The Fortunate Ones
Page 34
The hotel bar is as crowded as I assumed it would be, and every person in the room is wearing a blue lanyard and nametag from the conference. There’s no point in trying to find a table—they’re all taken—so I head straight for the bar and luck out when a couple stands and vacates their stools soon after I arrive. I steal one of them and wait for the bartender to find me. A few minutes later he heads over.
“What’ll you have?”
“Do you serve food here?”
He leans forward and turns his ear in my direction. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Do you serve food here!” I repeat, this time shouting.
“Not right now,” he says, indicating to the crowd. “There’s a cafe around the corner though.”
Just my luck.
“What’s your most food-like drink?” I ask. “Anything with, I dunno, a chicken wing sticking out of it?”
The impatient bartender gives me a blank stare.
“She’ll have a whiskey ginger.”
I turn in time to see a stranger take the barstool beside mine. He’s extremely good-looking, blond and tan, a California boy all grown up. He unbuttons his suit jacket and slides an easy smile in my direction. Clearly, he thinks he’s here to stay.
I quirk a brow. “I will?”
“Trust me.” He nods, turning back to the bartender. “Make it two.”
“I don’t like ginger ale,” I point out.
He chuckles. “See? We’re already learning things about each other. I don’t like ceviche.”
I sigh and turn away, back to staring at the liquor bottles behind the bar. The stranger leans closer to me and I feel him dragging his gaze down my dress and then lower, across my bare legs. Apparently, he enjoys the view.
“Are you here for the conference?”
“No.”
He seems to enjoy my one-word response because he leans even closer. “Then why are you in this hotel?”
It’s obvious he’s not going to leave until I tell him to. I turn and assess him with a cool glance. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the lanyard around his neck proclaims him to be Martin Stone. He notices me eyeing it and his smile widens with pride.
“You may have seen my photo in the lobby,” he continues.
“Actually, no.”
I heard the men on the elevator talking about him, but I don’t volunteer that information.
“Are you waiting for someone?” he asks.
“Not anymore,” I reply icily.
The bartender slides our drinks across the bar, and Martin picks one up to hand to me. He takes the other and tilts it toward me for a toast. “To meeting new friends.”
I clink my glass with his and take a hesitant sip, prepared to hate it. Instead, the sweet and smooth taste of the whiskey pairs well with the spicy notes of ginger.
“What do you think?”
“It’s actually not that bad.”
He grins and turns toward me, brushing his suit-clad leg against mine. “You know, there are a hundred other hotels on the Vegas strip and they aren’t filled with tech nerds. Why are you sitting in this bar all by yourself if you aren’t waiting for someone?”
He barely finishes his question before a hand unexpectedly lands on my bare shoulder. I catch a hint of a familiar spiced cologne and turn to find James standing behind me, looking devastatingly handsome in the dim light of the bar.
“Thank you for keeping my date company, Martin.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I can only imagine what the scene looks like from James’ perspective: he strolled into the crowded bar and found me sipping drinks with another man. Martin’s still turned toward me, brushing his leg against mine. I could tell him to back off, but there’s no need—he won’t do anything now that James is here. As soon as he approached us, I noticed a lull in the conversations around us. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see if there’s going to be a standoff between James Ashwood and Martin Stone. Every tech blogger in the room has Twitter open and their thumbs at the ready.
Martin sweeps his gaze from James down to me. He’s confused, clearly.
“Your date? She just said she wasn’t waiting for anyone.”
I want to make things perfectly clear. James might have flown me to Vegas, but the second he stood me up at dinner, I stopped being his date. “I’m here alone.”
“Brooke—”
“You heard her, James. She’s not your date.”
James’ grip tightens on my shoulder and a shiver escapes down my spine. I don’t want him to read my emotions, so I turn back to the bar and take a long sip of my drink, hoping one of them will leave before the situation escalates to a point of no return.
“Plenty of seating over there, James,” Martin suggests with a stern tone. He wants to be my knight in shining armor so badly, but unfortunately, he’s acting as a pawn in this game I’m playing with James. I should tell him that, but then James steps back and releases my shoulder. I glance up and meet his gaze in the bar’s mirrored backsplash. His features are etched in stone, that intimidating jaw is clenched, and while the fury in his eyes should warn me away, I arch a brow and meet it head on. Your move, buddy.
