CHAPTER TWO
Jovana
“Girl, you’re a lifesaver,” Sloane, the bartender, said as I rushed behind the bar to clock in for my unscheduled shift. The moment I finished typing my code into the computer and turned toward her, she threw her arms around me, giving me a heavy whiff of her banana-scented lotion and weed—Sloane’s signature scent. “I owe you everything and then some.”
“Don’t be silly. You know I’m always happy to come in whenever you need me.”
Sloane was the reason I had this job in the first place. I’d known her since high school and throughout college. We’d even recently become roommates, which was the reason I’d said yes to this shift and all the others I’d been able to pick up over the last few months. I desperately needed the money for rent and bills, especially with my student loans on the verge of kicking in. When Sloane had gotten me this position, I was promised part-time hours. But because the other servers liked to call in sick all the time and do everything aside from coming to work, I had become their fill-in, basically earning me full-time status.
Once her arms dropped from my shoulders, I grabbed an apron from the bin and tied it around my waist. “Have I missed anything?”
“Oh, you know, the usual drama.” She tore off the slip that had just come out of the printer that gave her a list of drinks she needed to make. “Two of the servers skipped out tonight, claiming they have the flu. Except I’m positive they’re at the Jelly Roll concert.”
I asked the same question every time I came in. Sloane, or the other bartender if my roommate wasn’t in, would drown me in employee gossip.
Really, all I wanted to know was if Grayson was here.
In the two months since we’d slept together, he hadn’t been in.
Not even once.
And part of me was relieved because I certainly didn’t want to see that asshole, but part of me wanted to be in his presence because deep in my gut, I still felt something for him.
Based on Sloane’s response, I assumed tonight was no different or it would have been the first thing she said.
I unscrewed my bottle of Coke, and as I heard the sound it made, I remembered the words Grayson had said that night about the soda.
I want to hear the fizz when I open it. None of that fountain shit that’s stale as hell. I like my soda sweet and bubbly.
The words weren’t identical—my mom wasn’t as crude as Grayson—but she’d said something similar to my father the first time they’d met, and ironically, it had been over a bottle of Coke.
That also happened to be the same moment that my father knew he was going to marry her.
Whenever my mom described their meetup, she always talked about the way my father had made her feel. The way he had looked at her. The growing sensation she’d had in her stomach.
How she could barely breathe or respond.
I instinctively glanced at the table where Grayson had been sitting with his friends. Of course, he wasn’t there now. All I had was the memory of him.
The way he’d looked at me when our eyes first connected.
The way my body had reacted, the swish of tingles that started at my feet and whipped across my legs and stomach and landed in my chest, where it simmered the rest of the night.
The way I’d been so consumed by his stare, it took me several seconds to even respond to him. To inhale and exhale without the tightness in my lungs.
The way my body needed to be satisfied by him, needed to be closer to him, needed to feel his hands on every part of me.
I didn’t want to give him my number and wait for his call.
I didn’t want to go home alone.
I wanted to do something I never did because my mind, my body, wouldn’t allow anything different.
I sighed, attempting to push that memory and those feelings far, far away. “I wish I was at the Jelly Roll concert.”
I wished I were anywhere except here, thinking about him.
She eyed me as she poured two different types of liquor into a mixer and began to squeeze in some fresh lime. “Don’t even think about leaving me.” Her hands moved so fast, all I could see was a blur of black nail polish and silver rings.
“I can’t. I’m broke. Those tickets are far above what I can afford, which is absolutely nothing at the moment.”
She patted my shoulder before picking up a martini glass. “All this hard work will pay off. I promise.”
She reminded me of that at least once a week. But those words had nothing to do with my work here; it was the job I did at home—my passion—that seemed financially hopeless.
That passion was my dream of becoming the most well-known online influencer. I didn’t just concentrate on fashion, fitness, or cosmetics. I was the go-to for women in their midtwenties who were looking for lifestyle inspiration. Like any other entertainer, I created a persona for my demographic. What I showed them, what products I pushed, what tidbits I revealed were all with the intention to strike curiosity. Most clicked that follow button because they wanted to live vicariously through me—they connected with me somehow, were fascinated with a life that was so different from their own. Perfecting this persona and nurturing her had been my focus for the last two years, and most recently, when I wasn’t slinging drinks in the evening, I was making content, filming and digitally retouching my photos and videos.
