Chapter 3
Three
“So,” I say, voice higher than I’d like, “you do exist.”
The corners of his mouth curl into a devastating smile. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
I absolutely am not.
I just wasn’t prepared for him to be real in the kind of way that’s ruining every coherent thought in my head.
He studies me for a beat, gaze unreadable, like he’s trying to decide if I’m what he expected or maybe just how much trouble I’ll be. Then, without a word, he tilts his head toward the roped-off hallway behind him. Tufted leather panels line the walls like the inside of a very expensive coffin.
“Come with me.”
Of course he has a private room. A man like Declan Thorne—the co-owner of this club and the kind of guy who swoops in, buys majority control of a good-but-struggling business, and turns it into a money-printing machine—doesn’t lounge on the main floor with the rest of us commoners sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to people watch.
He disappears into places no one else enters without invitation.
Places with locks and passwords and consequences.
I trail him, trying very hard not to stare at his ass.
But holy hell, the way he moves. Fluid, composed, like the air bends around him.
His shoulders shift with an easy, rolling rhythm beneath the precise lines of his tailored suit, spine a perfect arrow.
Even the movements of his hands, swinging loosely at his sides, seem choreographed.
We reach a tall, black door at the end of the hall, and he opens it with the barest flick of his wrist.
I have the sinking, thrilling sensation that he’s the kind of man who barely has to touch anything to make it his. A man who gets what he wants just by existing in its proximity.
I dig my teeth into my lower lip.
He hasn’t looked at me in a full thirty seconds, and I already know, if he pressed me up against that door right now, I wouldn’t just let him. I’d say thank you.
The door glides open, heavy and silent, and he steps across the threshold without glancing back to see if I’ll follow.
I hesitate for half a second, because that’s what smart people do before walking into the dragon’s den wearing four-inch heels and a dress designed for breathing shallowly. But then I step in after him because I’m not always smart.
As the door eases shut behind us, the thrum of Ember’s main room fades, sealed behind thick walls. The atmosphere changes. It’s warmer and quieter, intimate in a way that feels both luxurious and a little treacherous.
Candlelight spills across the space in molten waves. Dark crimson walls soak in the glow while the flickering flames dance across the booth nestled in the back corner like a confessional box.
Another sleek black bar stretches along the opposite wall. Behind it, glass shelves hold bottles of amber and jewel-toned liquor lined up like artifacts. Gold accented armchairs flank a low mirrored table that throws the candlelight around the room like a moody disco ball.
The scent here is intoxicating. Cedar, cardamom, a trace of smoke and cinnamon and something spicy that clings to Declan and this space like power in pheromone form.
It’s the kind of room where things begin.
And maybe end.
We close in on the leather booth, and he gestures for me to sit.
My legs ignore every rational directive and opt for immediate, unthinking surrender, and I instantly drop my purse and shimmy in.
He slides in beside me, unhurried and confident, his thigh almost brushing mine. The heat radiating from his body makes it feel like the air between us is thinner—less oxygen, more tension.
“You need a drink,” he says, voice all silk and shadows.
It’s not a question, and part of me likes that he didn’t ask. That he just decided.
I should decline, ask for something citrusy and nonalcoholic since the champagne from earlier is fizzing in my bloodstream, trying its damnedest to suppress my better judgment.
One more drink, and I’ll slide right out of Dating App Amanda—polished, flirty, vaguely mysterious—and land squarely in the territory of Real-Life Amanda, who is a tangle of anxiety and overthinking and one emotional hiccup away from hiding in the bathroom.
Declan lifts a single finger like a king summoning a feast.
A bartender who must have been part of the furniture a second ago, because I did not notice him, appears without a sound. He sets down two crystal glasses before fading back into the atmosphere.
My drink is cold, pink, and perfectly poured. The sugared rim sparkles like frost under the candlelight, and a crescent of grapefruit rests on the edge like a wink.
I blink at it. Then at Declan.
“Should I be worried?” My lips twitch. “Or just impressed?”
Declan leans back slightly, his gaze steady. “Try it,” he murmurs, “then let me know.”
The glass is cool against my fingers, condensation kissing my skin as I lift it to my lips.
One sip and I’m hit with sharp citrus, a whisper of liquor, and a punch of botanicals. It’s tart, unexpected, and strong enough to make my mouth water.