Fire blazes between us, and I think he’s going to grab Martin by the scruff and yank him off the barstool beside me. He seems angry enough to do it, but then I watch as he slowly overcomes his baser emotions. The tension between his brows eases slightly, his jaw loosens, and I can’t be sure, but I think he’s trying to fight off a little smile. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out his game. He tilts his head and waits patiently. He’s not going to make a scene, isn’t going to explode with jealousy. He’s James Ashwood, after all. This isn’t his first rodeo.
We’re having a fight without words, and Martin is completely oblivious.
“Listen, bud, you look pretty tired. Maybe go rest up for your big keynote?”
James holds my gaze and completely ignores him. I want to squirm in my seat or fan my face, something to ease the tension between us, because I know he won’t do that for me. If I want this to end, I have to be the one to speak up.
“Martin, I’m sorry for the confusion.”
He rears back, clearly having expected me to side with him after all this.
I reach for my purse. “Let me pay you for the drink.”
That makes James laugh under his breath, which only further pisses Martin off. I’d feel really bad for causing so much drama and embarrassing Martin if he wasn’t so damn sure of himself. The man’s face is hanging on a banner in the lobby—he could use a healthy blow to his ego every now and then.
He refuses the twenty I try to hand him, and when he vacates his seat, he brushes past James with a hard hit to the shoulder. I brace myself for James’ reaction, but instead of escalating the situation, he shakes his head and steps forward, claiming Martin’s barstool.
The difference between Martin and James is night and day. When Martin sat beside me, I wasn’t hyperaware of every move he made. With James, I’m jumpy and nervous, anticipating some kind of consequence even though I did nothing wrong.
We sit side by side for a few minutes without a word. I know he’s had a long day, and while I’m annoyed with him for standing me up, I don’t necessarily want to talk about it at the moment. Instead, I pass him my drink in silence and he takes a long drag, finishing the last of it.
When the bartender returns, he orders himself a whiskey neat then turns to me.
I shake my head. “Nothing, thanks.”
I can’t continue drinking without dinner. I’ll pass out, or worse, I’ll tell James how much I missed him today.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“No.”
“We’ll order something when we go back up to the room.”
My stomach dips.
The room. Of course.
It’s hard enough sitting beside James in a crowded bar, let alone following him back up to our suite. I keep my gaze down because it’s easier than meeting his eye, but even that isn’t safe territory. His strong thighs press against the fabric of his suit pants. His hand bridges the small space between us and grips my leg. Goose bumps bloom across my thigh as he brushes his thumb back and forth along the sensitive skin inside my knee.
“What’ll you have?”
“Do you serve food here?”
He leans forward and turns his ear in my direction. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Do you serve food here!” I repeat, this time shouting.
“Not right now,” he says, indicating to the crowd. “There’s a cafe around the corner though.”
Just my luck.
“What’s your most food-like drink?” I ask. “Anything with, I dunno, a chicken wing sticking out of it?”
The impatient bartender gives me a blank stare.
“She’ll have a whiskey ginger.”
I turn in time to see a stranger take the barstool beside mine. He’s extremely good-looking, blond and tan, a California boy all grown up. He unbuttons his suit jacket and slides an easy smile in my direction. Clearly, he thinks he’s here to stay.
I quirk a brow. “I will?”
“Trust me.” He nods, turning back to the bartender. “Make it two.”
“I don’t like ginger ale,” I point out.
He chuckles. “See? We’re already learning things about each other. I don’t like ceviche.”
I sigh and turn away, back to staring at the liquor bottles behind the bar. The stranger leans closer to me and I feel him dragging his gaze down my dress and then lower, across my bare legs. Apparently, he enjoys the view.
“Are you here for the conference?”
“No.”
He seems to enjoy my one-word response because he leans even closer. “Then why are you in this hotel?”
It’s obvious he’s not going to leave until I tell him to. I turn and assess him with a cool glance. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the lanyard around his neck proclaims him to be Martin Stone. He notices me eyeing it and his smile widens with pride.
“You may have seen my photo in the lobby,” he continues.
“Actually, no.”
I heard the men on the elevator talking about him, but I don’t volunteer that information.
“Are you waiting for someone?” he asks.
“Not anymore,” I reply icily.
The bartender slides our drinks across the bar, and Martin picks one up to hand to me. He takes the other and tilts it toward me for a toast. “To meeting new friends.”
I clink my glass with his and take a hesitant sip, prepared to hate it. Instead, the sweet and smooth taste of the whiskey pairs well with the spicy notes of ginger.
“What do you think?”
“It’s actually not that bad.”
