His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,8

scowl, which is the only acceptable response a doctor can give when confronted with a lawyer.

“Indeed,” I say, nodding my thanks at the bartender for my latest refill.

“Have they been married long?” Jake asks.

“Oh, they’re not married.” I take a measured sip this time, deciding to pace myself. “He lives down in—”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. What?” Jake gapes at me as though I’ve suggested a date with yonder Lady Liberty. “They’re not married?”

“No,” I say, startled by all the sudden vehemence.

“Then why the fuck are you over here acting like you’re about to jump overboard?”

“Because they’re in a committed relationship,” I say, wondering why that needs to be said and what I’m missing.

“A committed—?” He can barely get the words out. “Are you insane?”

“No,” I say, my ears starting to burn, although I’m not sure whether it’s from anger or embarrassment. “A commitment’s a commitment.”

Jake stares at me for a second or two then bursts into a round of raucous laughter that culminates with him doubling over and bracing his hands on his thighs for support.

I, meanwhile, stand there seething impotently—yeah, it’s definitely anger—and decide that if I get the opportunity to push anyone overboard tonight, it’s going to be Jake rather than Ally’s boyfriend.

“Will you stop being such a choirboy? For once?” he says as he collects himself enough to straighten and wipe his streaming eyes. “Jesus Christ, wait till I tell Liam about this.”

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing my other nickname. Choirboy.

“I don’t get the joke,” I snap. Commitments mean something, as I know from painful personal experience. I was tempted back when I was married, but I didn’t cheat. I did the right thing and stood by my vows as a husband. Which mature adults are supposed to do when they possess a working moral compass. “Fill me in.”

“You’re standing here like she’s this forbidden fruit, Mikey. But she’s not even married. You were married. That’s forbidden. But you’re talking about a boyfriend? Hell, she’s not even engaged. For all you know, she just started dating this clown two weeks ago. And you want to sacrifice your big chance for that? Don’t be a dope, choirboy. The way I see it? The way most men see it? She’s fair game. Fair. Game.”

I frown while this novel idea reverberates through my moralistic brain.

Do the right thing, Mikey is the soundtrack by which my upstanding parents raised me and my sister, their precious children, of whom much was given and much was expected. Don’t screw it up.

No lying. No cheating. Be kind. Work hard. Keep your word.

That pretty much covers every lesson they ever taught us.

And yet…

“Yeah, but—” I begin.

“Yeah, but nothing,” he says. “Don’t try to tell me you owe that guy anything. You don’t know him. And if he hasn’t put a ring on it yet, that’s on him.”

I feel a wild swoop of hopeful excitement but do my best to rein it in.

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to blow anyone’s shit up,” I say. “That’s bad karma.”

“Relax. If their relationship is as rock solid as it needs to be, nothing you do will hurt it.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“That sounds like the kind of thing people tell themselves to justify bad behavior,” I say darkly. “Like the bank robber who says, ‘Yeah, but they shouldn’t have left the vault unlocked.’”

“Yeah, okay. You know what’s bad karma? Letting a golden opportunity pass you by and then still having this woman on your mind in another four years. Think about that.”

The idea generates an involuntary grimace. Four more years of thinking about Ally? Of wondering what she’s doing and whether she ever thought about me the way I thought about her?

Trust me when I tell you that I’m not built for that.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with grim satisfaction, successfully reading my expression once again. An annoying habit that both he and Liam possess in spades. “You have my permission to go for it. Now I’m done with this conversation. I’m not going to let your ridiculous ethics cause me to starve when they’re serving prime rib and shrimp in there. Peace.”

With that, he strides off, leaving me to marinate in my own juices while I process his advice and try to figure out next steps. Part of my problem is that my body has a violently negative reaction to the possibility that Jake could be right about anything. Ever. Sure, he’s a brilliant doctor these days, as well as being one of my business partners and