Chapter Two
Abigail-Ann
“Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”
~ H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
THREE WEEKS LATER
I should’ve known better than to let Azzy talk me into this. But when has she ever taken no for an answer?
Before I get into that, let me tell you about my birthday three weeks ago. I turned twenty-three. It was perfect—triple chocolate cake, terrible singing, Chipotle bowls, and barbecue Lay’s (the best snack on earth). Quiet, but the good kind of quiet. No Joshua, no criticism, just me existing for myself.
The only downside to being in New York City was missing my parents and my sister, but I bombarded them with calls until they had no choice but to answer. Still, the best part was waking up every day in the presence of Azzy and her mom, Auntie Leann, who always made me feel loved and cared for.
That night was everything I could’ve asked for. Tonight? Not so much.
Standing on the dance floor of Midnight Mirage, I felt my stomach tighten. The club pulsed with energy—lights flashing, bass vibrating through the floor, bodies swaying to the beat. It should’ve felt exciting, but my hands felt clammy, and my pulse pounded for all the wrong reasons.
The night had started fine—until the bartender stared a little too long at my cleavage. Azzaria didn’t hesitate. “Eyes up here,” she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the noise. The bartender flinched.
Azzaria Willis—my brown-haired, sexy-as-hell, slightly overprotective best friend of nearly a decade—was the kind of woman who wasn’t afraid to step up and fight for me. It was part of what made her so irresistible and exactly why I loved her like a sister.
After more than a few rounds— okay, maybe ten —of scotch and whiskey, she convinced me to head straight for VIP. And now, here we were, standing before the red rope, where the best bottles gleamed behind it like exclusive trophies.
And once again, I found myself thinking, I should’ve never let Azzy talk me into this.
This was a bad idea. I knew it. But at this point, there was no turning back.
“You can’t enter without a pass,” the security guard said firmly, his deep voice as serious as the all-black suit he wore.
“How much?” I asked, already reaching for my purse.
“No cash,” he said, tone sharpening. “A pass.”
“You don’t have to be an ass,” I shot back, raising my voice enough to turn a few heads. A hint of embarrassment crept in, but the liquor in my system made it easy to ignore.
“You need a—”
“Let them in,” a distinct masculine voice interrupted, commanding and sharp.
The guard stiffened, spinning around in surprise. “But, sir— ”
“I said let them in.”
A man strode toward us, his presence so powerful it seemed to quiet the air around him.
I turned to Azzaria, ready to mutter a quick thanks to whoever this savior was, but the expression on her face stopped me short. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music.
My heart kicked up a notch as I took in the man standing before us. “Isn’t that—”
“Yes,” she said, breathless, her voice trembling with equal parts disbelief and something else I couldn’t pinpoint. “Yes, it is.”
Sure enough, it was Dillon Xander—billionaire, playboy, walking tabloid scandal. But why was he here? More importantly, why was he looking at Azzaria as if she was the only person in the room?
“I can hear you both. No need to whisper.” His lips curled into a teasing grin. “Hello to you, too.”
Azzaria froze, her usual quick wit apparently short-circuited. Her cheeks flushed, and her shock melted into something softer. Warmer.
I smirked, leaning in just enough to stir the pot. “Am I interrupting something?”
She shot me a look that promised retribution, but her gaze quickly darted back to her boss. Their eyes locked again, the intensity between them so thick it felt like the room had tilted slightly.
“Shall we?” he gestured toward the entrance, his voice smooth as the guard stepped aside with a reluctant grunt.
Azzaria stepped past the rope, her arm barely grazing his—but the way Dillon’s gaze flicked to hers, you’d think she set him on fire.
I followed, unable to shake the buzz of excitement in my chest.
The VIP section was a world of its own—glittering chandeliers, plush velvet couches, sleek metal accents, and the hum of money in the air. Warm lighting bathed the space, where exotic flowers adorned glass tables. Large windows framed by silk drapes showcased breathtaking views of the city skyline, a detail I loved most .
But my focus wasn’t on the surroundings. It was on Azzaria and Dillon, whose every glance and subtle move seemed charged with something electric.
I leaned closer to Azzaria, nudging her lightly as we walked further. “You need to go talk to him,” I whispered, trying to sound casual despite the growing grin on my face.
“What? No! ” Her wide eyes darted toward Dillon, who was busy chatting with a sharply dressed man near the bar. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
I rolled my eyes, waving her off. “Yes, you can. I’ll be fine. Go get your billionaire.”
She froze, her jaw dropping slightly as her cheeks deepened to an even darker shade of pink. “He’s not my billionaire,” she mumbled, looking everywhere but at me. “He is my boss.”