He grins and turns toward me, brushing his suit-clad leg against mine. “You know, there are a hundred other hotels on the Vegas strip and they aren’t filled with tech nerds. Why are you sitting in this bar all by yourself if you aren’t waiting for someone?”
He barely finishes his question before a hand unexpectedly lands on my bare shoulder. I catch a hint of a familiar spiced cologne and turn to find James standing behind me, looking devastatingly handsome in the dim light of the bar.
“Thank you for keeping my date company, Martin.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I can only imagine what the scene looks like from James’ perspective: he strolled into the crowded bar and found me sipping drinks with another man. Martin’s still turned toward me, brushing his leg against mine. I could tell him to back off, but there’s no need—he won’t do anything now that James is here. As soon as he approached us, I noticed a lull in the conversations around us. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see if there’s going to be a standoff between James Ashwood and Martin Stone. Every tech blogger in the room has Twitter open and their thumbs at the ready.
Martin sweeps his gaze from James down to me. He’s confused, clearly.
“Your date? She just said she wasn’t waiting for anyone.”
I want to make things perfectly clear. James might have flown me to Vegas, but the second he stood me up at dinner, I stopped being his date. “I’m here alone.”
“Brooke—”
“You heard her, James. She’s not your date.”
James’ grip tightens on my shoulder and a shiver escapes down my spine. I don’t want him to read my emotions, so I turn back to the bar and take a long sip of my drink, hoping one of them will leave before the situation escalates to a point of no return.
“Plenty of seating over there, James,” Martin suggests with a stern tone. He wants to be my knight in shining armor so badly, but unfortunately, he’s acting as a pawn in this game I’m playing with James. I should tell him that, but then James steps back and releases my shoulder. I glance up and meet his gaze in the bar’s mirrored backsplash. His features are etched in stone, that intimidating jaw is clenched, and while the fury in his eyes should warn me away, I arch a brow and meet it head on. Your move, buddy.
Fire blazes between us, and I think he’s going to grab Martin by the scruff and yank him off the barstool beside me. He seems angry enough to do it, but then I watch as he slowly overcomes his baser emotions. The tension between his brows eases slightly, his jaw loosens, and I can’t be sure, but I think he’s trying to fight off a little smile. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out his game. He tilts his head and waits patiently. He’s not going to make a scene, isn’t going to explode with jealousy. He’s James Ashwood, after all. This isn’t his first rodeo.
We’re having a fight without words, and Martin is completely oblivious.
“Listen, bud, you look pretty tired. Maybe go rest up for your big keynote?”
James holds my gaze and completely ignores him. I want to squirm in my seat or fan my face, something to ease the tension between us, because I know he won’t do that for me. If I want this to end, I have to be the one to speak up.
“Martin, I’m sorry for the confusion.”
He rears back, clearly having expected me to side with him after all this.
I reach for my purse. “Let me pay you for the drink.”
That makes James laugh under his breath, which only further pisses Martin off. I’d feel really bad for causing so much drama and embarrassing Martin if he wasn’t so damn sure of himself. The man’s face is hanging on a banner in the lobby—he could use a healthy blow to his ego every now and then.
He refuses the twenty I try to hand him, and when he vacates his seat, he brushes past James with a hard hit to the shoulder. I brace myself for James’ reaction, but instead of escalating the situation, he shakes his head and steps forward, claiming Martin’s barstool.
The difference between Martin and James is night and day. When Martin sat beside me, I wasn’t hyperaware of every move he made. With James, I’m jumpy and nervous, anticipating some kind of consequence even though I did nothing wrong.
We sit side by side for a few minutes without a word. I know he’s had a long day, and while I’m annoyed with him for standing me up, I don’t necessarily want to talk about it at the moment. Instead, I pass him my drink in silence and he takes a long drag, finishing the last of it.
When the bartender returns, he orders himself a whiskey neat then turns to me.
I shake my head. “Nothing, thanks.”
I can’t continue drinking without dinner. I’ll pass out, or worse, I’ll tell James how much I missed him today.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“No.”
“We’ll order something when we go back up to the room.”
My stomach dips.
The room. Of course.
It’s hard enough sitting beside James in a crowded bar, let alone following him back up to our suite. I keep my gaze down because it’s easier than meeting his eye, but even that isn’t safe territory. His strong thighs press against the fabric of his suit pants. His hand bridges the small space between us and grips my leg. Goose bumps bloom across my thigh as he brushes his thumb back and forth along the sensitive skin inside my knee.
