2. Madison
I wastwo tiny bottles of vodka and half a Toblerone into the minibar before my tears began to slow. There was more liquor—whiskey, tequila, scotch—but I wanted to get drunk, not sick. I sat on the floor in front of the minibar and debated my options.
There was no reason for me to sulk alone in my suite. It’s not like I caused a big scene earlier. The only person I’d assaulted—technically—was Connor. And he deserved it.
Besides, after being humiliated like that, I was entitled to a decent cocktail. I was entitled to many cocktails, and I’d be damned if I’d hide in my room licking my wounds. I got up off the floor, fixed my makeup, and took the elevator up to the sixtieth floor. Then I cozied up to the bar to lick my wounds in public, like a boss, and ordered myself an extra dirty Grey Goose martini.
It was perfection. Much better than shooting nips of vodka while sitting in front of the hotel minibar. It was so good, in fact, I soon raised my glass only to find it empty.
I tapped my index finger on the black marble bar top as the bartender approached and ordered another.
With a nod, he collected my empty glass and returned shortly with my refill.
“Would you care for something to eat as well?” he asked.
Was he judging me? After the night I’d had?
I popped the skewer from my martini into my mouth and slid the olives off with my teeth. “There.” I arched a brow, daring him to challenge me.
All I wanted to do was drink and forget this day had ever happened, but perhaps I should pace myself. If I got tossed out of two establishments in under two hours, my Randolph and Enright ancestors would come back to haunt me. Not to mention, my social calendar would take a hit if word got out.
He folded his arms, cocked an eyebrow, and waited. There was nothing worse than a judgey barkeep.
“Fine.” I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers. A little sustenance might not be a bad idea.
Despite skipping lunch, my earlier crying jag had decimated my appetite, and while I deserved at least a few bites of the cheddar bacon cheeseburger or the wagyu cheesesteak spring rolls, I’d be kicking myself in the morning for all the calories and carbs. But a little nosh would be better than nothing. I raised my arm and waved the menu in the air. The bartender appeared out of nowhere and snatched it from my hand. I leveled him with my grandmother’s imperious glare.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll have the kale salad.” I aimed a warning finger in his general direction. “Dressing on the side. And while you’re at it, another vodka martini, please. Extra dirty.”
He pulled a napkin and silverware out from behind the bar and set them down. Then lifted his chin toward the spot directly in front of me. “You already have one.”
“Yes, but it’s empt—” A fresh drink shimmered before me. Maybe I should go with that cheeseburger after all; something to soak up some of this alcohol. Then again, I had good reason to get drunk.
I muttered a quick thanks, and while waiting for my salad, I took out my phone and began searching for a local company that could send two male strippers to Connor’s office tomorrow around mid-morning. That would be the best time for most of his coworkers to enjoy the humiliation I’d foist upon him. I was willing to offer bonus bucks for them to dance and strip to a song that included lyrics referencing his tiny penis.
My salad arrived around the same time a tall, dark shadow slid into the space beside me.
Brazenly, the owner of said shadow leaned into my personal space. “Why’s a beautiful woman like you sittin’ here all by her lonesome?”
Lovely. A good ol’ boy. Who let him in? I picked up a radish and crunched loudly.
“Guess you’re the shy type, huh?”
Not exactly, but I guess you’re the oblivious type.
I continued to ignore him and dipped the tip of a kale leaf into the dressing.
He leaned closer, and I got a whiff of wood and leather. I breathed deeper. Royal Oud. Pricey and a bit surprising. His fragrance was warm and spicy and although I hadn’t even looked up at him, I shifted on my stool.
Tipping slightly to my left and away from the stranger with the enticing scent, I forked up more kale and a chunk of apple and popped them into my mouth. I chewed, sorry that I’d put so much into my mouth at once, and signaled for the bartender.
Come morning, I’d be one sorry mess, but tonight? Tonight I needed the fuzzy edges provided by Grey Goose to numb the pain and humiliation of my embarras épique earlier this evening.
The bartender made no move to refill my glass, and instead, set a large glass of water down in front of me. I dug into my clutch, pulled out my key card, and held it up. “For your information, I’m going no further tonight then down to the fifty-second floor.” I swung my arm in the direction of the glass elevator and connected with a solid wall of muscle. I looked up, up, up at the man standing to my right.
He smiled. I blinked.
Damn.
My eyes lowered, and I scanned him from the tip of his black Prada boots; up his tall, lean frame; over his neatly trimmed, bearded jaw; and right up to the top of his stylish, auburn hair. Full lips, high cheekbones. No suit and tie for this guy, despite the locale. He wore a deep charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up to exhibit some serious forearm porn and a pair of black jeans. A black leather motorcycle jacket was hooked onto a finger and casually draped over his shoulder.
He looked like trouble and every bad decision I might ever make rolled into one gorgeous, green-eyed god.
“Where’d you…” I coughed to clear my throat. “’Scuse me. Where’d you come from.”
