Resisting Temptation (Tempting The Heart #2)

Chapter 1

TOMáS

“Trust me, man, you do not want this.”

I look at the lock screen my colleague, Trent, is pointing to on his phone. Smiling faces stare back at me, spanning from Trent and his wife to their four children ranging in age from early teens to no older than five, maybe six years old.

“Don’t get me wrong, I lucked out. My wife is not only smoking hot, but she also lives for that housewife shit.

Cooking, cleaning, she handles and loves all of it.

Thank god, because after the hours I put in at the office, I don’t have the mental capacity or desire to deal with any of it once I get home.

Or at all. Am I right, guys?” Trent laughs, looking around at our colleagues who all share in his laughter.

I don’t find anything Trent said amusing. He couldn’t sound more misogynistic if he tried.

People like him, arrogant and entitled, are in serious need of a reality check… or a punch to the fucking jaw. Unfortunately for me, since my recent promotion to junior partner at Turner & Vize Law technically makes me his superior, so I can’t shut him up —or punch him— the way I’d like to.

Trent continues. “Still, as good as I have it, marriage, kids, all of it, it’s fucking hell. I…”

Unable to handle another second of Trent’s rambling, in fear that I’ll lose control and direct the fist clenched at my side to his smug face, I cut in.

“How’s it hell?” I don’t bother hiding the disgust in my tone.

Trent loosens his tie as his gaze falls to the cluttered surface of half-finished drinks on the table that he reserved for us at Luxe, the exclusive gentleman’s club he’s a member of.

Coming here tonight was his idea. He invited us under the guise of some colleague bonding time.

But now that I’ve heard how much he can’t stand his life, clearly it was a ploy to escape his family for the night.

“Well, for starters, this thing—” He pauses, raising his left hand as he wiggles his ring finger. “Doesn’t help me get some here, or anywhere for that matter. It’s like a repellent,” he scoffs. “Actually, a death sentence is more accurate.”

Everyone chuckles once again. Everyone except for me.

Death sentence? Seriously?

Does this ungrateful prick realize how many people wish for what he has? Or how many would kill to be in his position?

Hell, I would kill to be in his position.

And the worst part is I have no one to blame for that other than myself.

I’ve spent so long focused on getting to where I am now, that I seemed to have forgotten that you can have all the accolades, success, and money you’ve ever dreamed of, but if you have no one to share it with, that loves you how you love them— unconditionally— it’s all hollow and meaningless.

Yet here Trent is, unappreciative and acting like what he has is a burden. It fucking sickens me, almost as much as that smug look on his face does.

“Trent,” I singsong his name sarcastically. “C’mon, buddy, you’re a smart man. Why would you assume the ring you’re wearing has anything to do with why anyone with an ounce of discernment or common sense would want you?”

Stunned silence meets my rhetorical dig and since he’s unable to string together a retort, I take the opportunity to continue.

“You’re married. You shouldn’t be looking for anyone. And not just that, you’re married to a woman who takes on the full burden of the household while you’re busy doing god knows what since we all know your billable hours leave much to be desired.”

Trent winces. It appears the truth has rendered him speechless.

He should consider himself lucky that he’s talking to Tomás Ramos, attorney and businessman.

If this were years ago, and he got the version of me I’ve suppressed from my early teen years, this conversation wouldn’t be via words but through physical force.

I’m used to dealing with assholes like Trent, but that doesn’t make it any easier to sit still and handle it in stride.

At least in this setting, outside of work, I have control over whether I stay or not.

Since I only agreed thinking an outing would help my mounting stress levels which it hasn’t I rise from my chair to leave.

I say goodbye to everyone, watching through the corner of my eye as Trent gets up from his seat. To my surprise, he reaches out his hand for me to shake.

“Thanks for coming out tonight, Ramos.”

“Yep,” I say flatly, fully aware that I should leave it at that, except I can’t.

Squeezing his hand, I pull him in close, making it appear as if I’m about to give him a hug, but it’s really to spare him the embarrassment of our colleagues hearing what I’m about to say.

“The next time you disrespect your wife like that in front of me, I won’t be so poised with my response. ”

“Excuse me?” Shock lines his vocal cords.

“You heard me. She’s your wife. She deserves your respect.”

