

I have a spectacular poker face.

At least I think I do.

“I have a couple of questions,” I admit.

He curls his fingers as if he’s luring me toward him. “Shoot them my way.”

“What’s a Buck boy?” I work to hold in a giggle. “And why are you one?”

A smirk coasts over his lips. “Those are your two questions?”

“Consider them one since they’re closely related.” I dart a finger in the air to accentuate my point.

“I went to The Buchanan School.” He tilts his head. “That makes me a Buck boy. It’s a long-standing tradition to call yourself that, but I try not to whenever possible.”

Both of my eyebrows perk. “You went to The Buchanan School? That’s upstate, right? It’s private and very exclusive.”

That’s my polite way of saying the yearly tuition costs a fortune.

Gary, one of my brothers, once joked about sending his son there when he’s ready for high school. The problem is that the all-boys school is only for the ultra-rich.

“I did,” he answers simply. “What’s the second, or I suppose technically it’s your third question?”

“What’s with the water?” I ask with a sigh. “I almost feel guilty for indulging in this while you play the good guy.”

Huffing out a laugh, he shakes his head. “I’m playing the good guy?”

I nod. “You’re not drinking on a work night. That makes you a good guy.”

“Is that all it takes?” He leans back in his chair. “I would have cut out the scotch years ago if I knew the path to sainthood was at the bottom of a water glass.”