The Ex Project by Nia Arthurs

Sneak Peek! Be My Always Chapter Two

The bar is crowdedfor a Friday night. Not that I expected any less. My team is crunched around a booth, trying and failing to act like they belong here. Like they fit.

They don’t.

None of us do.

This bar is a popular lounge in the heart of an artsy suburb. It was made for hipsters with beards and dumb causes.

We’re clearly misplaced in our business suits and perfect ties and capitalist airs.

Not that I care.

If I have to suffer, I might as well suffer with a well-made brew.

A full mug lunges through the air. The suit next to me stumbles to his feet.

Terrence.

He’s already piss-drunk and we haven’t even been here an hour.

Every eye turns his way.

He grins. Revels in the attention. “Here’s to Brendon and another successful merger!”

I nod my thanks.

“And screw all the people who call you a puppet behind your back! You deserve this, man!” Terrence hoists his glass as he completes his toast—that somehow feels like an insult.

Everyone around the table squirms in discomfort.

Eyes dart left and right.

I offer Terrence an unaffected grin and lift my glass. “Cheers.”

Nervous hands scramble to join me. Shot glasses collide in the middle of the wooden table. Alcohol sloshes over pale hands and white cufflinks.

A rumble of ‘cheers’ answers the silence.

I pull my hand back. Drink to give my mouth something to do other than smile as if I want to be here.

As if I’m enjoying myself.

Who would?

I sit surrounded by Dad’s spies and brainless yes-men. Those who don’t fall into the two afore-mentioned camps resent the hell out of me.

Not that I blame them.

Everyone here is at least twenty years older. They’ve worked in this industry all their lives. Sweated blood. Tears. Time. Climbed the ladder, hoping, praying to get their break.

And then I rolled along with the last name Humes and the crown of nepotism sitting crookedly on my head.

Life isn’t fair.

I don’t give jack about who thinks I deserve my position or not.

It is what it is.

Today’s a celebration and I’m stuck playing the part until it’s deemed polite to leave.

The tequila goes down burning. A streak of flames pours through my veins.

Liquid fire.

So good.

I squeeze my eyes closed. Savor the rush. Welcome the contentment that swoops in to unwind my tense muscles and relax my stomach.

It’s been a hectic few weeks working this acquisition. I freaking deserve this.

My gaze seeks out Franklin. One of Dad’s men. “Best bottle?”

“They kept it locked away in the back. You’ve got to know someone who knows someone.” He chuckles. A dark, self-satisfied sound that tells me he’d do anything to keep his lifestyle going, even ride on the coattails of an enemy. “Your dad taught me that.”

Discomfort bursts around the table.

Dad.

The simple mention of his name sucks the air out of a room.

I look away.

A voice draws my attention back. “Speaking of, what’s the great Mr. Humes up to these days?”

That question’s from Sol. He’s sitting at the other end of the table.

Dark eyes bore into me.

I glare right back.

The guy plots my death in his spare time, but he hasn’t quit yet and he’s too damn good at his job for me to let go.

Terrence’s little toast was him being stupid, but Sol is quiet and shrewd. A silent hurricane.

He knows how to hit where it hurts.

The question shatters my little bubble of satisfaction.

I set my shot glass on the table. “Not sure.”

“You don’t keep up?”

“We’re both busy.”

Sol chuckles. “He’s busy, huh? Saving lions in Africa? Or was it saving polar bears in Antarctica? I can’t keep up with all the charities he’s funded since… well, you know.”

Guilt flashes.

A vein that sparks to life and then disappears.

Grabbed away by my internal flyswatter.

Stuffed back in the drawer where it belongs, where it stays out of the way.

“Yeah, Dad’s…” I force a chuckle, “he’s got a real interest in saving the world.”

His world.

His image.

His behind.

That’s all.

But I can’t say that.

I’m a Humes. My lines are straight and simple.

Don’t deviate. Don’t mess up the script.

Dad knows how to strike where it hurts. That’s why his shadow still looms so darkly over the company even though he stepped down a year ago.

I push away from the table. “I’ll order another bottle.”