Trent peels his hand away from me. “I think you’ve had one too many there, buddy,” he says, deflecting from the truth, as he peers down at my polished-off whiskey glass I left on the table.

“I’m not your buddy.”

His expression turns cold. “You’re right, you’re not. So I think you should mind your damn business.”

Maybe he’s right. This isn’t the first time I’ve inserted myself into a problem that doesn’t involve me.

And I’m sure it won’t be the last time I do.

I can’t help it. It’s who and how I am. Being the only son to a woman who has taught me to respect women, and having a sister myself, guys like Trent trigger me.

As I walk away, I hear Trent mutter something snarky under his breath, but I ignore it, refusing to pay him any mind. Not that I could even if I wanted to as my vision tunnels to a private booth a few feet away from where I now stand.

My brain tries to signal my body to move, but I remain still with my feet glued to the floor.

Walk, damn it. You don’t need to try to fix everything and everyone around you. Just keep moving.

I take a step forward.

There you go.

And another. This one is more of a leap forward, but it’s still a step in the right direction.

Good. That’s it, keep going. Walk past the man yelping in pain from what appears to be a dancer sinking her teeth into said man’s arm.

Shit.

And just like that, I’m not walking anymore. My movements are caught between a skip and slow jog.

Keep. Fucking. Walking. I internally scold myself, already seeing the writing on the wall.

I’m not leaving here. Not yet. Not when the closer I get to this sleazebag, who clearly needs a crash course in not only basic gentleman’s club etiquette but consent, won’t take his hands off the dancer despite her telling him to repeatedly.

Security steps in, separating them. But she’s not done. Now that her mouth isn’t latched onto him in self-defense, she uses it to her full advantage, yelling a long stream of obscenities his way.

If I thought Trent was smug, this guy somehow takes the cake. Here he is being yelled at while being held back by security, and he has a fucking grin on his face, seemingly unfazed.

I’m not sure what possesses me to move even closer than I already am, but before I know it, I’ve fully immersed myself into the chaos, standing by the dancer’s side, as if on standby, ready and willing to step in if push comes to shove.

It’s not until she stops yelling at him, when she redirects her attention to me, that I’m able to get a good look at her.

A flutter knocks at my chest as her ocean eyes peer up at me.

There’s no denying how striking the shade of blue is.

Even more so against her warm, naturally sun-kissed skin and onyx-colored hair.

She’s stunning. Breathtaking. I’m unable to look away.

Not only because of her undeniable beauty, but from the contrast between her stare and her actions.

In front of me stands a woman who exudes confidence. Yet, the longer our gazes remain on one another’s, the more I see something that most would likely overlook.

Sadness. An abundance of it. Masking itself as anger that, if I had to guess, is working overtime to keep the tears she wants to cry at bay.

Others may not notice it. But I do.

It’s easy to spot in others what you yourself work tirelessly to hide.

I know she’s not a damsel in distress. She’s made that abundantly clear.

Still, I can’t ignore this sudden urge I have to protect her.

And judging by the sense of calm that has noticeably spread over this mystery woman’s entire body now that I’ve made my presence known, I think – I hope – that she’s okay with that.

One second bleeds into another, each one more painstaking than the last, as I stand with bated breath, waiting for her to signal to me that she does in fact need me to do or say something –anything– to assist her.

Finally, she inches closer, unknowingly giving me the go ahead I needed as well as putting me out of my misery.

Adrenaline runs rampant in my veins as I remain idle under her appraising stare.

In the hopes that I’m not reading her body language incorrectly, I decide to extend my hand, offering it to her with an open and ready palm, hoping – pathetic as it may be – that she takes it.

Without hesitation, she accepts, threading her fingers with mine.

Here I was just hours before trying to convince the group chat that I have game. Now, I’m not too sure I do, since the contact alone is enough to make my knees buckle.

With our hands connected, the already menial space between us becomes nonexistent as she eliminates it.

And where sadness held her gaze hostage, lust scurries to the surface, as a sultry, feminine voice emerges. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for someone like you,” she coos with palpable intrigue.

It’s contagious.

So much so that, mixed with her smooth-as-silk palm in my calloused one, I feel unstoppable.

Though as my mouth opens and words begin to flow out faster than my mind can compute, I think delusional might be more accurate.