Spin (Boosted Hearts Book 2) (16 page)

She quickly looked away and almost stumbled over her own damn feet in the process.

He grabbed her elbow. “Careful.”

Pulling her arm free, she headed to Paddy’s, the Irish pub across the street. “This place has the best burgers.” She glanced back at him. “I could do with a beer, as well.”

She wasn’t the only one. But something wasn’t right. The woman was fidgety, wired. One minute, she’d been pushing him away, the next, she wanted to hang out and eat burgers. Only way to find out what was going on with her was to let whatever this was play out.

Darcey chose a booth along the wall, taking the seat opposite him.

He’d just sat down when his phone vibrated in his back pocket. It was shoved in the same pocket as his wallet and he pull them both out, throwing his wallet on the table, and checked his phone. Another unknown caller. The third in the last couple weeks.

He was about to answer it and tell them he didn’t want whatever it was they were selling when a waitress stopped by their table. He hit end call and shoved it back into his pocket.

Darcey shook her head. “I don’t need the menu.”

“You come here a lot, huh?’

She nodded. “Yeah, guess you could say that.”

“Well, since you know what’s good, I’ll hit the restroom while you order.” A smile lifted her lips, and he felt it in the center of his chest. “Won’t be long.”

It took a few minutes to get back to their table, since the place had gotten busier, but not that goddamn long—not long enough for some other guy to have moved in and be sitting beside Darcey.

She’d scooted over so he could fit, and they were talking…and laughing.

It was irrational how angry seeing her with another man made him. But there it was, he was a jealous asshole, and he fucking hated it with a passion.

He strode over and slid into his seat, staring across at the pair of them. The guy had a Paddy’s shirt on. The barman?

“We’ve already ordered,” Joe growled.

The guy finally tore his eyes away from Darcey, who was now staring at Joe like he was an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac. Not surprising since that’s exactly how he felt. The fuck-wit with a death wish had his arm draped along the seat behind her, his fingers brushing her shoulder. Joe hated that, too, wanted to tear the limb from the guy’s shoulder and beat the fuck out of him with it.

He smiled at Joe. “Hey there.” He extended his hand. “Patrick. Most people call me Paddy. Nice to meet you. Darce said she was here with a friend.” Then
Paddy’s
smile got bigger, goddamn smug.

Joe started at the guy’s outstretched hand.
Darce?
You have got to be shitting me.
This was
his
motherfucking pub. Joe wanted to demand
Patrick
tell him how he knew Darcey, wanted to roar in the bastard’s face.

“Pleasure,” Joe forced out, locking eyes with the guy in full pissing-contest mode and not even trying to hide it.

The fuck-wit dropped his hand when Joe ignored it. “Likewise.”

“Well, was good to see you again, Paddy…” Darcey piped up, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the table.

Your cue to leave fuck-features
. But good old Paddy didn’t take the hint. His hand dropped to her shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Haven’t seen you here in a while, babe. You wanna catch up later?”

Her gaze darted to Joe then back to the asshole dangling off her.

Joe’s thigh muscles bunched tight. He was
this
close to standing, grabbing him by the throat, and flinging him across the pub.

And going by her wide eyes and flushed face, Darcey was either turned on—which made him want to smack his head against the table until he knocked himself out—or embarrassed.

He knew which he preferred.

Darcey shook her head. “Sorry, can’t tonight.”

The guy glanced over at Joe then back to her. “Perhaps another time?”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

Maybe?

He was just about to explode out of his seat when the guy stood, kissed the top of her head, and walked away.

“What
in the fuck
was that?”

Her posture went ridged and she turned to him. “What do you mean ‘what in the fuck was that’?’”

The infuriating woman had dropped her voice, adding a growl, probably in an attempt to imitate him.

“Who’s that cocksucker to you?”

The flush in her cheeks deepened. “How is that any of your business, Joe?”

“Well,
Darcey
, when I came back from the can to find some guy sitting at
our
table with his filthy fucking hands all over you, I decided to make it my business.”

“Why?” she fired back, expression stubborn as hell.

Oh no you don’t, peaches.

Every muscle in his body tightened, turning to stone. It took effort, but he swallowed the snarl climbing his throat and tried to get his shoulders to relax. He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted—an excuse to send him packing for good. The woman was weakening, and it scared the shit out of her.

“Because when you’re at my back, I need to know you’re focused. Not day dreaming about some motherfucking leprechaun skipping after you with his tongue hanging out.” His voice had risen at the end. And what he’d just said made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
Way to cover your jealousy, asshole.

She scowled. “Patrick doesn’t skip. Well, I’ve never seen him do it.”

“Yeah, and what do the two of you do?”

“You really want to know, Joe?”

No. Stop now. Stop talking.
“Sure, we are just
friends
after all,” he forced out.

Her eyes flashed. “He was my fuck buddy for a few months. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He shot out of his seat, gaining several looks from around the room. He ignored them and loomed over the table. “I thought you didn’t do ‘friends with benefits’.”

“I don’t. He’s not my friend. And you can talk.” She shoved at his chest. “Sit the hell down, people are looking.”

He did, but only so he wasn’t thrown out. “Is that why you brought me here, sweetheart? To rub my nose in it?”

She narrowed her eyes, but he didn’t miss the guilt that shone from them. “I didn’t know he’d be working tonight…”

“He owns the place, right?”

The color on her face moved lower, creeping down her neck. “Yes.”

She fucking knew all right. She’d wanted to shove that shit in his face, had used that prick to try and push him away. “You still fucking him?”