“Is this elderflower?” I ask, surprised. “And…tequila?”
His smile is sly and full of secrets. “I figured you’d want something pretty,” he says, lifting his own glass filled with darker liquid, “that knows how to punch back.”
My brows rise. “What made you think that?”
“I can tell you like a little beauty with your burn.” He takes a sip of the dark, heavy drink in his glass, his gaze never leaving mine.
Beauty with your burn.
The words stick to my skin. Wrap around my ribs. That’s the whole illusion tonight, isn’t it? All dressed up, hoping he doesn’t notice the restless fire in my chest. The sharp edges I’ve melted down into flirtation.
We sip our drinks in silence, and I try not to obsess over how close he got with those four little words.
Every second he waits to speak is another inch of rope tightening between us. Like he’s giving me enough slack to bolt only so he can enjoy it more when I don’t.
The air between us crackles, thick with tension and citrus and candle smoke. My skin hums. My knees press together. My fingers toy with the stem of my glass.
“So,” I say too brightly, the word bursting from my lips like it escaped. “This place is…wow. It’s very you.”
I grimace. What does that even mean?
“Like, very mysterious,” I continue, because of course I do. “All dark wood and sexy lighting. It’s got that whole Bond villain meets underground jazz club energy, but in a cool way. Not in a murder-y way.”
“Hmm.” He lifts his glass to his mouth, watching me over the rim. “You think of me as a villain, Amanda?”
A strangled sound that’s halfway between laughter and choking leaves my throat.
“No, of course not.” I purse my lips and bite the inside of my cheek.
“But…maybe. I mean—I work in publishing. I’m always thinking of the world like a story.
And you do co-own a club with a secret back room, and you are very… large.”
One brow twitches, but otherwise his expression remains neutral, giving me absolutely nothing to work with.
I press on. “I just mean you have presence. Like a tall, expensive, slightly villainous presence.”
“And who do you see yourself as in this story?”
The question knocks the breath from me. I take a giant sip of my cocktail and nearly choke on the sugar.
I should be calm. I’ve read enough manuscripts to know exactly what role I’m playing. I know what this is.
And what it isn’t.
This isn’t a love story. This is attraction and desire and two people playing a game they both understand.
It’s sex à la carte. A fantasy with a body no matter what either of us might have said in our last round of DMs. A man who wants me in his bed, not in his life.
That much is obvious, since he made the decision to meet right before he’s about to leave town.
And that’s fine. If he wants to pretend like I never said I’d be open to catching feelings, I’m more than happy to do the same.
No messy surprises. No broken promises. No vulnerability required.
That should be comforting. Reassuring, even. A clean transaction.
Instead, it feels…unsettling. A twisting ache deep in my chest, threaded with the sharp, electric awareness that this man—this moment—could undo me if I let it.
“You seem like you’re about to run.”
“I’m not,” I lie, laughing too loudly.
“Good.” He sets his glass down slowly, carefully. “Because I don’t chase.”
The air between us snaps tight, and I sit up straighter. Adjust the strap of my dress even though it’s already in place. Cross my legs way too fast and knock my knee into the underside of the table with a solid, echoing thunk.
“Ow! Shit.” I hiss in pain and slap a hand over my drink just in time to keep it from toppling.
Declan shifts toward me. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I blurt on a pained exhale. “Just a little blunt force trauma.”
His full lips twitch in a suggestion of a smile as he leans back, stretching one long arm across the back of the booth, relaxed and unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s being a gentleman and giving me space or a predator who enjoys watching injured prey limp closer on its own.
Does it matter?
Either way, I’m already caught.
Whatever this is, my body said yes long before my brain could weigh in. Now I just have to survive it.
I shift in my seat, run a hand over my throbbing knee, and take another sip of the cocktail that’s going straight to my head.
“You’re quiet,” I say, grasping for normal conversation even though nothing about any of this feels normal. “Is that part of the whole mysterious, velvet suit vibe, or are you just not an in-person conversationalist?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Do you want me to talk more?”
“I don’t not want that.”
“What would you want me to say?” he asks, not missing a beat. “That I’m dangerous? That you should run? That this is a bad idea?”
“That feels like a lot for a first meetup.”
“You’re still here.” He lifts his drink again and takes a slow pull.
“I’m curious.”