I slam the office door shut behind me.
Fuck.
My hands slide up my face and through my hair as I take a deep breath, glancing at the heap of paperwork on my desk.
Fiona sitting at my bar trying to flash her tits at me is the last thing I need right now. It’s just fuel dumped on the fire already raging inside of me at the thought of Eva out with fucking Milton. Because however fake, however forced, and however eighteenth century an arrangement it is, that man is going to be her husband.
That guy is going to be the one who gets to taste those sweet lips, see those eyes flash at him, see that smile every morning.
I roll my eyes at myself. Good God, who am I? I want to look at it in terms of just the sex — that he’s the guy that gets to take her for the first time — the guy that gets to claim that part of her. Except that’s a caveman way of looking at it, and for some bizarre reason, I’m looking at it as more than that.
I’m looking at her as more than that.
Forget him being the guy that gets to sleep with her, he’s the fucking guy that gets to have her. HER, as in her heart and that infectious way she makes me grin when I’m around her.
I groan. What I need to do right now is get my shit together. What I need to do is go back out there, close the bar, take Fiona upstairs, and fuck the Evangeline right out of my head.
I need to-
The door opens behind me, and I know it’s her before she even opens her mouth.
“I need to complain about the service here?”
I bring a hand up to the bridge of my nose, still faced away from her.
“Fiona-”
“I wanted another drink but my bartender was nowhere to be found. And really, I think I’ve got a big problem with this whole no shirt, no service thing.”
“Lay off, Fiona, I’ve got shit to do.”
I turn.
I know I shouldn’t but I do.
And it’s just in time to watch as Fiona reaches down, grabs her tank top, and peels it up and over her head, revealing her big, fake, braless tits to me.
“Jesus, Fi,” I mutter.
The bell above the front door dings.
“I need to go, that’s a customer.”
“More important than me?” She pouts.
“Yes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh c’mon, Row! You know how much fun we can have. Why don’t you come say hi to them for old times sake,” she says, grinning at her tits.
“Fiona, I need to go.”
“Rowan, are you-”
Eva freezes in the doorway behind Fiona, and my heart drops as I watch her face fall.
“Oh- I-” Her eyes dart to me, then to Fiona’s naked back.
Fiona giggles, covering herself barely and half turning to Eva. “Sorry, honey, I think I’ve got the bartender’s attention.”
“I-” Eva’s face falls. “Sorry.”
And then she’s whirling on her feet and running back through the bar.
Fuck.
“Eva!” I call, but she’s gone, the bell chiming again as she runs out the front door.
“Goddamnit,” I swear, striding for the door. I grab Fiona roughly by the arm, dragging her with me.
“Oooh, Rowan, get rough with me, baby.”
“Put your fucking shirt on.”
She frowns. “What?”
“Put. Your. Fucking. Shirt. On!” I roar, dragging her through the bar.
“Are you serious?”
“Does it look like I’m fucking kidding?”
She glares at me, her eyes lancing fire. “You’re saying no to this?”
“Kinda looks that way doesn’t it.”
“What are you, a faggot, Rowan?”
“Just not really interested in Jeff’s fucking seconds anymore, Fiona.”
She glares at me before she yanks her shirt on and snatches her purse off the bar.
“Fuck you, Rowan.”
“No thanks, Fi.”
She flips me off as she storms for the front door. “I’m not paying for that drink you prick!”
The door slams behind her, and I’m bolting it, flipping the sign to “Closed”, turning off the neon sign, and running for the back door a second later.
Chapter Thirty-One
Evangeline
I will not cry.
I won’t. I won’t let myself. Just the same, something stings my eyes as I squeeze them shut and shake my head while I storm back to the rental house.
What was I even thinking going here tonight? What, comfort? Solace?
Ridiculous.
He’s every bit the disgusting, moral-less sinner I always knew he was. And I hate that I was thinking differently about it. I hate how giddy I got walking up to that bar tonight.
How anxious I was.
How much desire I had in my body for him. How much I craved his wicked touch.
How wet I was.
My cheeks burn but I shake it away as I storm up the street. Forget Rowan Hammond and our absurd “lessons”.