“What?” Franklin looks heartbroken. “You don’t like this one?”

I don’t bother answering.

No one says a word as I scoot out of the booth, but they all lean in when I’m gone. I hear their voices shushing, whispering.

About me?

Duh.

About my father’s turbulent history?

Hell yes.

I did them a favor stepping away. They were probably busting at the gut to discuss it together, like one big happy family.

As I stroll to the bar, I let my gaze rove over the room. The décor is earnestly urban. Trying too hard to be cool. But it’s doing something right. The lounge is constantly crowded and open to revelry.

It would be a lie to say I don’t enjoy stopping by every now and then just to spy on the latest celebration and pretend, for one minute, that my life is anything other than what it is.

I’m whining.

I don’t mean to.

My life is... decent.

I’m running a multi-billion dollar company.

I’ve got a little sister who adores me.

My parents are… alive.

People are going through worse trials than I am.

My eyes catch on a woman seated around one of five tables that are gathered together to contain a large group of chattering, swaying partiers.

Like her, for example.

She’s sitting amidst the laughter and chaos, a miserable expression on her beautiful face.

It makes me smile for some reason.

I wonder what she’s doing here. Who convinced her to come. Why she’s wearing her discomfort on her sleeve.

I like that.

That honesty.

My smiles are so brittle they’d crack in the wind. But I wear them. I let the comments sail over my shoulders. Roll down my back.

I never let them see me flinch.

But she’s putting it all out there.

I turn away. Lean against the counter. Give the bartender my order.

Music thrums through the room. Real music. Not the deafening EDM thing played in clubs these days. There’s an actual band on the podium playing actual music.

Yet another reason this place is my guilty pleasure.

While I wait for my drink, I bob my head to the beat and find my gaze snagging on the woman on the other end of the room.

The chairs surrounding her are empty now. Her friends are piled up on the dance floor.

Celebrating.

Having a good time.

She’s obviously not.

This time, I let my gaze linger on her. Long black hair falls down her back. Light brown skin. Eyes—almond shaped. I can’t see their color from here. What I can see are those lips. Beautiful. Full. Lush. Bright red. A come see me up close red.

Tempting.

My eyes fall down the line of her modest navy blouse with ruffled sleeves, past the drape of her black skirt that frames perfect thighs. Black heels are hooked in the rung of her chair. Slender fingers clutch her glass in a death grip, like she’s terrified someone will notice her sitting there alone and strike up conversation.

An insane urge to do just that boils within me.

Before I can, the bartender catches my attention and points to my drink. I thank him and turn around, seeking out the woman.

Only this time, when my gaze tangles with hers, brown eyes tangle right back.

She’s looking at me.

It’s just a second.

Just a flash.

It’s enough to steal my breath.

My balance.

My sanity.

Something about her gaze, about the way she’s holding herself, about her brazen appraisal, feels important. Like I’m stumbling on something profound.

Then the moment ends.

She cuts her eyes. Glances away as if she’s already sliced me, searched my soul and found that I’m not worth her time.

The dismissal snags my attention more than if she’d just smiled invitingly.

A sensation I can’t identify burns my chest.

I don’t make it a habit of approaching women in bars.

My family’s scandal bears too heavy.

Also, I can’t be bothered.

The Humes name and net-worth make it crazy easy to keep my bed warm and my needs taken care of. Women look at me and see dollar signs.

It was fun in college.

Now, it’s gotten stale.

I find it best to keep a low profile and focus on work.

But that’s a tall order tonight.

Focus on anything but her?

Impossible.

For once, I don’t care what the guys from the company will think. What the tabloids will say if they ever find out. What’ll happen if I’m shot down which, with that thick cloak of don’t touch me around her, is a big possibility.

I need to meet this girl.

Before I can evaluate where this sudden urgency is coming from, I ease into a practiced smile—the one that opens doors and hearts and legs—and I head her way.

* * *

Book 1: Be My Always is a fun, interracial romance with a jaded matchmaker and a billionaire who can’t get enough of her.

Grab Be My Alwayshere.