The Hating Season (Seasons #2) - K.A.Linde Page 0,26
say that you’re not separated. He’s just fucking with your head.”
“You’re right.” I needed to do some classic English compartmentalization. I needed to treat Josh just like any other douchebag client. Except bury him instead of try to save him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Always here to help.”
“Now, I need another drink, so I can forget about this conversation.”
Lark laughed. “I think I’m going to find Sam and get out of here. Get drunk with Whitley and Katherine and the guys. It’ll be good for you to cut loose.”
I nearly choked. Cutting loose was the last thing I needed. I’d done that, and I was still uncertain about the results.
Lark patted my shoulder once and then walked over to Sam. He oriented himself to her movements. He took her hand and kissed it, nodding along to whatever she was saying. Then he smiled a genuine smile and tilted his head toward the door.
I could feel Court looking at me. His gaze sliding down my face and over my shoulders, down my black dress. It was so intimate that I could practically feel his hands on me. But I wouldn’t meet his eyes. I still watched Lark and Sam as they disappeared through the crowd. Then, before I could make the mistake of looking at him, I turned away and headed to the nearest bar.
The victory party was well under way. Leslie had given her speech ages ago, and I hadn’t seen her since. Everyone was drunk. And either I needed to join them or I just needed to leave like Lark.
Except going home to an empty house sounded less than ideal.
I stepped into the short drink line. Thankfully, it didn’t take too long before I ordered.
“A shot of tequila and a gin and tonic. Light on the tonic.”
The bartender frowned. “We’re not doing shots.”
I slipped a twenty into the tip jar. “I’ll take a shot of tequila and a gin and tonic.”
She shrugged and began to pour.
“Make that two shots.”
“Court,” I murmured.
He grinned that wicked grin and tossed a second twenty into the tip jar. “English.”
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
He shrugged. “Enjoying myself. It is a victory party after all. We’re here to celebrate.”
The bartender placed the two shots before us. She plunked down two limes and gestured to the salt.
“Shall we toast?” he asked mischievously.
“To what?”
“The primary victory, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, perfectly neutral.
He reached for the shot of tequila and held it aloft. I mirrored his movements, wondering exactly how drunk he was. He was practically swaying on his feet. It took a lot of alcohol to make someone like Court Kensington sway.
“To another three months,” I muttered as we clinked our plastic cups together.
He grinned like the devil he was and then tipped the shot back into his mouth. I took a deep breath and then followed suit. The tequila burned like the fiery pits of hell all the way down my throat. I managed not to cough. But I reached for the lime like a drowning man searched for air.
I sucked on the sliver of fruit, letting the lime juice soothe my throat. Court just watched. He didn’t even bother with his own lime. So, I stole his, too. He quirked another smile in my direction.
“A little too much for you?” he asked softly.
“Tequila is the worst,” I told him, tossing the second lime. “But it does work the best.”
“Hmm,” he muttered.
I grasped my gin and tonic and stepped away from the bar. This was good. This was fine. We could talk like regular adults and be around each other and not rip each other’s clothes off. It was… functional. Sort of.
Court’s hand came to my elbow. “Can I talk to you?”
Fire skittered from my elbow and all the way through my body. Okay, maybe less than functional. He shouldn’t be able to cause that reaction just from touching me.
“Can’t we just get drunk and celebrate the victory?” I asked, half a plea.
“Yes. But first, come with me.”
I should have protested more.
There was exactly one reason why walking out of this room and being alone with Court Kensington was a bad idea. And it had something to do with being bent over the couch at his apartment.
I shivered at the memory.
“Cold?” he asked as he pushed open a side door that led backstage.
“No.”
“I was going to be gallant and give you my jacket.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re not a white knight.”