Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(42)

“Thanks a lot,” I say, and laugh.

“I have a stack of reports I need to get through this weekend. If I can get through them tonight, then Saturday and Sunday are yours.”

“In that case, I have no guilt whatsoever. Go forth and review, buy, trade, or barter. Whatever it is you do to keep the Damien Stark universe from collapsing.”

“I’ll get right on that,” he says evenly. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. You can tell me all about your first day then.”

“Okay.”

“Until then,” he whispers, “think of me, touching you.”

“I always do,” I say, before we end the call.

I’m grinning as I toss my phone down beside me on the bed, and when I turn and see Jamie come back from the kitchen with a bag of chips and a bowl of salsa, I can’t help but smile even wider. “How can you even think about eating more? I’m stuffed.”

“Like anyone could be too full for chips.” She crawls back onto the bed and nods at the phone. “Did he want you to come over tonight?”

“He wanted me at the apartment when he got home from the desert,” I say. And, yeah, I’m still smiling. I may not be going, but the thought is still nice.

“Seriously?” Jamie leans over and feels my forehead.

I shrug away. “What are you doing?”

“Checking for fever. Are you ill? I thought that all Damien had to do was crook his finger and you’d come.”

“I told him we were hanging out tonight,” I say. And then, because I just can’t resist, I add, “And for the record, you’re right. He crooks his finger, and I most definitely come.”

Jamie rocks with laughter, and after another slug of margarita, I join in. We settle back against the pillows and watch as Alan Rickman joins the party. Soon Bruce is kicking butt and taking names and we’re glued to the screen. Since this is Jamie’s favorite classic action flick, I’ve seen it at least a dozen times, but I still jump when Rickman kills the boss.

Naturally, that’s when my phone rings again.

It’s Ollie.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Are you with Stark?”

It’s an innocent enough question, I suppose, but I stiffen anyway. “No. Why?”

He sighs, and I realize he heard the terseness in my voice. “I just didn’t want to interrupt. Swear to God.”

“Sorry. No, I’m at home.”

“Yeah? That’s cool. So would you be up for getting a drink?”

“Now?” The truth is, there was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated. So what that I’m supposed to be in the middle of a girls’ night in? Ollie could totally come over and join the movie marathon, or we could all go out and get plastered.

But things have shifted so much between us that instead of being psyched to hang with him, I’m wary. And that saddens me. Lately, every time I see Ollie, bits of my life come crashing down around my ears. And I do not want another piece to get chipped away if I can help it.

Still, this is Ollie talking, and I’m not ready to give up on us. “Do you want to just hang?” I ask. “Or is there something you want to talk about?”

He’s silent for a moment, and I know he’s also aware of the storm clouds between us. We know each other too well. “Both,” he finally admits. “Oh, hell, Nikki. This is bullshit, and you know it, too.”

I do know it, but I’m not inclined to admit it. “What is?” I say.

“Charles mentioned the party at Stark’s tomorrow,” he says, referring to Charles Maynard, his boss and the attorney who’s represented Damien for over a decade. “He just assumed I was invited, too, what with me and you being me and you.” He’s trying to be matter-of-fact, but I hear the hurt in his voice.

“Ollie—”

Beside me, Jamie shifts her attention from her iPhone to me. Apparently this one-sided conversation is more interesting than clearing out her junk email.

“I think this is the first time you’ve thrown a party that I wasn’t invited to,” Ollie says.

“I’m not the one throwing it,” I say, but the words are hollow despite their truth. If I’d asked, Damien would have let Ollie come to the party. If it was important to me, I am certain that he would have pushed his disdain aside.

But I hadn’t asked, because I understood why Damien didn’t want Ollie there. I’d chosen the man in my bed over my lifelong friend, and I do not regret the decision.

He sighs. “It’s just—look, I’m sorry, okay? I get that you’re with the guy. And, yeah, I have my issues with him, but if this means that we can’t be friends anymore …”

He trails off, and I squeeze my eyes closed tight. “I don’t want to screw up our friendship, either,” I finally say, and then I let the thought hang. As far as I’m concerned, Ollie’s the one who’s built the wall. He can damn well be the one who starts tearing it down.

“So how about it?” he asks. “Let’s go get a drink. Hang out. Make up dialogue for the people at the next table.”

I smile despite myself. When I was in college and Ollie was in law school, that was our favorite form of cheap amusement. We’d go to Magnolia Cafe or Z’Tejas in Austin and watch people at the other tables. How they moved, how they interacted. And then we’d write their dialogue, turning friends into lovers, crafting arguments, and professing profound love. We never sat close enough to find out what the people were really saying. This was all about the make-believe.