That’s when I got a clear view. He had his face buried in her neck, her hand clawed at his black jeans, the hem of her plaid skirt riding up…

“Ahem!” I said, clearing my throat. “Sugar, I’m done powdering my nose.”

When he didn’t stop, I slung my purse in the air and whacked him in the back of the head. He tensed and then glared at me over his shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said unapologetically. “I have to go do that thing.”

Fawn flipped her long hair back to make sure her tresses weren’t shielding her breasts, which were small, round, and aiming bullets at Wheeler through the sheer fabric posing as a shirt. “Sorry, Naya. Didn’t realize you had claim on him.”

Wheeler looked between us as if caught in the crossfire.

I straightened the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “Sweetie, any man I have claim over wouldn’t need another woman to fool around with. I’m all the woman he’d need,” I said in a silken voice.

Wheeler’s right eyebrow arched in slow motion.

Fawn stroked his arm with the tips of her fingernails. “Another time, daddy.” She strutted off, swinging her hips like a pendulum.

Wheeler pivoted around and we headed toward the back door. “What’s with that daddy shit?”

“Maybe you should tell me, papa. You’re the one with his hands up her skirt.”

His arm flew out and pushed open the door to the back of the club. I winced at the bright light, and Wheeler’s boots crunched on the gravel as we headed toward his car.

“My hand wasn’t up her skirt. And for your information, I did that so you could get out.”

“Such self-sacrifice,” I said over the hood of the car as he unlocked the door. “Some men throw themselves on grenades, but you chose the nearest half-naked woman.”

He cut me a sharp glare and got in the car. The heat swelled inside and I rolled down my window while he turned the engine over.

“I could have attempted an intellectual conversation to distract her, but she didn’t look like the girl most likely to talk about the influential works of Jackson Pollock.”

“You like his paintings?”

Wheeler slipped on his sunglasses. “He’s a fucking genius.”

“He splattered paint on canvas. An elephant can do that.” I waved at a gnat and adjusted the air as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“Explosive creativity. Not everything can be outlined in pencil beforehand. That’s a man who thought outside the conventional box. Sometimes things that make the least sense are the most interesting. People don’t give enough credit to abstract artists.”

“Perhaps you should have let him paint your arms.”

A laugh burst out of Wheeler—rich and bold—the first I think I’d ever heard. It sent goose pimples up my arms and made me smile along with him. When he didn’t say anything back, I lingered on that infectious laugh a little longer. The warm texture of it, how alive he sounded, and I suddenly got a glimpse of the passion beneath his dark, brooding exterior.