1
EVERLY
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
I SWIRL THE TOOTHPICK IN my cocktail, frowning at the lone green olive floating in the watered-down vodka and vermouth. With a resigned sigh, I pluck the olive from the glass and pop it into my mouth, the briny taste doing little to improve my mood.
I expected to be served a top-shelf liquor and a more generous garnish, considering the exorbitant cost of a drink. But I suppose that’s the price you pay for hiding out in a hotel bar on the Strip.
If my father were here, he would demand a refund and bring every bartender and server in the place to tears on his way out the door. He’s a ruthless businessman, willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top, even at the expense of those closest to him.
My phone buzzes, interrupting my pity party for one. A small smile tugs at my lips when I see who’s calling.
“Hey, August,” I answer.
“Aren’t you supposed to be schmoozing with clients right now?” he asks with a hint of amusement.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed? It’s past midnight in London,” I quip.
He chuckles. “It’s the weekend. I just left the club, and was hoping my call would go straight to voicemail so I could leave you a message about how lucky I am that Dick sent you to Vegas instead of me.”
My lips curve into a sly grin at his comment. My father’s name is Richard, but August has a bad habit of calling him Dick, especially when he’s in one of his moods, which is almost always. It would be a disaster if August ever slipped up and called him that to his face. Thank god my dad moved back to New York a few years ago and spends most of his time in the States, so we don’t have to see him in person very often.
“My last meeting ended early, so I stopped by the hotel bar for a quick drink.” I frown at my unimpressive cocktail. “At least I stuck around until the end. If I remember correctly, you skipped out a full day early the last time my dad sent you to meet with a client.”
“What did he expect, sending me to Louisiana during Mardi Gras? My clients wanted to party, and who was I to deny them? I closed the deal, so he has nothing to complain about,” he grumbles. “You’re the responsible one, which is why he sent you this time.”
“That’s not true. He would have sent Liam if he wasn’t busy running the European division. I swear he sends me to these things just to torment me.” I cringe, knowing there’s more truth to that than I care to admit.
Dad walked out on us at the end of my and Theo’s senior year.
It nearly destroyed my mom when, only a month after they finalized their divorce, he announced he married a European socialite with ties to the royal family. August and Liam, her two sons, were both in their early twenties. They went to work for my dad and have been with Townstead International since.
I had no interest in meeting them at first, but after college, I reluctantly agreed to join the company and had to work with them since I requested to be assigned to the London office. August and I bonded over our dislike of my dad and became fast friends. Liam is laser-focused on the business, so we don’t spend time together outside of work, but we have a great rapport.
Despite my best efforts, Theo refuses to have anything to do with our dad and won’t meet August and Liam, even though he lives in London. As far as he’s concerned, they’re strangers and should stay that way.
“You should be out partying and getting laid, not spending your last night in Sin City in a stuffy hotel bar, surrounded by balding middle-aged men looking to make the most out of their trip before going back to their wives and kids in the suburbs,” August says.
We may be step-siblings by definition, but he is my closest friend, which means we talk about almost everything.
I glance around the room, surveying the other patrons. Most of them fit his description to a tee—older men with receding hairlines and ill-fitted suits.
“I’m going to have to pass on the partying and getting laid.” I take a long sip of my martini. “As soon as I finish my drink, I’m ordering room service and taking a nice, long bath.” Given the choice, I much prefer a night of solitude over being in a crowded room with people I have no interest in associating with.
August lets out an exasperated sigh. “Everly, it’s been two years since you broke things off with Landon. Isn’t it time you started dating again?”
I bristle at his comment. “I have moved on,” I state firmly.
I swore off dating the day I caught Landon, my ex-fiancé, cheating on me with his assistant. It had been a typical Tuesday afternoon until I walked in on them doing it doggy style in Landon’s apartment.
Men are far more trouble than they’re worth. My collection of handy rabbit vibrators gets me off more times in a week than Landon did in the whole of our five-year relationship.
I’ve learned the hard way that getting emotionally attached to someone only leads to heartache, and I don’t plan to put myself through that again.
“You’re in Las Vegas,” August declares with gusto. “One night of making bad decisions, like getting drunk and having filthy, hot sex with a stranger, can’t hurt.” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Haven’t you heard the saying, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? This is the perfect opportunity to let loose and have a good time. Then you can return to London and be your boring old self again,” he jokes.
“Gee, thanks for the self-esteem boost,” I mumble as I take another sip of my drink.
He’s not wrong, but his words still sting.
Apparently, the handful of times I’ve joined him for a night out or met Theo for dinner doesn’t count as a social life. I can see why he finds it unhealthy that, aside from my demanding work schedule, I prefer to spend my limited free time alone.
“Everly, I care about you and want you to be happy. You deserve to settle down someday and find someone who worships the ground you walk on.”