As my numbers grew, so did the endorsements and brand deals, the kickbacks and commissions I received.
But my two hundred and fifty thousand followers weren’t a large enough audience to pay my bills.
Not even close, in fact.
“Yeah, yeah,” I groaned. My phone vibrated several times in my pocket, alerting me of incoming notifications. “And one day you’re going to own this bar and I’m going to be able to pimp the hell out of you and make it the most popular spot in Boston.”
She smiled, showing the diamond gem she’d bonded to her tooth this morning. “I’m so ready for that to happen.” She wiped her hands on her apron, and as she took out her cell, she added, “Because it’s exhausting to deal with ...” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening before she slowly glanced up at me. “Ummm, do me a favor. I know you just got the alert on your phone that I’m looking at right now, but I don’t want you to see it. So don’t check your phone, ’kaaay?”
“Huh? Why?”
She put her cell away and grabbed the new paper that had just printed out, giving her the next order of drinks. “Because you just don’t need to. So go greet your tables and find out what they want and do your thing for the rest of the night, but whatever you do, don’t look at your phone.”
“You’re kidding, right?” As if I hadn’t heard her, I slipped my phone out of my back pocket and held it at my side. “That’s like telling me not to pee for a week.”
She pointed at the hand that was gripping my cell. “Then look at your phone all you want—just skip over the Celebrity Alert that was just sent.”
I couldn’t imagine why she was saying this to me. How a Celebrity Alert would matter, considering I wasn’t one myself and I didn’t know any personally, at least not outside the influencer space.
But all her warning did was make me more interested, so I lifted my phone to my face, immediately hearing, “Don’t do it, Jovana,” as my eyes scanned the first notification on my screen.
Which just so happened to be the Celebrity Alert.
Groaning, “Fuck me,” as I processed the words.
brEAKING NEWS: Boston’s Biggest Bachelor Hooked SIX.
My hands shook as I tapped the notification, and then an article appeared with Grayson Tanner on a Megayacht with Six Unidentified Women as the headline.
I gazed up at my friend, my face turning as fiery as the blood swishing through my veins.
“What did I tell you?” She rimmed a glass with salt. “Put your phone away and skip the article. Seriously. It’ll do you no good to read it.”
I stepped back until I felt the edge of the bar and gave it most of my weight. “I need to be reminded of how much I despise him.”
“You don’t need an article to do that. I’m pretty sure you can just replay the last few minutes you guys were together and that’s all the reminding you need.”
The moment I’d gotten home from Grayson’s place, I’d rushed to the fridge and grabbed the only booze I had—a bottle of champagne I’d been saving for when I reached three hundred thousand followers. I carried it to the couch, popped the cork, and that was where Sloane found me, hours later, taking the final sip. Within minutes of her arrival, I was purging every detail of my evening with Grayson. Given that he was a regular, she knew who I was talking about, and once I finished telling her everything that had gone down, she explained exactly who he was.
I hadn’t slept with a man who worked a typical nine-to-five and was looking for a woman to spend the rest of his life with.
I’d chosen a man who was one of the founders of the largest hook-up app in the country and was allergic to dating. And who, according to Google, had invented the app with his best friends because they were tired of putting so much time and effort into women.
As the days passed, I spent more time reading about him, locating articles that had appeared in different news outlets, interviews he’d done, reports that showed the growth and success of his business.
Instagram had been the most telling.
The forever playboy had quite an interesting life. He dined at Boston’s top-rated restaurants, had box seats at every sporting event, was backstage and front row at concerts, was always shaking hands with celebrities, and traveled the world.
What I didn’t see in a single photo was a woman.
Because he didn’t care about them.
And that confirmed everything he’d told me had been correct.
A man who didn’t believe in commitment. Marriage. Or any of that shit.
When it came to females, Grayson cared about only one thing.
Sex.
But looking back, aside from the way things had ended, the beginning and middle felt like so much more than a one-night stand.
