“I’m not saying the whole night, but what’s the harm in letting her have fun with us for an hour?” Gwen turns and winks at Natalie. “Your father is obviously right.”
“Obviously,” Natalie says, her voice light, her expression mock serious.
“Fine.” Jackson gives a heavy sigh. “One hour, and then off you go.”
“Deal.” Natalie beams.
I jut my chin at Cat. “Ready?”
“Fine. Ready.” She huffs, exasperated.
“Cat, if you don’t want to go with him, I will.” Payton offers oh so helpfully.
Before Cat can take her up on a possible escape, one that will only hurt her in the end, I say, “Thanks, sweetheart, but I need Cat for this.”
Payton gives me a little wink. “Gotcha.”
Cat sighs again, like she can’t believe she’s saddled with me, but I know it’s all an act. When she walks by, I grab her wrist and whisper, “You don’t fool me one bit.”
She glares up at me. “Coming?”
“Not yet, but you might be.”
She rears back, her eyes wide. “You’re the worst.”
“That’s the rumor.” I let her go, and she continues to walk through the door. Just so everyone in the room is crystal clear on the matter of Cat and me, I give her a good slap on the ass as we depart.
That should put her in a better mood.
The woman needs a good claiming.
17
Cat
I’m stomping my feet as we make our way into the tasting room, irrationally irritated at Caden. At Gwen and Jackson. And especially at Payton, who left absolutely no doubt that she was interested in the jerk.
In an unreasonable huff, I walk to the bar and start arranging glasses that don’t need arranging, just to collect myself.
I’ve always liked both of Gwen’s sisters, but right now, Payton and her flirting have gotten under my skin. I’m not going to lie, I wanted to smack her. I wanted to lunge over the table and pull her hair, screaming like a banshee that he was mine.Mine, goddamn it!
It’s the most annoying emotion I’ve ever experienced.
Made all the worse because I should not feel this way.
What’s even more horrifying is I’m positive Caden knew I was jealous.
As much as I keep telling myself to play it cool, I cannot seem to stop the minor tantrum I’m throwing.
The door clicks closed, and he chuckles.
It’s like nails on a chalkboard.
“Working on quite a mad there, aren’t ya?” That low, amused voice.
Ugh, I want to punch him. I think of him slapping my ass and flash hot at the memory of other things he’s slapped, but I latch on to indignation, whirling to face him.
He’s leaning over the edge of the bar, all casual like. A washed-out T-shirt with the wordsgood with my handsemblazoned over it stretches over his broad chest and hugs his biceps far too tightly for comfort. He’s got a toothpick hanging out of his mouth that he’s twirling.