I used to want that, too, but things have changed.
“I don’t have any interest in…” My voice trails off when movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I glance up just in time to watch a newcomer enter the bar area. From my vantage point, I can only see his profile, but there’s something strangely familiar about him.
The stranger has dark-blonde shaggy hair that falls to his chin and stubble covering his chiseled jawline. While everyone else in the hotel bar is dressed in business attire, he’s wearing dark-wash jeans, a white long-sleeve dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, and leather loafers. Even without seeing his face, I can sense he’s trouble.
He’s captured the attention of every woman in the room, their gazes locked on him as if he’s the ultimate prize. As for me, I have no interest in him whatsoever.
Then why can’t I stop staring?
“Everly, are you still there?” August’s voice breaks through my trance.
It’s a good thing we’re not video chatting, or he might notice the blush spreading across my cheeks when I realize I’ve been checking out a stranger. I’m usually indifferent to men, and this one shouldn’t be any different.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply, keeping my gaze fixed on my drink.
“When are you coming home?” August asks.
“My flight leaves for London in the morning.”
“You could always spend the weekend in Vegas,” he persists, like a dog with a bone.
“I’d much rather sleep in my bed tomorrow night.”
“Fine,” he says with a defeated sigh. “But if you change your mind and need a day to recuperate, let me know.”
“I’ll see you bright and early on Monday, August,” I tell him.
“Travel safe.”
As soon as I hang up, a middle-aged man sits next to me, despite plenty of other seats at the bar. My guess is he was waiting for me to finish my conversation before he approached.
I ignore him in favor of pretending to read an email. The last thing I want is to be pulled into a conversation with someone I’m not interested in talking to. I’m scolding myself for not leaving the bar while I was still talking with August. I blame the devilishly handsome stranger for distracting me.
“Excuse me.” The guy next to me taps me on the shoulder.
I look over and meet his beady black eyes. Sweat drips down his temples, highlighting his receding hairline. He pulls out a grimy handkerchief from his pinstripe suit, which is too small around the middle, and wipes his brow.
I grimace when he sets the used handkerchief on the counter between us.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying my best to hide my repulsion.
“I’m Larry. I’d like to buy you a drink.” A grin spreads across his face, exposing a poorly done set of veneers, which makes it more unsettling than friendly.
“I appreciate the offer, but I already have one.” I lift my glass for emphasis.
“You definitely need something stronger.” His nasally voice grates against my ears.
“No, thank you.”
“Come on, baby. From the moment I saw you, I wanted to tell you that if beauty were a crime, you’d be serving a life sentence.”
I let out a choked noise. “I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression, but I’m not interested.”
Being direct tends to be the most effective approach when turning down someone’s advances. It leaves no room for misinterpretation or for leading someone on for the sake of being nice, which never ends well.
Larry’s eyes narrow. “Is this how you treat someone who compliments you?”
“It’s how I treat men who don’t know how to take no for an answer.” I grab my purse, ready to hightail it out of here. I’m startled when his meaty hand clamps around my upper arm.
“Sit. Back. Down,” he hisses sharply.
“Let me go,” I say through gritted teeth. This guy has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll comply with his harassment. “I said I’m not interested.” I place my hand over his and dig my fingernails into his skin, causing him to loosen his grip.
“Why you little bit—”
“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence.” The deep voice sends a thrill down my spine.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find the stranger I was ogling earlier hovering over my unwanted guest. A sharp exhale passes my lips when I realize he’s not a stranger at all—it’s Cash Stafford. It’s no wonder he felt familiar. He’s been my brother’s best friend since we were kids, although I haven’t seen him in almost fifteen years.
The unwanted sensation of butterflies in my stomach when his eyes soften and he flashes me a smirk before turning his attention back to Larry.
“Leave now, or I’ll call security,” Cash threatens calmly.
Larry gives him a wary glance, not daring to question his order. He has enough sense to shove his handkerchief in his pocket and scurry out of his chair, and rush toward the exit. His compliance may have something to do with the jagged scar on Cash’s face, spanning from his left eyebrow, carving a winding path across his cheek down to the corner of his mouth. The pronounced pinkish color gives him a menacing appearance.
My memory takes me back to after his accident when he expressed how much he hated the scar because it served as a constant reminder that his outward appearance was different from everyone else. It didn’t help that Whitney, his high school girlfriend, never shied away from complaining about how it looked whenever she got the chance. In my opinion, it’s sexy as hell. A reminder of Cash’s willingness to help someone in need—consequences be damned.
My hands tremble as Cash gives me a wicked grin. He may be devastatingly handsome, but from what Theo’s told me about him over the years, I was right to think he was dangerous—just not in the conventional sense.
Something tells me he won’t be as easy to get rid of as Larry was.