Chapter 20

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Make the plan. Expect the plan to go off the rails… Blow up the plan.

Briar

Was this in the plans? No. Is everything technically still working in my favor? Absolutely.

I mean, who cares if I'm emotionally attached to the big guy. It's not the end of the world. Except it is.

No. No. We will not catastrophize this situation. Everything is fine. I am a healthy young adult, and Rowan is a beautiful, kind, reliable, attractive, big, hot man. My little oops last night is totally a reasonable oops.

Matter of fact, we're both probably suffering from aftershock hormones. If I can keep myself away for a little while, this whole situation will blow over. Being intimate with someone—even at the kissing level—messes up the brain chemicals something fierce, and it stands to reason I've never gone taste their tongue far with anyone else. So it's absolutely understandable that I'm dwelling on things.

Who am I kidding?

What was I thinking?

"Bossette?" Lace says, for what might be the tenth time.

"Hm? Yeah?" I glance dully her way.

"We gonna talk about…" She touches several places on her neck, referencing my fresh bruises.

Mercy. Are there really that many?

I lift the lemonade I made earlier to my lips and sip from the straw before pinning my attention on the wide, sunny yard. The pavilion where we're sitting is the kind of extravagant marble structure that would house elite clients during business deals that transpire over tall flute glasses of wine.

Lace and I are both sitting on a cold white step, sipping lemonade out of beer mugs.

"What about them?" I murmur.

"Little rough for ya, ain't it?" Genuine concern ripples in her blue eyes, and she combs her fingers across her short, shaved hair. "Heck, it's rough for me."

"Chip's a strudel compared to Rowan."

Her mouth opens, closes. "I'm choosing to believe that wasn't derogatory 'cause strudels are delicious." Foregoing the straw I plopped in her mug, Lace takes a swig like her lemonade is spiked. "Ya okay?"

"Peachy," I mutter into my straw before I blow bubbles around the ice cubes.

Lace touches my arm. "I mean it, Briar. Are you okay?"

My inhale burns as it skates down my throat and into my lungs. I shrug her hand off. "He's just…a lot sweeter than I thought he would be. I knew he was kind. I wouldn't have proposed any of this if he weren't…but…he is so sweet, Lace. He's already broken. I could destroy him."

"What do ya wanna do?"

I shake my head. I have no idea. Ideally, not destroy him. But it's a little late for that if his feelings are invested as deeply as this morning's conversation implies. He's already tangled in my web. I've done my job too well.

Dang that first brief kiss, which set this catastrophe in motion. First rule of dealing with the touch-deprived—do not touch them. The moment you become a source of what they're starving for, they don't let go. There's no clean break. No happy end.

"I don't want to talk about it. Let's just focus on the point. The Maxim Project. The sooner this is done, the better." I grip my glass tight, let condensation gather against my skin. "Tell me everything I need to know."

Lace watches me in silence for several seconds, then she nods and does as I've asked.

?

"How?" Rowan mumbles into his hand when I win again, dragging the pool of Poker chips to my side of the table. Ankles crossed, I pretend I'm totally A-OK.

My plans are going fantastic.

I've not messed up at all.

With Granger's men out of the equation, the atmosphere in The Casa has significantly improved. On the other side of the lounge, several men are laughing at a video game. A handful are in the loft, gambling over pool. Some other pairs sit at the fully-stocked bar and yell at sports over drinking games.

"You must be cheating," Corbin accuses as he tosses his pair down where his stack of chips used to be.

From the bar stool behind us, Chip pulls his attention off the game and snaps, "Bossette doesn't cheat."

Entirely sloshed on the seat beside his, Lace looks up and slurs, "Wha? Who said that? Lemme at 'em."

Chip coos and strokes her hair until she settles.

"No one's this lucky." Rowan monitors me in a way that—for the record—doesn't make my stomach flip flop at all.

Threading my fingers together, I prop my elbows on the table. "Are you sure about that?"

"Positive." He leans across the table. "But if you insist that you're not cheating, maybe I just need the right motivation to beat you."

I dare say. Is this man coming on to me? My, how the turntables. "What do you have in mind?" I murmur.

"Strip Poker."

My brows rise. I glance at the room full of men, and Lace. Who is somehow losing the drinking game I don't even think she's playing.

A slash of heat cuts across Rowan's cheeks. "In private, I mean. Not here. Definitely not here."

My eyes close briefly, to let me compose myself. When I have, I pat his hand. "Baby, I don't think you should flirt anymore. You might hurt yourself. And while I do find the image of you forfeiting in your underwear tempting, I really do have to decline."

"Hey, Chip?" Corbin calls once too many moments have passed and Rowan still hasn't put any distance back between us. "Want to deal in and spare me from being a third wheel over here?"

"Sorry, mate." Chip touches a kiss to Lace's forehead. "You're the fifth wheel."

Corbin blinks, running his fingers over the top of his cropped hair. "I am suddenly very sad."

Rowan puffs the idea of a laugh as he finally draws back and toys with one of his few remaining chips.

