Page 48 of Mr. Wilde

“You okay, Hart?” Devon asks, nudging him. “You’ve been staring at your phone for an hour. What’s bugging you?”

“Just work,” Hart answers. “It’s complicated.”

Several of our eyes meet across the table, concerned for our stoic friend. Hell, it took him years to finally get laid again after his poor wife died. Then, when the chains finally came off, he was banging the headboard so loud you could hear it in the hall. And those rooms are soundproof. We’ve affectionately called him Bedrock ever since.

His phone seems to be glued to his hand every time I’ve seen him lately. I’m not sure he’s looked up once since he sat down. Something’s definitely up with him. I can’t help but wonder if he’s struggling with his wife’s death again. But I have my own issues to manage tonight. I don’t have enough energy to sort his too.

Broadie and Poppy look like they’re headed to a gala, all black-tie elegance, while Ben and Grace look like they stepped directly out of a Saturday Night Fever movie set. Ben’s white suit would make John Travolta proud. And Grace’s silver jumpsuit and big blonde curls are seventies perfection. The newlyweds are laughing, wrapped around each other, unaffected by anyone else’s problems.

I notice Frank tracking Cassidy with a predatory focus that makes me want to wring my best friend’s neck. “The white boots,” Frank mutters, barely audible. “They’re doing things to my brain.”

I follow his gaze. Sparkling fabric clings to Cassidy’s hips, swirling colors that catch the light every time she moves. And those white boots. Jesus Christ, they’re doing things no footwear should be allowed to do to a grown man. The dress is dangerously short, ending exactly where a man’s self-control begins to fray.

Once again, our gazes meet. It’s subtle. Merely a half-second of contact. But something crackles in the air like a bolt of lightning snapping tight between us.

She doesn’t smile. And neither do I. She breaks away first, continuing toward another table, but the damage is done. My pulse is louder than the music now, my body yearning for the one thing it can’t have.

Lala is playing hostess of the century, hovering near Gianni, who’s looking as untouchable as ever in his three-piece suit, while Anthony runs interference like a Secret Service agent. Finally, Lala gives Cassidy a nod, sending my pink-haired obsession our way.

When she reaches the table, the air seems to thin.

“Everyone,” I say, my tongue feeling a little heavy, “this is Cassidy. Cassidy, meet the men who own half the city and have the collective maturity of a middle school locker room.”

Broadie raises a brow. Beside him, Ben pauses his disco-talk. The table goes momentarily silent. I’ve never used any of these girls’ names. And my friends are well aware I don’t care enough to.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she answers, beaming at Poppy and Grace with a warmth that’s entirely too genuine for this place. “What can I get for each of you?”

I watch silently as she moves around the table. With her hair fluffed out and her current choice of makeup, she’s a cross between Farrah Fawcett and Strawberry Shortcake. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.

Why the hell is this making me hard?

Fuck. I spent the whole weekend binging Criminal Minds after we worked together in Gianni’s office. I can see many of her idol, Penelope Garcia’s, traits in her. Cassidy has the brains, the colorful personality, and the spark.

Yet I’m no Derek Morgan. He was a special agent with a badge and a moral compass. While I’m a morally gray hacker. I built a billion-dollar cybersecurity empire almost by accident, from hours of surfing the dark web and a lack of respect for firewalls. If Morgan is “Chocolate Thunder,” I’m definitely “Milk Toast.”

“Can I get another?” I rattle the ice in my glass as Cassidy passes. I’ve probably had enough, if I’m speaking this way. This isn’t how I talk to anyone. Okay, maybe Loretta when I’m having a surly day at work, but she’s used to my shenanigans.

Cassidy catches my eye, a flicker of concern crossing her face. She knows I’m tying one on. “Coming right up, Mr. Wilde,” she chirps, moving off toward the bar.

“I’m telling you,” Frank says, leaning into the center of the group, “the third floor is where the action is. I met this curvy little redhead watching a couple in the voyeur room. We had a full-on conversation about her interior design business while she watched the young blonde getting railed.”

“Real nice, Frank.”

“What? I’m enjoying the decade of free love!”

“Well, maybe the girls don’t need to hear the play-by-play,” I scold, nodding to Poppy and Grace.

“Shit, sorry,” Frank blurts. “This place has me off my game.”

I snort. “You don’t have any game.” Lifting my glass to my lips, I’m reminded it only contains a few lonely ice cubes. “Neither do I.”

“Sure you do, Max. We just have to get you out from behind that laptop.” Becket takes a drink of his scotch. “And the sixties were the decade of free love,” Becket argues, as his eyes track a brunette across the room. “The seventies were just the decade of the hangover.”

“No love is free,” I utter into my glass.

My friends still. Even Hart looks up from his phone, a concerned glint in his eyes.

Frank squints at me. “Jesus, Max. Too many drinks make a tech genius spill all his emotional baggage. Maybe a therapist would be better.”