When she doesn’t speak but meets my eyes in the mirror. I stare back, popping my lips once I’m done, and spin. I lean against the sink, cross my arms and wait.

I know she’s got something to say, and she will.

She’s incapable of silence.

Rather than grab a paper towel closest to her, she steps in front of me, reaches over and slowly pulls one from the dispenser at my side.

“So, you’re the new plaything.” She tips her head, takes in my outfit, and her mouth forms into a judgy little grin. “I have to admit, I wondered, but I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Pun intended?” I pop a brow.

Her eyes flash to mine, narrowing, but she catches herself as quickly as she can. Her hundred-thousand-dollar dental implants beam as she smiles, big and fake and purposeful. She laughs, shakes her head, and begins to walk out, but of course, she has to pause for the dramatic exit.

“Just remember, toys are only fun when they’re first opened, but they grow old fast, and then to the bottom of the barrel you go.” She delivers her closing statement.

And it’s a shitty one.

I grin, but the difference between mine and hers, is mine’s real and she knows it.

Her smile falters as I approach, tipping my head as she had, my eyes three inches above hers, thanks to today’s pumps of choice.

I place my hand beside hers on the door, lean in close, and I whisper with a laugh, “I’m counting on that.”

Her face falls and I walk out with my head held high.

But even as I return to our table, Amy doing the same not three minutes later, I’m forced to face what she’s said as well as my response.

I was being honest; I am counting on being tossed to the side.

“You look flushed, Jameson.” Amy’s cheeky tone calls out, and my eyes dart to hers while everyone else’s fly toward me. “Are you feeling okay?”

I can see it, the instant regret at her choice of words, and my smile spreads slow and wide.

I laugh, nod, and push my hair over my shoulder. “I feel fantastic, satisfied even.” I lift my water bottle to my lips, pleased when hers pinch tight. “Thanks for asking.”

Bitch.

Chapter 17

“Your birthday is almost here.” Anthony lowers his fork to his plate, sitting back in the chair. “I could throw you a party, be your date?”

I nearly choke on my pineapple juice, my fingers flying up to cover my mouth.

It’s not easy to recover from, to hide the shock of his suggestion, but I smile through it, as does he, though his is a little more strained.

“I wasn’t really planning to celebrate.”