Page 39 of Deacon
She wore a shimmery dress that clung to every curve, her dark skin glowing under the amber lights.
‘Hey handsome, looking good.’
‘Not so bad yourself,’ I grunted, sliding into the booth across from her and shedding my jacket.
‘Glad you stopped playing hard to get,’ she intoned.
‘Needed to clear my head.’
We ordered two strong bourbon pours, as Nashami’s charm washed over me for 20 minutes.
She went on about her multi-day, multiple-location photo shoot and all the hilarious fails as her photographer tried to nail the looks the designers wanted.
She was funny and witty, but my thoughts kept drifting.
What was I even doing here with her? Trying to prove I was over Ana?
When Nashami stood up to head to the restroom, I pulled out my phone to pass the time and tapped open an entertainment app.
Scrolling, I stopped at a headline about Massimo Canelli’s new film.
Below it was a photo I’d never seen before, with a caption confirming it was taken in London last year.
It was Massimo in a tuxedo at some gala, and Ana in a stunning white-and-gold beaded gown.
The V-neck plunged between her tits, showcasing her incredible figure.
She was breathtaking, making my heart jolt and my breath hitch.
However, it was the look on her face that tore through me.
She was staring up at her husband with pure, unfiltered adoration.
That expression used to belong strictly to me, back when we were unstoppable, freakin’ unbreakable.
A lump formed in my throat as I shoved the phone deep into my pocket, my pulse hammering hard.
Fuckinghellshit.
After all these years, she still had the power to devastate me.
I’d fought like hell to build a life past her, but every single path I took circled straight back to where we started.
Nobody else could stir up such a violent reaction from me the way she did, and no amount of distance could break the grip she had on my soul.
She still had the clout to play games with my heart, and that shit wasn’t fair.
No matter how hard I tried to cut the tether, I remained wrecked for her.
Taking a harsh breath, I flagged the waiter down and gestured at my empty glass.
‘Hit me again. Double bourbon, neat. Fact, bring two.’
He arched a brow at my growl but left to do as asked.
The drinks arrived a few minutes later, and I slammed them both down.
‘Two more,’ I muttered as the liquid burned on the way down.
