Love Her or Lose Her (Hot & Hammered #2)(60)

Wes sniffed and drained his beer. “Fuck that.”

They all threw some bills onto the bar and walked out.





Chapter Eighteen


Rosie watched the lights of Manhattan pass by in a blur. Some of that blur was thanks to the champagne she’d downed on their limo ride into the city. Mostly, though, it was just the nature of tonight. The breathless pace of it, the freshness of the experience. She was dressed in silver sequins—straight from Bethany’s closet—her hair was in glossy spirals around her face, and she’d been decorated with dark, cherry-red lipstick. She barely recognized the woman looking back at her from the opposite window’s reflection.

Good. She wanted to be a different kind of Rosie tonight. A Rosie who took risks and made decisions for herself, for better or worse. Tomorrow morning, when she woke up, she wanted to be someone who wasn’t afraid to try new things. Maybe getting drunk and dancing with her girlfriends was a far cry from opening a restaurant, but she had to start somewhere.

She couldn’t blame Dominic for the sheltered life she’d been living. As much as she wanted to blame him for the fact that she never went out, never cultivated friendships or had fun, she had to take ownership. Once upon a time, she’d wanted nothing more than to be home with him. Just the two of them. But toward the end, staying home meant staying in silence. Bobbing around feeling like a disconnected spare part.

She refused to feel that way tonight.

With the expensive leather rubbing the bare backs of her thighs and the sounds of the city drifting in through the open moonroof, Rosie might as well have been living on a different planet. The lack of familiarity excited and scared her at the same time. With her axis already tilted, she was getting ready to tip it even more. Before the night she’d gone to stay at Bethany’s house, she never would have believed she’d leave her husband. This morning, she never would have believed she’d quit her job. Something was changing inside her. Throwing herself outside her comfort zone when everything was already in flux made her pulse race.

Bethany scooted closer on the leather seat. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yes.” Despite her answer, Rosie shook her head no. “I’ve never gone out dancing and drinking like this. Not without Dominic.”

Her blond bestie sipped from her champagne flute and tilted her head thoughtfully. “What are you worried about?”

“We’re not even in the club yet and I feel unfaithful,” Rosie admitted, cupping her knees in her hands. “I’m in this weird place where I’m not sure if I’m afraid to piss off Dominic or if that’s exactly what I want. And I would never look at another man while we’re still married—that’s not what I mean. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll never be able to look at another man. But this dress and this situation where he can’t confirm my safety would be enough to drive him crazy.”

Bethany sighed. “I’m sorry it’s so complicated right now,” she said. “Look at it this way—if going out in a sexy dress is enough to make him lose his shit, the deed is done. The shit has been lost. But you’re here. Might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” They both glanced toward the other end of the limousine where Kristin was trying to fix Georgie’s hair and getting her hand slapped away. “We didn’t come here to meet men, Rosie. It’s just going to be us girls dancing and curating hangovers. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Rosie’s spine straightened. “You’re right.” She blew out a breath. “I deserve this.”

“You’re damn right you do,” Bethany drawled, tossing back the rest of her champagne.

“I’m going to dance until I get blisters.”

“Ouch, but yes. Who says fun can’t be bloody?”

The limousine started to bump along the cobblestones that signaled their arrival in the Meatpacking District. Their destination appeared in the window, and Rosie’s excitement level rose, eclipsing her trepidation. While they’d been getting ready earlier that evening, Bethany had regaled her with stories of nights out at the Gansevoort Hotel. It was a sleek black building, looming high above the packed Friday-night street. After their driver helped them out of the limousine, the women linked arms and clicked on their heels toward the entrance.

As soon as the seemingly identical doormen swung open the double doors, sexy, earthy music rode over Rosie’s bare skin and she inhaled the myriad scents of expensive perfume, cologne, and the rich, polished tones of the hotel lobby. It was darker inside the hotel than on the street, the staff almost intimidatingly good-looking in all-black uniforms.

The women piled into an elevator with several strangers and hit the button labeled Lelie Rooftop. It took them to the penthouse club in three seconds flat, letting them out into one of the most decadent spaces Rosie had ever seen. Just like downstairs, the atmosphere was dark, lit up tastefully with modern chandeliers and muted red candlelight. The club took up the entire rooftop of the building, sprawling in every direction with lounge areas and a dance floor, with a bar in the center of it all. Every side of the club afforded a different view of the twinkling New York City skyline and the Hudson River beyond. It was luxurious and magical.

“Wow,” Georgie breathed, getting off the elevator beside her. “And I thought the Waterfront was lit,” she said, referring to Port Jefferson’s favorite date-night spot. “I should have practiced dancing before we came. I’m going to look like a tawdry chicken out there.”