Devlin sat again beside Jennie. He knew that if he didn’t do that, two things were going to happen.
Isobel’s entourage—he hadn’t bothered trying to remember their names—was going to start trying to take him apart, like a frog pinned to a high school dissection tray. And if they did, the second thing was going to happen: he was going to beat the s**t out of a couple of them, walk out of here, and never come back.
Something else was obvious to him on Belle’s side of the coin.
He couldn’t miss the beeline that the redhead had made after her when Isobel left the room. These weren’t just her sycophants like he’d seen so many other Hollywood types drag along in their wakes. They were her friends. And they were all set to smother the woman with their love and friendship until it drowned her.