Those full lips tipped into a sexy smirk. Tipping his head in the direction of the elevator, a shock of dark auburn hair fell over one eye, making him look both boyish and dangerous—at least as far as my La Perla panties were concerned.
“Oh…around,” he said, sliding his long fingers through his hair.
His spicy warmth surrounded me and filled my lungs. I’d bet anything his fuckboy cologne was loaded with pheromones, because I was ready to climb him like a tree.
Um…didn’t the supposed love of your life just humiliate you?
Yes, and?
Consciences. Who needs them?
What I needed was to forget tonight had ever happened. Forget Connor. Forget the future I’d mapped out in my head. Tomorrow wasn’t going anywhere. Tomorrow I could feel anger and shame. But tonight?
Tonight was about forgetting.
The bartender returned without my martini and asked his hotness beside me what he wanted to drink.
“Give me a Stella, please, and put whatever’s she having on my tab.”
I flicked my wrist. “That’s not necessary.”
He flashed me some pearly whites, and that smile was tingle-worthy. “Maybe not, but my mama raised me right. I got this, sweetness.”
The bartender uncapped his beer and poured it into a tall glass while my new friend watched and frowned. Given his style of dress and demeanor, I imagined he preferred his beer straight from the bottle. Or a can. As long as he didn’t smash a can against his forehead, we were good. He had other far more attractive attributes than how he drank his beer.
Besides, I wasn’t looking for a life partner. I’d already crashed and burned once today.
My new companion rested an elbow on the bar and leaned in. “So what’s your name, darlin’?”
I shook my head. “No names. It’s not necessary.”
My eyes followed the tip of his tongue as it traveled over his bottom lip. “If that’s the way you wanna play it, I’m game.” His voice was smokey and low. Goosebumps erupted as he traced an index finger from my bare shoulder, down my arm and all the way to my wrist. “I won’t tell you my name, and you don’t tell me yours. But I’m gonna call you Sugar, ‘cause you’re just about the sweetest thing I ever did see.”
A line like that would typically have me rolling my eyes and jamming the heel of my Louboutin into the arch of his foot, but not tonight. I wasn’t about to be escorted from another establishment, especially when exactly what I needed to help me forget my lying, cheating, ex-boyfriend was grinning down at me.
“And I’m going to call you Trouble,” I answered, shooting him a sexy grin of my own, “because that’s what you are.”
“Well, what do you know?” His honeyed voice asked. “Trouble is my middle name.” He chuckled soft and low, and I shivered. But then he straightened and took a swig of his beer, and while I immediately missed his heat and intoxicating scent, I reminded myself that this was out of character for me. I didn’t sit in bars and let myself get picked up by random men. I didn’t do one-night stands. I was a relationship girl. At least that’s what I’d thought until this evening. Finding out I’d been the other woman in a relationship hadn’t been on this year’s bingo card.
Fucking Connor. And fuck whomever would be warming his bed until he moved on to his next victim. And fuck that, I didn’t want to be a victim. And fuck me for saying fuck all night. I was a lady, damn it. A lady trying not to wrap her legs around the waist of the guy smiling down at her who looked and smelled like sex on a stick.
I was a highly educated, modern woman, as well as a successful business owner at only twenty-six. I was nobody’s victim.
And to prove that to myself, if no one else, I polished off the entire glass of water and every bite of my salad. Tipsy was one thing, but I preferred having my wits about me for what I had in mind. I dabbed the corners of my mouth with my napkin and swung my stool into the thighs of the sexy stranger.
“So what are you doing in Philadelphia?” I asked. “Business, pleasure, or do you live here?”
The bartender brought him another beer and me another glass of water. No worries. I could take a hint. Besides, my goals for the evening no longer included drowning myself in dirty martinis.
“Business,” he said, “and while I should be celebrating with my ba…business partners, I needed a little me time.” His grin shot straight to my core.
“Celebrating, huh? A successful trip then.”
His eyes sparkled in the dim light. “Very successful.”
“And do you live around here?”
“Do I sound like I live around here, darlin’?”
At that I laughed. “Definitely not.”
Feeling sure of myself and trusting that I knew exactly what I was doing, I looked up and gave him a coy glance.
“What do you say we get out of here, Trouble?” I asked as he drained his second beer.
He flashed me a blindingly white grin filled with perfect teeth. “I thought you’d never ask, Sugar.”
“I have a suite,” I informed him.
“Lead the way, darlin’.” He tossed a few hundred-dollar bills on the marble bar top.
I reached for the cash to hand back to him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to pay my tab.”
He captured my hand and held it. “I don’t think so, darlin’.” He kissed the top of my hand and then wove his fingers into mine. “We good?” he asked the bartender, whose eyes widened at the pile of cash in front of where I’d been seated.
“Yes sir, we’re good. Thank you.” I couldn’t tell for sure, but he might have smirked in my direction. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, folks.”
“Oh,” Trouble answered. “We intend to.”
And even though I’d set this thing in motion, I blushed for the first time in years.