Camila
Pyke’s body goes rigid. His eyes suddenly widen and his handsome face turns white. His hand was squeezing my waist stronger that his fingers might leave a mark on my skin.
“Well, look at you now, Pykie.” A voluptuous brunette of around mid-thirties walks closer to us. She’s a few inches taller than me, has a sun-kissed skin or she’s probably from southern California. She’s wearing a white dress that hugs her curves perfectly. Her hair is curled in large waves, but what catches my attention is her icy sapphire blue eyes staring at me with an angry glare that could slice me in two.
“Who’s this girl?” she asks, emphasizing the word girl with disdain, but Pyke is still shocked to respond.
I grab his sweaty hand, squeezing it, then I take a deep breath and smile sweetly at whoever is this bitch in front of us, perhaps, she’s Pyke’s ex-fuck buddy.
“Oh, hi, I’m Camila King.” I offer my hand for a handshake. I silen