“Not yet,” I teased, crossing my arms as I tilted my head toward him. “He’s clearly interested, or he wouldn’t be looking at you like that.”
Azzaria hesitated, chewing her bottom lip as her gaze flickered between Dillon and me. “But I don’t want to abandon you. What if you—”
“I’ll be fine!” I cut her off with a soft laugh. “Look around. This place is crawling with potential distractions. I’m not going to die of boredom.”
“But you will die of anxiety.”
“I’m plied with enough whiskey to survive. Go.”
She studied me for a moment longer, searching my face for any sign of hesitation. When she didn’t find any, she exhaled a shaky breath. “Okay... but if anything happens, come get me. I mean it.”
“Go.” I gave her a playful shove in Dillon’s direction. “Don’t waste this.”
Her steps were slow at first, hesitant, like she was walking a tightrope. But then, as if something clicked into place, I saw the shift—the way her shoulders squared and her chin lifted just slightly.
Dillon turned toward her almost immediately, his gaze locking onto her with an intensity that made my stomach flip. Yeah. My best friend was in for a very interesting night .
I sank into the plush red sofa, the deep fabric wrapping around me like a cocoon. I was just starting to relax when a familiar scent curled into my senses—something warm, rich, and unmistakably male.
I looked up.
And there he was.
The guy from the airport.
And damn, he was already heading my way.
I’d thought he was handsome before, but tonight? He looked like sin wrapped in white linen. His pants fit perfectly, tailored just enough to hint at powerful legs, and the matching short-sleeved shirt was tucked neatly into his waistband. The undone top button revealed a glimpse of his chest tattoos—most notably, a compass inked over his skin like it had been drawn by fate itself.
The contrast of his golden skin against the crisp white was almost criminal. His chiseled jawline, the groomed stubble, the sharp angles of his cheekbones—everything about him screamed untouchable.
And yet, all I wanted to do was touch him.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Is it a blessing that I’ve seen your face twice in one month?”
His voice cut through my haze, the deep Spanish lilt making my pulse stutter.
I blinked, his words pulling me back to the present. He remembered me? After nothing but fleeting glances at the airport? My fingers gripped the edge of the sofa as I fought the urge to look away, to hide the way my nerves twisted inside me.
“Most definitely,” I said, forcing a small, awkward smile.
His honey-brown eyes studied me, warm and unreadable, like he was trying to figure me out. “Would you like to have a seat with me, Red?”
Something about the way he asked—like it wasn’t just an offer, but an invitation to something deeper—made my chest tighten.
Red.
I blinked at him, my brows pulling together. “Red? ”
His lips twitched, a slow smirk tugging at the corner.
“Is it because of my shoes?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I mentally cursed myself. How fucking stupid did that sound?
Get a grip, Abigail.
“No, your curly red hair,” he replied, amusement glimmering in his eyes.
I blinked, surprised. With my hair tucked in a bun and the dim lighting, I hadn’t expected him to notice its color—let alone that it was curly. Most men’s eyes usually went straight to my tits or ass, like the bartender earlier who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from my cleavage.
But I wasn’t about to overthink this. It was... refreshing.
“As for the seat, you lead the way.”
I glanced at Azzaria, who looked perfectly content, her head on her boss’ shoulder, his arm around her like he belonged there. So much for pretending she wasn’t into him.
I took a deep breath, straightening up before following him.
“Here we are.”
He gestured to the seat, waiting for me to sit first.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, crossing his leg at the knee. The movement pulled his shirt tighter across his chest, and—Jesus Christ.
I forced my eyes up. “Water is fine.”
He handed me a bottle, and our fingers brushed. A small, ridiculous jolt shot up my arm. I told myself it was just the chill of the bottle. That was all.
Still, my grip wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be.
“This is nice,” I managed, though the words felt inadequate, trailing off into nothingness as I struggled to think of something else to say.
I felt my face warm as I realized he was watching me again.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Better?” I asked, confused .
He cleared his throat, taking a slow sip of his drink. The way his lips barely touched the glass—delicate, controlled—was mesmerizing. Like a scene straight out of a movie.
“The airport,” he clarified.
My eyes widened. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”
He chuckled. “I always remember a pretty face.”
I sat upright, bringing the bottle to my lips to hide my smile. “You’ve seen quite a few, then?”
“None have been in my memory as much as yours, Red.”
My stomach flipped. Oh, he was smooth.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I murmured.
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement, dimples deepening on his cheeks.
“Jokes aside, though—are you better?” His voice was softer now, laced with something real. Genuine.
I exhaled slowly, nodding. “That was so embarrassing,” I admitted. “But, yes. I’m better.”
“You were upset and showed emotion,” he noted, tone calm and matter-of-fact. “There’s nothing embarrassing about that.”
