Chapter 1
ALEX
Hoonk!
“Let’s move!”
I glance up from my phone just in time to see my driver shove his fist out the window and flip off the car behind us.
“Fuck off!”
The guy behind us lays on his horn for a solid five seconds, no sign of mercy.
You gotta love these New Yorkers. Five o’clock rush hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic, cursing and chaos—what’s not to love?
I pocket my phone and unbuckle my seatbelt. “I’ll get out here,” I tell him, seeing that my destination is only a block away. I’d much rather walk than sit in this gridlock.
“Eleven dollars,” he states, honking in quick bursts, gesturing for a motorcyclist to slip in and join the parade of mayhem.
I slap a twenty in his hand and step out—narrowly missing a cyclist who zips past just shy of clipping off my knee.
Fuck, that was close.
I push my hand through my hair. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets taken out. Everyone in this city is always in such a goddamn rush.
Including myself.
I pick up my pace, for no other reason than to fall in step with the chaos—because that’s just how it’s done here. This is New York, after all—the city that never sleeps.
And apparently, neither do I.
Eventually, I reach the crosswalk, only to shoulder my way through at least eleven professional texters and three street performers before I finally land at my destination.
Frustrated, I rake my hand through my hair again.
Okay, Alex. Not a big deal.
Except that it is because now I’m talking to myself.
Unfuckingreal.
I exhale hard through my nose, shake it off, and keep walking.
Then something catches my eye.
I glance to my right—and freeze.
The chaos of the street fades behind me as I take in the grand entryway of Bourbon Bar.
Towering at least twelve feet tall, the door alone makes a statement.
The building itself? Equally impressive.
Slender windows and sleek sconces adorn the front of the shiny black-painted brick, like it was pulled from the pages of some moody design magazine.
Bourbon Bar is written in elegant cursive, painted vertically along the brick beside the door. It’s downright stunning.
I’ve been meaning to check this place out for a while, but between my insane work schedule and the time I devote to my daughter, it just kept slipping down the list—until now.
Before stepping inside, I give my cheeks a firm squeeze, trying to ease the tension in my face. Nine hours of smiling will do that to you. Then again, frowning does its fair share of damage too.
Hmm? I wonder which I did more of today… smile or frown?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alex. It’s what you get paid to do.
With that thought put to rest, I open the door and slip inside.
Cool air greets me the second I walk in—crisp, clean—brushing against my skin like a quiet apology from the city.
I let out a slow breath, already feeling the edges of my day begin to dull as I move toward the bar.
The lighting is low and golden, spilling across polished wood and suede shadows.
A kind of lazy jazz murmurs through the air—soft, slinky, humming like a loneliness that feels almost romantic.
My fingers find the top two buttons of my shirt. Pop. Pop. I ease into a leather chair that hugs my frame like it’s been waiting for me. The sigh that escapes me is involuntary. So is the stretch of my legs, the subtle roll of my neck, the weight sliding off my shoulders one vertebra at a time.
Yeah. This… this is better.
A yawn flirts with the back of my throat, and I let my gaze wander—half-lidded, unhurried—through the haze of dim lights and clinking glasses.
And then it stops.
On him.
He’s leaning against the bar like he owns it. Not just the bar—the room. Maybe the city. One leg crossed over the other. Arms folded across a chest that could bench press my self-control.
There’s something about him.
Still. Self-assured. Sexy.
Hair, black as sin, cropped tight on the sides, but left wild on top, curling just enough to hint at its natural wave. Skin a deep copper, smooth but shadowed by a day’s worth of stubble. Lips full, sculpted, like they were carved to provoke thoughts best left unsaid.
And those eyes—
Jesus.
Dark. Piercing. Like he’s staring straight through my shirt, through my skin, through layers of control I’m not sure I want to keep anymore.
He’s staring.
At me.
Still.
Unblinking.
Unapologetic.
Giving me—
Fucking hell!
I jolt, like someone just kicked the back of my seat. Look away. Anywhere but him. Ceiling. Coasters. My own goddamn shoes.
Reality check: I just thoroughly eye-fucked the hell out of that man.
Classy, Alex. Get it together.
Better yet—get a drink.
My fingers tremble slightly as I rake them through my already tousled hair, exhaustion seeping through every inch of me.
Yes, that’s it. I’m totally fucking exhausted.
I’d spent the entire day at a photo shoot for the swimwear edition of Stay Wet Magazine.
The fact that I’m checking out another man is a definite sign of fatigue.
Right?
Right?
Oh lord, please let me be right.