Without him near, I'm suddenly aware how cold I am.

I miss playing Poker with my parents. Every Sunday. In the quiet back at The Giungla, we'd deal in with candy. Mama always lost everything first. Papa would "sponsor" her so she could keep playing. In the end, it didn't matter, though. I'd eat the Almond Joys, Mama would take the KitKats, and Papa would munch away on the 100 Grands while we plotted our moves for the following week.

Papa always told me that life is chess, but the pieces are playing Poker. Even the pawns can bluff their way into becoming queens. So long as you don't live with self-imposed limits, anything is possible.

All you risk losing is your soul along the way.

Realizing I've lost my smile, I stand. "I need a drink. I think I left some of my lemonade in the kitchen."

Rowan's hint of a smile fades when I pass him on my way out. Halfway down the hallway, his heavy footsteps trail behind me. "Princess?" His hand meets my shoulder, stopping me in place.

I don't turn.

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

My lips part, and a hundred lies collect in my skull. Any number of them would work to manipulate his care and concern away, so I could get a few spare minutes to myself.

But after last night, lies seem too cruel.

So, I opt for the truth.

"I miss my parents, Rowan. We used to play Poker every Sunday night." Biting my cheek, I close my eyes and hold tears at bay. "It's been months since I last saw them, and—" My voice breaks.

Rowan's arms close around me—as though hugging me is effortless. The big guy who struggles to smile hugs like it's easy, like all he's needed is someone to give him permission.

He is tragic. Beautiful. Warm. A man capable of so much good because he's seen the harrowing depths of the bad. He could have left this place—with all its abuse and cold memories—behind when his parents vanished. Granger would have taken over seamlessly and never looked for any of them.

But Rowan didn't.

He didn't because he wanted to make something better for people he's never met. In contrast, I—

"Everything will be okay," he murmurs, cupping my cheek and lifting my face. I let my eyes open to find his.

"You don't know that," I say.

His thumb swipes over my cheekbone. "I do. No matter what happens, no matter what has already happened, you will be okay. You have Lace. And Chip. Your family. You will not be alone."

Moisture burns in my eyes. I fight to keep from sniffling. "You're not adding yourself to that list, what with your grand proposal last night?"

"Last I checked, husbands and wives were family, princess."

My stomach clenches even as a damp laugh breaks free. "Heavens. You're so articulate today. Except earlier. Strip Poker? Really?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. I do not know how you make it look so easy to say the most unhinged lines."

"Practice. Which I do not recommend for you." Pressing my lips together, I settle my face against his chest and wrap my arms around his waist. "You're an uncut gemstone, pet. Sharp, unpolished edges. Precious regardless." He smells so much better than anyone is supposed to—especially than anyone whose job description includes disembowelment is supposed to. I'm pretty sure the sweet, faintly metal scent isn't just guns and knives, but maybe I'm being morbid. "I'm feeling vulnerable tonight, and I don't want to take it out on you. I'm not trying to lead you on like this."

"I don't care."

"Your feelings will get hurt."

"So?"

Sighing, I tilt my head back. "You don't care if I accidentally break your heart?"

His palm fits to my cheek, and his fingers toy with my short hair. "I'm an adult, Briar. If you break my heart, so be it. I'm used to abiding by ever changing rules. Want me when you want me. Use me when you feel like it. If I get caught in the crossfire of your emotions as you figure out what they are where I'm concerned, I'll deal with it."

"Do you miss abuse or something?"

"Who knows?"

My lips press together before I sag against him again. "Honestly, I should do the mature thing and sleep it off."

"That's boring," he murmurs into my hair.

"Have we changed places, pet?"

"I don't think so. I'm pretty sure if we had, I'd have been the one winning earlier. Were you cheating?"

I hum. "I'm good at reading people and managing my own signals. I can make anyone believe anything I want them to." Even that they'd like to marry me someday. "It's quite wicked, actually."

"Sounds it."

"Also, I count cards."

He exhales a laugh. "There it is. Counting cards is cheating."

"Can't stop me or prove it if it's in my head."

"You're joking."

"Nope." Leaning back, I chance a look up at him again. Wonder and admiration fill his lovely dark eyes. Ebony strands of his hair cascade across his forehead, tousled. He's stunning. So handsome I could cry.

Maybe that's why I kill my morals, stand on my toes, and kiss him. His arms flex around my body, then his fingers skim into my hair. They grip; memories from last night flood.

I break away, already breathless. "We should…"

"Yeah," he answers, sounding as starved for air as I do.

I don't think he knows what I'm trying to say. I just think that, in this moment, he'd do anything for me.

"I mean…" My hands twist in his clothes. I swallow. "I didn't mean that. Not really. Do you…understand?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"I'm just so tired."

Delicately, he touches a kiss to the apple of my cheek and eases the grip in my hair. "I know, princess. Let's get you to bed." Without another word, he scoops me up, carries me to our room, buries me in his bed, and stays.