The guests laughed. The tension thinned slightly, replaced with polite amusement. But Winn didn't laugh.
He narrowed his eyes at Sharona, and the look he gave her could have stripped paint.
Around them, the conversation flowed on—men discussing Commissioned's dancers, half-joking, half-praising the allure of the place.
Winn bent slightly toward Ivy. "Who is he?" he murmured, barely moving his lips.
Ivy swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she leaned closer, her words ghosting against his ear. "He's in charge of the dancers' costumes at Commissioned," she whispered. "He knows me."
He nodded once. His protective instincts surged. Whatever Sharona thought she was doing—it ended now.
"Excuse me for a minute, sweetie." Winn's tone softened as he brushed a kiss to Ivy's forehead, lingering there just long enough to reassure her. His lips were warm, grounding. "You're okay," he murmured before straightening.