They felt like the start of something epic.
Like the foundation of my parents’ relationship.
Except, somehow, I’d read the situation all wrong.
I was too romantic.
That was why I needed to see the article. I needed to face that Grayson wasn’t the guy I’d made him out to be. That what I’d thought we had wasn’t real.
I released the air that I’d been holding in my lungs. “I have to read it, Sloane.”
Besides, I was aware he was on a yacht. I’d seen the picture he posted of the giant ship. I just didn’t know he was with other women.
Or six, for that matter.
God, I hated myself for stalking his Instagram profile, but I checked it every night before I went to sleep. I couldn’t help myself, nor could I stop myself. I didn’t know if I found his life entertaining or if I was just obsessed with where he was and what he was doing and that he wasn’t with me.
“It’s going to sting.”
“More than it already does?” I shook my head. “Impossible.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I hadn’t listened to her first warning. I certainly wasn’t going to listen to this one either.
I attempted to take a long, deep breath, and I began to skim the Celebrity Alert.
Grayson Tanner, 30, cofounder of Hooked and inventor of the marriage division of the app, has been seen cruising the Mediterranean Sea aboard a 150-foot yacht, owned by Royston Wild, 36, founder of the largest restaurant group in New England. A well-deserved celebration for the cofounder as his app just launched internationally, instantly earning him the top slot of the most downloaded and used dating app in the world.
One would assume Royston would be enjoying the waters of Saint-Tropez with his good friend, Grayson, especially given that it’s Royston’s yacht. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case. The only people in attendance look to be Grayson and the women he’s Hooked.
Six, to be exact.
Some like to celebrate in style. Some like to celebrate in large numbers.
Grayson appears to like both.
Our only question is: Why didn’t you go for a whole dozen?
To use his own words, looks like bachelorhood is paying off ...
. . . in many, many ways.
Have fun for us, Grayson.
Above the article was a series of photos, and I flipped through them, showing Grayson aboard the yacht in slightly different poses, wearing only a pair of swim trunks, his ripped abs on full display. The six women were in string bikinis, lying on lounge chairs, and ogling him.
I felt like I was going to be sick.
I didn’t know why, because I’d definitely seen enough, but I clicked on the video below the article and the feed instantly showed a zoomed-in image of Grayson, holding a drink in the air, a cigar in his other hand, and a smile covering his face. That grin grew even larger when he shouted, “To bachelorhood. Who needs marriage when you can have all of this.” The video lasted a few seconds past his toast, where he was walking toward the group of women before it cut off.
The second it stopped playing, I shoved my phone back into my pocket.
“Drink this,” Sloane said, handing me a shot glass that overflowed with a clear liquid. When I hesitated, she searched the floor for our manager and said, “Don’t worry, you’re in the clear. He’s in his office.”
I brought the drink up to my lips and quickly swallowed, wiping my mouth as the liquor scorched the back of my throat. “Ugh, that was awful.”
She held the bottle of vodka toward me. “Does that mean you don’t want another?”
“What I meant was that the article and the pictures and the damn video were awful, and now they’re burned into my head.” I took the bottle from her and poured myself a refill, shooting that back before placing the glass in the sink. “Why did I read our situation all wrong and make the worst mistake ever?”
“It wasn’t the worst mistake ever.”
My brows rose. “How can you say that? I slept with a man who goes on vacation with six women because one isn’t enough. I was dumb enough to actually think he was interested in me. But no, he told me instead that he’d never date me and things wouldn’t extend beyond our one night together.” I rolled my eyes. “Who does that?”
But he’d also told me he didn’t compromise, yet he had.
That was something I couldn’t make sense of.
Or why he would take me to his home—a place that had to mean a lot to him, where he wouldn’t just want some random woman to know the address and location of—rather than just fuck me in the restroom or in the alley outside the bar.
Or why he looked at me with so much emotion behind his stare.
Grayson didn’t gaze at me like I was something he wanted. He gazed at me like I was something he couldn’t live without.
There was a difference.
And I felt it.