Glancing up, I’m beyond relieved to see the bartender heading my way. If ever there were a time for a drink, it’s now.
He approaches with a smile, slapping down a napkin with Bourbon Bar written across the top in clean, gold script. Without saying a word, he turns, grabs a highball, and pours from a bottle of high-end whiskey. The deep-copper color alone tells me it’s the good stuff.
He sets the drink in front of me. Looks up.
And then… he winks.
Yup. That was definitely a wink.
I glance down at the drink. Then back up, confused—because, one, I never ordered anything, and two, what the hell was that wink about?
As if reading my thoughts, he flashes another grin, leans in slightly, and says—low and casual—“Courtesy of Mr. Garcia.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I swear under my breath. My hand flies through my gelled hair again, and this time, I actually forget to breathe.
After a moment, I reach for the highball and bring the glass to my lips. One cautious sip—and a sweet burn, laced with vanilla and caramel, rolls across my tongue. Smooth. Delicious. Potent. Exactly what my frayed nerves need.
With a heavy swallow and a heart pounding way too hard for this to be nothing, I glance over my shoulder and raise my glass toward the man I now know as Mr. Garcia.
Damn, this is awkward.
Our eyes lock—and I swear to fucking God, I feel it.
Desire.
Pouring off him like heat.
My fingers tighten around the glass as blood rushes south and my dick thickens, catching me completely off guard.
What the ever-loving fuck is going on with me tonight?
I swallow hard, ransacking my thoughts for any logical explanation as to why my body is reacting like this. Never—never—have I gotten this worked up from just a look. And yet… there’s a pulse, an actual fucking pulse, kicking behind my zipper.
For Christ’s sake, this is no joke.
Look, I’m a fashion model. I’ve been around gay men my whole career. They’re a dime a dozen in this industry—and I’m comfortable with that. Really, I am.
But I’m not gay.
Curious? Okay—sure. Who isn’t at some point?
You’d have to be blind and dead not to appreciate the male form. All those sharp angles and carved muscle. Rough skin, calloused hands, ink that tells stories without saying a word.
Jesus, that’s its own kind of drug.
And, yeah, I’ve got plenty myself. Art on my skin.
But that doesn’t make me—
No. I’m not gay.
Just tired. That’s all this is.
A flash of light from the bar top pulls me out of my head. It takes two more blinks to register the glow—my phone.
For heaven’s sake.
Teya’s name scrolls across the screen. I glance up at the clock, then answer with a sigh.
“Hey sis. You’re late. Let me guess—traffic?”
“Nope, not this time,” she says, exhaling dramatically. “Still at the dealership. Connecticut traffic can’t take the fall today.”
I trace the rim of my glass with one finger, keeping my tone light. “Dealership? Something wrong with your car?”
As I lift the highball for a sip—longer than necessary—I shift in my seat, trying not to make it obvious I’m… rearranging. Because apparently, a stranger’s stare is enough to spark a situation under the bar.
“No. Nothing’s wrong,” she says, and suddenly her voice pops like confetti. “I was gonna surprise you—I bought a new car!”
She practically screams, and I yank the phone away from my ear.
“A sleek SUV. Black. Super sexy. You’re gonna love it!”
That’s Teya—five years older, endlessly impulsive, always extra.
She’s thirty-six now. I’m thirty-one. And somehow, she still manages to feel like the older sibling and the wild child.
She never left Connecticut. Still lives in our old house—the one our grandparents raised us in after the plane crash that killed our parents twenty-four years ago.
I was only seven at the time.
“So, unfortunately,” she adds breezily, “I’m not gonna make it into the city tonight. Raincheck?”
I lean forward, elbow resting on the bar. Disappointment curls low in my gut. I’d been looking forward to seeing her. We don’t get together nearly enough these days. Life, work, miles.
But now…
Apparently, I’ll be drinking alone.
I steal a glance over my shoulder.
Then again…
Mr. Garcia is deep in conversation with the bartender now—head tilted slightly, posture relaxed, confident without trying. He says something I can’t hear, and the bartender nods.
And yeah—I have to admit it.
He’s attractive.
Very attractive.
The kind of attractive that makes you forget how to sit still.
He chuckles at something the bartender says, low and easy, and the sound slides through the room like warm smoke.
My eyes drop to his mouth.
Those lips.
Even in profile, they’re unreal—full, like someone pumped air into them. They’re distracting. Obscene, almost.
Jesus.
They look soft. Ridiculously soft.
So soft, you can’t help but wonder how they’d feel like trailing down—
Nope.
Abort. Abort that entire thought.