Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(36)
We pass by a busy stainless steel bar cluttered with a few suit-wearing intimidating men perched on leather stools, and the glowing shelves lined with generous arrays of expensive alcohol behind it before we stop in front of a hostess table. The energy in the restaurant is familiar from the various times we’ve dined here, yet I still can’t seem to get a reading on what makes it buzz with a sense of comfort the way it does. Maybe it’s the bright, yet somehow not blinding lights that dangle from the high ceilings or the classical music that plays at just the right volume. Who knows. I know that I don’t particularly mind being here, though. I’m sure that I would even enjoy it with better company.
Slim fingers grasp my exposed wrist when we stop and wait for the hostess to show us to our parents. My eyes slide to the left and find Clare’s waiting gaze. The panic in her wide stare makes my mouth dry like I just sucked on a cotton ball.
“Don’t freak out,” she says mighty slowly, watching me like I’ve suddenly become a ticking time bomb that she’s terrified of setting off. “ButitlooksliketheybroughtLogan.”
I double blink. “Say again?”
“It looks like they brought Logan, S. I would recognize that sleazy smirk any day. You told them what happened right? That you’re not together anymore? Shit. Of course you did. It’s been months.”
I stop listening after she says his name, the sound of blood thumping in my ears too loud to focus on anything else. My stomach burns as what feels like acid rips holes through my insides. I swallow past the bile in my throat and follow Clare’s stare to the table off to the side of the restaurant, half-hidden behind a massive fish tank filled to the max with exotic looking fish.
“Did you know he was coming?” I think I mumble, fully aware that my tongue feels incredibly numb. It’s not until I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, testing it for sweat, that I realize that both my hands are shaking. Pull it together, Sierra.
My breath catches in my throat when we’re noticed and a masculine hand lifts in the air, two fingers creating a “come here” motion when we continue to stand in place. I can feel Liz’s confusion and worry when she uses a small palm to grip my lower thigh, squeezing to try and get my attention. With a fleeting smile, I manage to calm her slightly, her hand not moving, but squeezing much lighter.
The two long fingers continue to wave us over, but my feet refuse to move, glued to the fucking floor like the bottoms of my heels have melted and stuck to it. I close my eyes and imagine a Bugs Bunny worthy X marked below Logan’s seat. But when I don’t hear an anvil fall from the sky and crush the cheating sack of shit into smithereens, I open them again, disappointed. I shake the thoughts away and with a quick inhale, square my shoulders and steel my features.
I tell myself that I can look at him. That my knees won’t give out on me and leave me a blubbering pile of embarrassment on the floor. There’s nothing that he can do now that will hurt you anymore than what he already has. I repeat that sentence over and over again until I’m at least half positive that I won’t lose my fucking head. He’s nothing more than an ugly reminder of why men suck and why I’m perfectly content with being single until the day I die. He’s the past, regardless of how apparent it is that he wishes he still had a place in my present.
Logan Newcrest is like a stray cat—you leave out a bowl of tuna for it one too many times and it keeps coming back for more, no matter how often you kick the scraggly thing away.
Only in my case, I’ve given my stray cat one too many chances at redemption and now he won’t piss off until he gets another. But newsflash, asshole. Not going to happen. Not in this lifetime at least.
Feeling a bit more secure in myself, I push as much confidence as I can into myself and meet his stare head on, keeping my eyes half-lidded in an almost glare that makes his mouth tip up, clearly amused. There’s a pinch of something agonizing in my chest—an ugly concoction of shame and heartbreak—serving as a reminder of the damage that this amber-eyed man has done to me. But I know behind that heavy-lidded, arrogant stare and dimpled smile that used to have me clawing—begging, more like it—for his attention, is nothing more than an empty shell of a man that once upon a time looked at me like I had been the one to light the sun on fire for him. I realize now that he never truly thought that highly of me, that it was only a ruse to burrow himself into my life. But it felt real. It felt like forever.
Until reality sucker punched me right in the tit.
“Let’s get this over with, guys,” I say, turning over my hand and pulling Clare’s hand into mine.
Clare gives my hand a reassuring squeeze that says everything she doesn’t. I appreciate that she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask me if I’m sure, or if I'm positive. There’s a quiet voice in my head that tells me I might not have been able to do it if she had.
I’m the one to lead us to our table, needing desperately to take control wherever I possibly can. And when we round the fish tank and take in the full view of our table, I don’t let myself show even a sliver of the anger I feel pouring from every pore in my body.
My mother, all five-feet of her, jumps up from her chair at the far end of the table and claps like the restaurant isn’t full and that it’s just us at home. Her antics used to embarrass me when I was younger, but not anymore. You get used to it.
“Elizabeth! You look so gorgeous, sweetheart,” Dina Caster says in awe of her granddaughter. She swiftly ignores me and Clare, and stares down at the tiny girl that moves to hide behind Clare’s leg, eyeing the older woman—who might as well be a stranger to her—like she doesn’t know why she’s talking to her.