Lance grins and relays my order to the waitress, adding an IPA for himself. “You can curb any latent homicidal tendencies until after Labor Day.”
I sigh dramatically. “I guess I can try.”
Our drinks arrive, and he taps the edge of his beer bottle against the salted rim of my margarita glass. I close my eyes to take the first sip and ohmygod. Tequila and lime juice over ice with a sprig of cilantro. “This is so good.”
I don’t notice Lance is looking at me funny until after my second sip. “What?”
His warm, whiskey-colored eyes have darkened to a decadent chocolate, and he reaches out a hand, curving his palm over my jaw and swiping his thumb over my lips. “Salt.”
For a moment, his hand just hovers there, holding my face like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
But if it were natural, it wouldn’t feel like my body was imploding.
And when he pulls away, the feeling barely dissipates. In an attempt to hide my agitation, I take another sip of my drink. More than a sip. A gulp.
I set the glass down to find Lance staring at me with his lips quirked in an amused smile, like he knows exactly what I’m feeling. I clear my throat awkwardly. “So . . .”
He lifts his beer again. “Tell me about yourself, Vivienne Radcliffe.”
“Me? I’m boring.”
Lance’s features pull together in an irritated expression I’m beginning to get used to. “To whom?”
I raise a hand. “I just am, objectively. Only child, my parents are still together. My father is a high school teacher, my mother is a local event planner. I grew up less than an hour away from here. Went to school in New York City. Had a few boyfriends, nothing dramatic. I thought my last one would turn out to be something more, but that didn’t work out. I’ve never left the country. Never—”
“Why didn’t it work out?” he interrupts gently.
This time, the ice rattles in my drink when I set it down on the table. “We just weren’t a match. It’s . . .”
“Boring?” Lance prods.
“To everyone but me, yeah. I worked for Richard’s family and lines got crossed—”
“I see your problem.”
My brows edge upward. “My problem?”
“You were dating a dick. You should be glad it didn’t work out.”
It’s such an awful joke that I can’t help but laugh. “That is truly terrible,” I manage to wheeze, thinking that Savannah would love his sense of humor.
“It is, isn’t it? But don’t blame me, you chose to be with him.”
Somehow, the laughter dries up in my throat. “I did. I really did.” My voice has turned into a froggy whisper. Lance’s expression becomes concerned.
“Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, no.” I shake my head, feeling like an idiot. “It’s fine. I’m fine, really.” I wrap my hands around my drink, focusing on the cold glass against my palms.
Until Lance’s palms are pressed against the top of my hands, his long fingers reaching past my wrists. “Has he tried to get you back?”
“No. I haven’t heard from him at all.”
“Then Dick doesn’t deserve you.” Suddenly, two tequila shots arrive on the table, and Lance lets go of my hands to push one of them in my direction. “Come on, nothing makes you forget about an ex faster than Patron.”
I take a shuddering breath and lift the shot glass, clinking rims with Lance, before tossing it down my throat. It sears a path down my esophagus and sends me into a coughing fit. But when I finally get control of myself, I look at my Viking with clear eyes. “How did you learn that?”
“That tequila is a heartbreak cure?” He snorts, catching the eye of our waitress and signaling for another round. “My sister. Well, technically, my stepsister. But we were close. After every breakup, she’d insist that I take her out for shots. Said that by the time her hangover was gone, so was her bad mood.”
“That’s actually pretty smart.” When our shots appear, I lift mine and say, “To your sister.”
A flash of something crosses Lance’s face, something that runs deeper than this casual conversation is meant to excavate. “To Krista.” And I realize everything he said about her was in the past tense.
We both down them, relieved at the distraction. This time, the liquor stings a little less.
“Well, her cure is working. I feel better already.”
I can see the effort it takes for Lance to pull on a lopsided smile, his full lips protesting with a quiver. But then, like the sun throwing off the shadow of a storm cloud, it shines bright, reaching his eyes and revealing the dimple carved into his cheek. Jesus, just slay me now. “Because of the tequila? Or because of me?”
Chapter 12
Lance
I don’t get an answer to my questions.
Our food arrives, along with a fresh margarita for Vivienne and another beer for me. I make sure she eats enough to soak up some of the alcohol and drinks most of her water.
I wasn’t lying about tequila being my remedy of choice when it comes to forlorn females. Except that Vivienne isn’t my sister, and I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of drunk women.
However, she might be more of a lightweight than I anticipated. “Are you a Viking?” she asks, leaning forward and pointing her fork at me.
“Am I a . . . what?”
“A Viking,” she repeats, matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you’ve looked in the mirror. You’re all big and buff and blond. Very Viking-esque.”
I take a bite of my steak, chewing slowly. “I can honestly say I’ve never been asked that question before. And no, I don’t believe there’s any Viking in my blood.”
“That you know of. You should take one of those DNA kits. Because you know what they might find?”
“Viking?”
“Viking!”
Vivienne is gorgeous. But drunk Vivienne is adorable. There’s an easiness to her expression, a playfulness to her otherwise elegant features.
“Have you ever cried over an ex-girlfriend, Lance?”
It’s not a question I need to consider for long. “That would be a hard no.”
Missy and I grew up together. Two Hampton Bays kids surrounded by the kind of wealth we could only dream of. But then, after my father’s death, I was uprooted to Manhattan and a posh city prep school where I never felt like I belonged. Missy would take the train to Penn Station every chance she got, over two hours each way—a welcoming slice of home in unfamiliar territory.
I thought we were in love. I thought we would be together forever.
Then came the MC Partners scandal. Followed shortly by my move to California. And three thousand miles is not nearly as manageable as eighty.
Missy and I lost touch, and I heard she started dating someone. Forever wasn’t very long at all.
I focused on my schoolwork. Buried my frustration into building a business.
RiskTaker took off, my bank account growing fatter with every new client. I was interviewed by the Wall Street Journal. I bought watches, cars, a house. I dated.
But the best thing about having money of my own was that I could fly my stepsister out to California, give her everything she lost when her father went bankrupt. We weren’t related by blood, but she taught me the meaning of family.