He was right, but I rarely let my emotions show—especially in public.
“Thank you for that,” I replied, my voice softer now, more relaxed. “Sure you’re not sparing my feelings?”
“Lying isn’t my thing.” His steady gaze locked onto mine, and something about the weight of it made my heart stutter.
I tried to hold his gaze, but my cheeks warmed again. “I’ve heard that before.”
“You’ve never heard it from me,” he countered, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “So, it counts, right?”
Ridiculous . This was ridiculous. I didn’t even know his name, and yet my pulse was doing a whole damn sprint.
Focus, Abigail.
“Your girlfriend must adore you,” I blurted, unable to stop myself.
He adjusted his glasses, scanning the room with an exaggerated glance. “I don’t see her, do you? ”
His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice dropped just slightly when he added, “And if I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t be anywhere near another woman—let alone spending my Friday night in a club, Red.”
I blinked. Okay, damn.
“No girlfriend?” I mused. “You don’t seem like the single type.”
He arched his brow. “What type do I seem like, then?”
My stomach twisted as I scrambled for a reply. Before I could recover, he leaned in slightly, his grin turning more playful.
“I’m not the type to settle for less than what I want.” His gaze locked onto mine, slow and deliberate. “And what I want is to spend the rest of my night with the beautiful woman in front of me.”
My breath hitched.
Oh.
Well.
Shit.
He sat back, picking up his drink again, clearly enjoying my reaction. “So, no girlfriend,” he added, taking a slow, casual sip.
Trying to steer the conversation away from my reckless thoughts, I asked, “Do you… own here?”
He shook his head. “Dillon does. I own a luxury transport service.”
Hot, Hispanic, and an entrepreneur? Great. As if he wasn’t already unfairly attractive.
“So, is this your ideal Friday night?” I asked, curiosity creeping into my voice. “Hanging out at a club?”
He tilted his head slightly, considering my question. “Not exactly my usual scene,” he admitted. “I’m just here for moral support.” His fingers tapped against his glass, his lips curving. “And a good drink while he does business.”
Yeah, business clearly named Azzaria Jane Willis.
I leaned in a little, letting the dim lighting mask the smirk tugging at my lips. “Sounds like a lot of dedication.”
His eyes sparkled with mischief as he met my gaze. His next shrug was slower, more deliberate. “Dedication?” he echoed, his voice dipping just enough to add a flirtatious edge. “I just enjoy good company. ”
I raised an eyebrow. “Good company?”
He chuckled softly, leaning back, his elbow resting lazily on the sofa’s arm. “I’m here talking to you, aren’t I?” His gaze flickered down, tracking the lazy circle my finger made against my thigh before lifting back to my face. His next words were smoother than silk. “I’d say that’s a pretty clear sign.”
The heat rose in my cheeks, but I played it off with a light laugh, refusing to let him know he was getting to me. “You’re smooth,” I admitted, shaking my head as I took a sip of my drink. “Is that how you get your clients? Or is this just for me?”
His grin widened, flashing just enough teeth to be dangerous. God help me.
“You think I talk to my clients like this?” He gave a mock look of offense. “You must have me confused with someone else.” Then, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a deeper, more intimate tone.
“You say that to all the girls, don’t you?”
“You’re a woman,” he corrected smoothly. “Not a girl.”
The word struck like a spark—sharp, deliberate, and electrifying. It hung between us, sending a slow, unexpected heat curling in my stomach. There was something about the way he said it—steady, laced with a hint of admiration—that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in far too long.
“But to answer your question,” he murmured, his eyes holding mine hostage, “only the ones I meet in airports.”
A thrill sparked down my spine. Oh, hell.
“You must meet plenty of girls—I mean women—in airports, then?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even as my pulse raced.
He shook his head slowly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just an unforgettable redhead I saw three weeks ago—about 5’5”, striking green eyes, a sprinkle of freckles—five or six at most, and a floral maxi dress.”
My breath hitched as the memory crashed over me.
He remembered everything.
Not just the moment— me . My height, my clothes, my eyes, even the freckles I barely acknowledged myself .
This wasn’t just flirting.
This was far more dangerous.
“Unforgettable redhead, huh?” I murmured, meeting his gaze with a flirtatious smile, even as my heart hammered in my chest. “Lucky me.”
“Luck?” He gave a slow shake of his head, his voice dipping just enough to draw me in. “Nah. I’d say blessed.”
With a tap of his glass on the table, my thoughts scattered.
“Right,” I whispered, trying to get a grip.
“Do you work?” he asked casually, but the way his gaze locked onto mine made it impossible to focus on the question itself.
“I’m almost done with school.”