“I’m done with this conversation.”

The waitress chose that moment to deliver their food and drinks. He gritted his teeth before he said something or did something that scared her, chased her off. Something that would cause her to cut all contact.

Maybe it was already too late.

The idea made him fucking ill. Not as ill as the mental images swirling in his head of her with Patrick. Just the idea had rage pumping through his veins so strongly it took everything he had not to stand and fire the table across the room.

The waitress left and he knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he had to know. “When did you last hook up with him?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes and his stomach sank. “Again, it’s none of your goddamn business.”

“I know,” he rasped.

Her gaze shot up, locking with his. She was quiet for the longest time—so long he didn’t think she’d answer. Finally, she said, “Four months ago.” Then she looked down again and started on her burger.

The relief was so strong he actually sagged back in his seat. The burger in front of him was huge. It looked amazing, but he’d lost his appetite.

Yeah, he was a giant hypocrite. She was right, he was one to talk. But knowing in some far-off, abstract way that she’d been with other guys and actually coming face to face with one of them was another thing entirely.

Then he remembered Darcey chasing off the woman he’d been talking to in the club that night. She’d felt what he’d just suffered. She’d seen him with someone else and she’d hated it. So much so, she’d put a stop to it the only way she could.

The infuriating woman was tied up in just as many knots over him as he was her. He just had to get her to damn well admit it.

He watched her take another bite, and his stomach rumbled, hunger rushing back with a vengeance. And not just for food. This particular craving never left, not when Darcey was near. He picked up his burger and took a big bite.

Fuck.

Chapter Twelve

D
arcey screwed up her face and clutched the phone to her ear. “I’m just surprised you remember me.” She was going for seductive, but wasn’t sure she’d pulled it off. Then again, the creep on the other end of the line was breathing in her ear like freaking Darth Vader. He was either hot under the collar or about to go into cardiac arrest.

“How could I forget a woman like you? So tonight, eight?”

Gag
. A shudder raced through her. “Sounds great. Looking forward to it.”

“See you later, honey.”

“Yep. Later.”

She quickly ended the call.

Done. No turning back now.

Glancing back down at Mr. Ferrari’s card, the one she’d swiped from Joe’s wallet at the pub the night before when he’d gone to the restroom—before everything went to hell in a handbasket—she winced.

He was right, of course. She’d taken him there almost hoping Patrick would come and talk to her. It was a messed up thing to do, but as soon as she’d seen the disappointment and stress lining his features when he’d realized the Ferrari was gone—knowing he was feeling that way because of her, because of her actions—her first reaction had been to reach for him, to do whatever she could to make him feel better, to make up for the mess she’d made of everything. But she couldn’t do that. She’d made sure of it.

He wasn’t hers to comfort.

Never would be.

Forcing those words past her lips—while he’d pressed her up against her door, his heat, his strength, his scent overwhelming her—and telling him the physical side of their relationship was done, hadn’t been easy. None of this was easy. Not with the way she felt about him. But she’d forced herself to draw that line. Her gut had been in knots, emotions in a whirl—and Joe… Well, he’d taken it
really
well.

It shouldn’t have, but it had hurt. A lot.

So when her first reaction had been to comfort him when they realized the Ferrari was gone, she’d gotten pissed with herself, and yeah, her petty hurt feelings had also been thrown into the mix when she’d suggested they go to Paddy’s. She’d needed to push him as far and as hard as she could, because she’d been on the verge of caving, of giving him whatever he wanted from her. And every time he looked at her like a hungry goddamn wolf about to devour her, she felt her resolve chipping away.

That couldn’t happen.

Then she’d spotted Paddy’s, and everything had snowballed from there. She’d known Patrick would more than likely be there, that he’d come and talk to her. The guy still texted occasionally. They’d hooked up regularly for a while, nothing serious, and she had no intention of going there with him again. Still, she’d selfishly used Patrick to gain the upper hand in a situation she was steadily losing control of. She’d needed a way to put space between her and Joe before she did something stupid and the situation got completely out of hand.

It had blown up in her face.

But in that moment, she’d been teetering on an emotional precipice, wanting Joe beyond reason and sick over ending things. She’d been feeling vulnerable, injured even, and she could admit she’d wanted to hurt him back.

Like she hadn’t done enough of that already.

So damn selfish.

God, she’d built him up in her head from the moment she’d laid eyes on him, had turned him into something he wasn’t. Her Savior. Her protector. Someone to lean on, to take some of the pain, the weight, and stress she felt every damn day away. To hold her when she missed Noah so much all she could do was curl in a ball on her bed and focus on breathing, afraid her heart might actually stop beating.

She’d fooled herself, out of desperation and self-pity, that he could be those things for her. He couldn’t. She had to save herself and Noah. No one else could do that but her.

But he was right, she owed him and she would help him.

Starting with the Ferrari.

Calling up Joe’s number on her phone, she fired off a quick text.

Show time.

~ * ~

Edward Sparks, AKA Mr. Ferrari, also known to his friends as Sparky—which he’d told her on the phone was what he preferred—was waiting outside Sphere, the exclusive restaurant/bar they’d agreed to meet. He was standing with his hands in the trouser pockets of his light colored suit, dark shiny shoes peeking out the bottom, and he’d combed back his dyed black hair, emphasizing his terrifyingly high eyebrows and that look of constant surprise.

He hadn’t seen her yet, and she took a moment to scope out their position—or more importantly, where he’d parked the damn car.