It's About Time (Blossom Peak #4)(18)
The corner of my mouth tips up. “Things are healing well. Should be good to go in a few more weeks.”
Henley lifts his beer to his mouth. “I still can’t believe you let some woman stick a needle through your penis.”
“Well, one day, some woman will be very grateful that I did.” My eyes land on Dilynne without thinking, but I quickly look away. The last t hing I need is her brother growing suspicious of these tumultuous feelings I’m fighting to ignore.
Henley slaps my back. “I really hope you find someone who appreciates it, Elliot.”
“I hope I find several women who do.”
Shaking his head, he says, “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s what you want.”
His words catch me off guard as I twist to face him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He tilts his head to the side, pursing his lips. “I mean, now that you’ve experienced sex with someone you care about—or at least, someone that you used to care about—you’re honestly telling me you want to go back to the casual shit?”
“Just because you, Fletcher, and Rhonan have all been hypnotized by your women and are happy about it, doesn’t mean that I want that shit again. Look where that got me.”
“That’s only because Tori wasn’t the right person.”
“And I have no desire to put myself through that again with the potential of the next one being the wrong one too.”
A heavy sigh leaves his lips. “I don’t blame you for being jaded, man. But when you were happy?” Our eyes meet again. “I don’t know. I felt like that version of you was who you were always meant to be.”
“Wow. Thanks for being so vague.”
He laughs. “I just meant, I’ve watched you change over the years as life hit you with shit. Hell, we all have. But when you felt like you had a partner? Someone to lean on through the rollercoaster?” Shrugging, he continues, “I’d never seen you like that.”
“Delusional? Irrational? Out of my fucking—”
“ Grounded,” he interjects before I can be more self-deprecating. “Purposeful. Like you knew who you were and not some version of Elliot Thorne people expected you to be.”
I drag my tongue across my teeth. “Well, that’s rich since I literally went through with the big wedding spectacle because that’s what my parents wanted. And I agreed to have kids with Tori even though I never really saw myself being a dad, so not sure that’s an accurate assessment.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t see myself being a dad either until I was one. And the person who ultimately helped me realize how important it was to figure out who I am and what I want…was Elodie.”
As if he summoned her, his nanny-turned-girlfriend approaches in a floor-length violet gown, her face lighting up the second she spots Henley.
“There you are,” she says as she reaches him.
His arms encircle her waist, drawing her into his chest. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her lips.
Her smile is instant, and I hate that a sliver of jealousy slices through the center of my chest. “Carol and Nick are about to leave with Remy, so I wanted to make sure we got to say goodbye.”
Henley turns to face me, but I hold my hand up before he can speak. “Go. I’ll be fine. I need a refill anyway.”
The second they’re gone, I head toward the bar, eager for another drink to dull the ache in my chest. But then my eyes land on the ass of a woman flirting with the bartender, and I don’t even need to see her face to know who it is.
Jesus Christ, I have a problem.
“ You know,” Dilynne says, biting her bottom lip as the bartender’s gaze drops down to her cleavage and then back up, “I have a theory that a man who can make a good martini must be good in bed.”
“Is that so?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
He leans closer to her as he holds the shaker in one hand, clearly hooked. “And why is that?”
“Because martinis are all about the right ratios and details.” She trails a finger over the hand he has braced on the bar, and something twists low in my gut. “The perfect martini requires patience. Skill. Any man who can make that drink probably knows how to use those talents in other areas as well.”
Not wanting to witness another second of this horrible exchange — especially since it’s spiking this unexplainable jealousy—I slide my glass along the surface of the bar so it hits their intertwined hands. “Can I get a refill, please?”
Dilynne glares at me over her shoulder, a look she’s given me hundreds of times before, but instead of reminding me to walk away like it should, it makes me want to rile her up even further.
“I’ll be right with you,” the bartender says, making eye contact with me before turning back to Dilynne.
Irritation fills me, so I decide to put an end to this little charade. Patting Dilynne on the arm, her silky skin under my touch doing its best to distract me, I lean in closer and say, “Glad your syphilis has finally cleared up.”
Dilynne’s jaw clenches tight before she mutters under her breath. “You motherfucker.”
The bartender instantly stands tall again and drops his eyes up and down Dilynne before reaching for a glass and emptying the contents of the tumbler, sliding the martini in her direction. “Uh, here’s your drink.”