His expression shifted—just barely, but enough for me to catch it. A flicker of something unreadable. Was that… shock? Did he think I was younger? How old was he?
He couldn’t be over twenty-six—not with that face, or that body.
“I’m twenty-three, by the way,” I added quickly, hoping to clarify.
His eyes flickered, an emotion passing too fast for me to catch. Relief? Amusement?
“And you?” I asked, aiming for casualness, though my pulse pounded harder than it should. “How old are you?”
He hesitated. His gaze dropped to his glass, then lifted back to mine.
“Thirty-three.”
Thirty-three.
The number settled between us, heavier than I expected. A ten-year gap. Was that supposed to bother me? Maybe. But somehow… it didn’t.
He watched me carefully, the playful glint in his eyes momentarily replaced by something more serious.
“Is that okay with you?” His voice was lower now, cautious. “If you’re not comfortable, we don’t have to continue this conversation.”
The question caught me off guard. There was something rare in his tone— vulnerability .
Most guys his age would brush off concerns, assuming they knew best. But him? He was giving me a choice. And damn, that was unfairly attractive .
A slow smile crept onto my lips. “It doesn’t bother me.” I held his gaze, steady. “Besides, if I did have a problem with it, I wouldn’t still be sitting here, would I?”
His shoulders relaxed, and the corner of his mouth curved into that devastatingly charming smile again.
“Fair point. But I just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable, Red.”
Something fluttered in my chest. He just kept making himself more attractive, and that was going to be a problem.
I leaned forward slightly, a spark of boldness flickering through me. “I’m comfortable. Maybe we can get back to enjoying this conversation.”
He watched me for a beat, then took another slow sip from his glass. When he set it down, the glint in his eyes was back, sharp and playful.
“So, Red,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward me. “What’s your major?”
“Real estate and business, with some electives in architecture.”
He nodded, clearly impressed. “My sister’s a realtor. She enjoys it for the most part. Sounds like you’ve already got your path figured out.”
I let out a soft laugh, taking a sip of water. “Congrats to her. I wish I had it all figured out, but hey, I’ve made it this far. That counts for something, right?”
His gaze softened, locking onto mine. “It counts for everything . You should be proud of yourself.” His voice was warm, reassuring. “Final year?”
“Yep. Did you go to university?”
He chuckled, leaning in slightly. “My parents would’ve had a heart attack if I didn’t. I have my bachelor’s and master’s in business.”
I tilted my head, intrigued. “How’d you know I was going to ask what you studied?”
He shrugged, an effortless smile curving his lips. “Just a hunch.”
“Good guess.”
“I’m good at reading people.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Especially when I’m interested. ”
I bit my lip, warmth flooding through me. Was it normal to feel this drawn to someone I barely knew? Probably not. But after weeks of stress and exhausting exams, this was the most at peace I’d felt in a while.
“Your accent…” I trailed off, eyes searching his. “Where’s it from?”
“Dominican Republic.” He paused. “Wasn’t sure if you’d notice.”
“Very noticeable.” I leaned in just a fraction, caught in the way his presence filled the space between us. “Are you fluent?”
A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “ No lo sé, ?verdad? ” 1
The words rolled off his tongue, smooth and rich, sending an unexpected thrill down my spine.
Dear God. Why was this turning me on?
I swallowed hard, steadying myself. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Bingo.” He grinned, his confidence unwavering. “I grew up there. Moved to California when I was about nine. English was a challenge at first, but I figured it out.”
“Do you still speak Spanish often?”
“When I’m upset or with my family. They insist on it.”
“Learning quite a lot about you tonight, aren’t I?”
His lips curved, slow and deliberate, as he slid off his glasses, locking eyes with me.
“I don’t mind. I’ve got interesting company.”
Before I could respond, a guy—who almost resembled the one from the entrance—walked up and murmured something in his ear. I couldn’t make out the words, but I caught one: Mikkel.
Of course. The hot stranger had a name just as devastating.
His expression shifted, more serious now as he turned back to me. “That’s my cue to leave, Red. You’re good company, and if you forget everything else I said tonight, don’t forget this.”
I blinked up at him. “Huh?”
His gaze softened. He leaned in, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse skip. “Whoever or whatever made you cry isn’t worth a single tear. And they sure as hell don’t deserve to be in your life.”
That made my night. Possibly my whole damn month.
He pulled his keys from his pocket and walked out—practically gliding through the door.
So fucking unreal.
So goddamn majestic.
I downed the rest of my water, sitting there, letting the music soak in, trying—and failing—to wipe the Mikkel-induced smile off my face.
I couldn’t forget this night.
I couldn’t forget our conversation.
I couldn’t forget him.
Oh, this wasn’t gonna end well.