“Jealous?” I laugh. “Why?”
“It has the best view in the house.”
Oh my God. I rub my forehead, grinning.
“Ridiculous,” Trace mutters.
“I bet she makes you a shit ton of money.” Cole glares at Trace.
“My money will be her money.” Trace bores his steady gaze into mine. “The moment she takes my last name.”
His quiet intensity is nerve-wracking, making me shiver all over.
“Danni doesn’t give a fuck about money.” Cole inconspicuously tightens his legs around mine and scans the menu.
“You’re wrong.” Trace’s eyes don’t stray from mine. “A large bank account means endless donations to whatever charities she’s passionate about.” He shifts his glare to Cole, his tone eerily calm. “Keep your fucking feet to yourself or I’ll have you removed from the property.”
I widen my eyes, surprised Trace knew what was going on under the table.
Cole doesn’t move. “You’ll have your paid servants remove me, because you’re not man enough—”
“Stop it.” I pull back, tucking my legs beneath my chair and sitting straighter. “Instead of taking pot shots at each other, how about you have a pleasant dinner together?” I look at Cole. “The cuisine is amazing. I recommend the Kefta Mkaouara with the tasty bread to soak up the sauce.” I turn to Trace. “When you’re done, you can show him around the restaurant. Meanwhile, I have to finish my set.”
Without waiting for their reactions, I return to the stage. The room erupts in cheers and whistles as I find my footing mid-song and roll into the choreographed routine.
Trace and Cole order dinner and eat quietly without turning the steak knives into weapons. They mostly ignore each other and focus on me. But there are a few conversations through the next two hours. Conversations I so badly wish I could hear. Their mannerisms and expressions are serious, stormless even, as they talk.
When they finally stand from the table, Trace heads toward the exit.
Instead of following him out, Cole steps up to the stage. I dance toward him, encased in the beam of light that shines from beneath the acrylic platform. He studies it for a moment and reaches out to test the motion sensor, trying to make it follow his hand.
The spotlight stays under my feet, chasing me from side to side as I move through the footwork. Maybe it’s attracted to sweaty women, because sweet mercy, I’m burning up. Thankfully, the light doesn’t put off heat. Trace had it designed specifically for me, as well as the renovations for this restaurant, the addition of the stage, and my own private dressing room. All of it—as I recently learned—was constructed for my employment before I even met the scowly casino owner.
Cole lingers at my feet, staring up at me as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving. I hate it. No matter the hows or whys that put us here, I seem to be the one pulling the strings now, and what I’m doing is cruel.
I twist mindlessly through belly dance movements while playing out an agonizing resolution in my head. I could end things with Cole right now. Tell him I moved on, that I love Trace more—a lie—and demand he pack up his shit and go. Cut ties. Change my locks. Block his number. Force him to find new love and deeper happiness with someone else.
It would be excruciating for me, but it’s the compassionate thing to do. In the long run, his life would be better for it. Nothing good can come from being with a woman who loves two men.
A pang stabs my chest, and my face crumples. I spin away, pretending the twirl is part of the routine. With measured breaths, I focus on rippling my mid-section and composing my expression. Then I turn back.
He grips the edge of the stage, bulldozing me with a look that says I am his only mission now, and a soldier doesn’t back down from a fight.
It also tells me the scenario I just imagined is total bullshit. Our love won’t end with changed locks and blocked numbers. It’s stubborn and unshakable and fated.
I lift my gaze to the man standing near the entrance of the dining room. Fingers in the pockets of his tailored slacks, Trace rests a shoulder against the far wall, watching me with single-minded focus.
Maybe he’s the one I need to let go. But we haven’t had any one-on-one time since Cole returned. Perhaps I’ll stay with him tonight and talk to him openly about this.
Cole removes his hands from the stage and straightens, as if preparing to leave. I can read his demeanor—the tense shoulders, the pinched lips, the stalling. He might not admit it, but this is hurting him.
I glide toward him and press my lips to my fingers. Then I bend down and touch those fingers to his mouth, letting my caress feather along his jaw and float away from the indention in his chin.