Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(46)
Author: Leisa Rayven

He’s oblivious. As usual.

I wish I could say the same. I have no business being jealous. I’m sure in the years we were apart, he’s lost count of his conquests. Women have always thrown themselves at him, but his popularity exploded when he was touring Europe. His character spent most of the show shirtless, and when sexy promo shots of him hit the Internet, he had women following him from city to city to see him perform.

I didn’t blame them.

I remember how I’d felt when I saw the pictures online. I’d tried to look away, but it was impossible.

Just thinking about it makes my face burn.

I pick up the tapas menu and fan myself. Holt looks at me and frowns.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

“You look flushed.”

“Menopause. Hot flashes.”

“Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“You’d think so, huh? Being a girl sucks.”

“Except for that whole thing about having multiple orgasms,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Someone once told me that’s pretty incredible.”

“Well, yeah.” If you want to break it down into the most provocative terms possible. “There’s that.”

“Multiple Ethan,” that should be his nickname. The night he first discovered he could make me do that, I swear, I saw the face of heaven.

I fan myself again.

Dammit, he’s not allowed to talk about this stuff. Certainly not when I’m trying to ignore his sex appeal.

All topics related to sex are out.

How does he not know the rules I just made up?

“Why are you scowling at me?” he asks with a frown.

“Why aren’t we drinking yet? We came here to drink.”

“And talk.”

“And drink.”

“Does menopause make you an alcoholic, too?”

“Yes. And psychotic. Watch your step.”

“Trying to. Not easy with a scowling, menopausal psycho.”

I scowl at him for real.

He laughs.

Add laughing to the list of things he’s not allowed to do when I’m trying to ignore how attractive he is.

He notices I’m not laughing and looks at me with concern.

Concern? On the list.

“Cassie?”

Also, saying my name.

“I’m fine. I need alcohol.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He stares at me for a few more seconds, and sure enough, staring goes on the list. I mentally give up and accept that the list is going to be constantly updated. I try to put it from my mind.

At last a waitress arrives. She introduces herself as Sheree, and proceeds to ogle Ethan as he picks up the wine list. I want to punch her in her lip-glossed mouth.

As Sheree rattles off her wine recommendations, Ethan glances up at me. He’s not listening to her. He’s trying to figure out what I want to drink.

It used to be a game we played, and he never lost. He knew what I wanted even when I didn’t. When to order sweet, or dry, or spicy.

When the waitress finishes, he looks back at the list.

“The question is, Sheree … does my friend want red or white?”

The waitress frowns. “Uh … shouldn’t you ask her that?”

“There’s no fun in asking. I need to deduce. Like a sommelier Sherlock. If I get it wrong, my perfect record will be tarnished.”

“And if you get it right?” Sheree asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

I shake my head. When he used to get it right, I’d reward him with my mouth. No chance of that happening tonight.

“If I get it right,” Ethan says, “maybe she’ll see that, despite all my screw-ups, I still know her better than anyone else ever will.”

He stares at me, and when heat stretches across the table, I have to look away.

Sheree shifts her weight as I pick at the edge of the tablecloth.

If you looked up the word “awkward” in a dictionary, there’d be a picture of this moment.

Before it can go on any longer, Ethan clears his throat and orders the Duckhorn Vineyards Merlot with absolute confidence.

It’s the perfect choice. I don’t know why I’m so surprised.

When the waitress leaves, he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together on the table in front of him.

“Nailed it, didn’t I?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

He seems pleased. “I wasn’t sure if I could still do it. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.”

He stares for a few seconds, before saying, “Too long, Cassie.”

A thick silence settles between us.

We both know this is the last chance for us. Our final opportunity to salvage some good from the train wreck that’s been our relationship.

The pressure is stifling. I clear my throat. My mouth is drier than the Sahara.

How long can it possibly take to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses? Is Sheree tramping the damn grapes herself?

Nerves squirm in my belly. I could really use a cigarette, but there’s no smoking in here.

Holt cracks his knuckles, and I can see him brewing sentences in his brain.

I gaze at his fingers. His thumbs are slowly rubbing against each other, his hands tense and restless. I want to reach out and still them, and reassure him that … what? I’m not going to be a bitch? That I’ll listen calmly and carefully, consider all his justifications in a level-headed way?

I can’t tell him that. It wouldn’t be true.

There’s a very good chance this evening could end badly. That, by talking about all of this, all my good intentions of being friends will disappear.

He knows this as well as I do.

After what seems like several lifetimes, Sheree brings our wine. Holt and I look at her with desperate gratitude as she pours. When she leaves, we both drink deeply, then set our glasses down.

He sighs in frustration and rubs a hand across his face. “It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult.”

“Haven’t you met us?” I say. “We don’t do easy.”

“That’s true.”

My stomach cramps, and I swig more wine to try to get it to relax.

Holt frowns. “You okay?”

I take another mouthful and nod. “Yep. Great. Nice wine.”

I’m not lying about the wine. It’s delicious. I am lying about being okay. I’ve drunk too much, too soon, and as much as I thought I was ready to deal with Ethan, my stomach is telling me I’m really not.

It cramps again, and I wince.

“Cassie?”

I start to sweat because I know what’s coming. Saliva floods my mouth as I run for the bathroom.