“Here’s the thing about you that I love the most,” Sloane said. “You have the biggest heart, and you trust so easily. But what that also means is that when it comes to men, even though it’s only happened a few times in the past, you tend to fall fast and hard.” After drying her hands, she tossed the rag over her shoulder, where it stayed and rested across her spaghetti strap. “So, when it came to Grayson—who we now know is a giant asshole, but how were you supposed to know that at the time?—you were just following that big heart of yours and seeing where it led you. You didn’t know he was going to treat you that way, nor did you have any idea who he was.” She paused. “Me on the other hand, I know, so I’d have no excuse”—she held up her hand before I could say a word—“not that he would ever try anything with me. He hasn’t. I’m just saying I know his reputation, so I would know what to expect going in. You didn’t and that’s not your fault. Maybe if you’d gotten a warning or if I’d been working that night, things would have gone down differently.”
I remembered the conversation I’d had with the other server that night when she saw Grayson and me kissing in the hallway outside the restroom. I’d thought she was questioning me about it because he’d dated someone at the bar and I was stepping on someone else’s territory. What she was really doing was waving a handful of red flags in my face.
Why didn’t I pick up on her cues?
Why didn’t I ask her any questions?
Why did I, like an absolute fool, go to his condo and have the best sex of my entire life?
The answers were simple.
I was picking up on every sign he gave me and following my big heart to see where it led me.
But I was sure, even months later, as I continued to piece together everything he’d said and the way he’d made me feel, that I hadn’t read things wrong.
It wasn’t me.
It was him.
He was an asshole. One who didn’t have the courage to explore what could happen between us.
Instead of letting me in, he pushed me out and slammed the door in my face.
Sloane was right—I fell fast and I fell hard when it came to men.
And I’d never seen a man more beautiful and charming than Grayson Tanner.
With the largest, most gorgeous alluring green eyes and hair the color of a dark roast blend, a beard that was thick and edged and just the right length. He towered over me in height, making me feel tiny and wanted, and he had muscles so big that I could see them through his clothes.
Muscles that could easily lift me into the air, that could protect me, that could dominate me in every way.
That had.
Oh God.
And then there was his smile.
White, straight enough teeth, with lips that were thick and powerful, like his hands.
Strong enough that when he kissed me, I felt it across my entire body.
With a mouth so talented, I wanted to marry him.
But that same mouth had told me, with zero regret, that I wasn’t for him.
That we would never amount to anything.
“Sloane,” I whispered. “For every single reason, I wish he was a nice guy.”
She stopped making whatever drink she was working on and came over to me. “You’ll find yourself one. I know you will. You’re young, you’re living in one of the most fab cities, and you’re surrounded by hot, single men on the daily. Don’t worry, it’s going to happen. In the meantime, let’s pretend Grayson doesn’t exist. And let’s not give him an inch of real estate in our brains, cool?”
Just as I was about to respond, my phone vibrated.
This wasn’t a Celebrity Alert. Those were silenced. This had to be either a text or email or social media notification.
I pulled out my phone and what was on the screen made the bile in my stomach rise to my throat.
“What are you looking at?” Sloane asked.
I didn’t tell her.
She would just grab the cell out of my hand and probably delete my Instagram app.
Instead, I clicked on the notification that told me Grayson had just posted something.
Why am I looking at this?
Why am I doing this to myself?
Why do I even care?
But I found myself watching the video that had just gone live on his profile. The video that showed him on a Jet Ski, riding the waves, sending him several feet into the air, having what looked like the best time.
His pecs and biceps bulged as he gripped the handlebars. His skin tan from all the sun. His hair wet and messy, his beard untamed.
That look on him ... there was nothing sexier.
“Gimme,” she said, tilting the phone toward her so she could see what I was looking at. Once she viewed my screen, she gazed at me. “You have notifications set up for his Instagram account?”
“No. Yes. Ugh.” I exhaled a long breath. “I despise myself and him at this moment—just so you know.”
She took the phone out of my hand and pressed the screen several times before she gave it back to me. “He’s blocked. Don’t even think about reversing it.” Her hands went to my shoulders, which she squeezed and shook. “No real estate, remember. We’re done with Grayson.”