Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Eric didn’t approach directly. That was for amateurs. Instead, he intercepted the server heading towards her booth with a fresh tray of drinks for her friends.
“I’ve got it,” Eric said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He slipped a folded bill into the server’s apron pocket. “And another round of whatever they’re having - on me.” The server glanced at the money, then at Eric’s imposing frame, and nodded, retreating.
Eric carried the tray over, the weight nothing in his hands. He loomed over the table, a sudden eclipse of light and presence. The chatter died. All eyes, including hers, lifted to him.
“Evening,” he said, his gaze landing on her and sticking. “Saw your glasses were getting low.”
He began distributing the drinks with an easy, possessive grace, his large hands careful with the delicate stems. Finally, he placed a fresh glass in front of her, his fingers brushing against hers for a deliberate, lingering moment.
Her skin was cool. She flinched, but didn’t pull away immediately. Her eyes, now that he was close, were indeed a piercing, luminous blue, wide with surprise and something else—wariness.
“I didn’t order this,” she said, her voice softer than he’d anticipated, yet carrying an edge.
“No, I know. I did,” Eric replied, leaning one hand on the edge of the table, caging her in without touching her. The scent of her—something clean like rain and a faint, warm vanilla—cut through the club’s stale perfume. “Consider it an opening move. I’m Eric.”
Her friends were staring, a mix of awe and apprehension. One of them giggled nervously. She looked at the drink, then back at his face, her expression unreadable.
“Lana,” she finally offered, but it wasn’t an invitation. It was a statement of fact. That cool way she cut off the other man, Eric knew he had to play his moves correctly or he’d be shot down too.
“Lana,” he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue like a taste he wanted to savor. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying the party much.”
“I’m enjoying my friends,” she corrected, her gaze steady. “That’s why I came.”
“Fair enough.” He didn’t move. “But maybe you came for something else, too… .and you just don’t know it yet.”
A flicker of irritation crossed her features. “And you’re going to tell me what that is?”
“Maybe.” He let the arrogance show, a glint in his eye. “Or maybe I’ll just show you at dinner tomorrow night.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a pronouncement.
Lana’s lips—those distractingly full lips—parted slightly.
Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. She was thrown, he could see it, but she didn’t crumble.
She tilted her head, and for the first time, he saw a spark of something fiery in the depths of her blue eyes.
Not interest, but defiance. Oh man, those are not my toes curling in excitement in my fuckin’ shoes…
“That’s a very confident assumption,” she said.
“I’m a very confident man.”
“I’m busy.”
“Cancel it,” he shot back in the same tone and she laughed at him. Short and incredulous, but there… and enchanting.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m determined.”
Eric finally straightened, removing the physical pressure but not the psychological one.
He pulled a pen from his pocket, took her napkin from under her original glass, and wrote his number on it in a bold, slashing script.
He placed it beside the new drink. “Think about it. The offer expires at midnight.”
He turned and walked away, feeling the heat of her stare on his back like a physical touch. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He’d planted the seed. Now he’d let it grow in the dark, fertile soil of her curiosity.
Back at the bar, Dex whistled. “Damn, buddy. Icy rejection for you too?”
“No,” Eric said, signaling for another beer. “A negotiation. She’ll call.”
“She doesn’t look like the calling type to me.”
Eric smirked, his eyes drifting back to the booth where Lana was now staring at the napkin as if it were a live wire. “Everyone’s the calling type if you find the right frequency. She’s… desperate for something. You can see it in her eyes. She just doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to show her.”
She didn’t call that night.
Or the next day.
Eric wasn’t annoyed; he was intrigued.
The game was afoot.
His next move was more calculated. He found out—through the not-so-subtle interrogation of one of her more impressionable friends at the bar that night—where Lana worked: a small, high-end art gallery in the historic district. The following Thursday, he walked in just before closing.
The gallery was all white walls, polished concrete floors, and hushed, reverent silence.
Lana was at a minimalist desk, her head bent over a ledger, her brown hair swept over one shoulder.
She wore a cream-colored silk blouse and black trousers.
She looked professional, severe, and utterly out of place in the sensual and thrilling chaos of his world. He liked the contrast.
He let the heavy door thud shut. She looked up, and her entire body went rigid. Those big blue eyes widened, then narrowed. Ah ha, she remembers me, he thought smugly.
“We’re closing in five minutes,” she said, her voice cool.
“Plenty of time,” Eric said, strolling in, his hockey player’s frame dwarfing the delicate sculptures on their pedestals. He stopped in front of a large, abstract painting, a swirl of dark blues and violent reds. “I’m in the market for some culture.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He turned to face her, leaning against the wall. “You wound me, Lana. I have layers and feelings, you know.”
“I’m sure.” She stood up, smoothing her trousers. A defensive gesture. “Was there something specific you were looking for?”
“You,” he said simply, cutting to the chase. “I thought maybe you lost my number - or your phone… or maybe it was your nerve.”
Her cheeks flushed again. He was starting to adore that reaction. “I didn’t lose anything. I chose not to use it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know you. Because men who buy drinks and issue commands in nightclubs are usually…” she trailed off.
“Usually what?” he prompted, taking a step closer. The air between them crackled.
“A lot. They’re a lot. And I’m not looking for ‘a lot’.”
“Maybe you’re looking for exactly a lot,” he countered, his voice dropping.
“Maybe you’re tired of ‘a little’ or settling.
Maybe you’re tired of polite conversations and men who apologize for taking up your space or time.
” He took another step. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat.
“Maybe you want someone who sees you tucked in that booth, looking like a goddamn masterpiece, and doesn’t ask permission to appreciate you. ”
She was breathing quickly now, her chest rising and falling under the silk.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then snapped back to his eyes, as if caught doing something forbidden.
She was fighting it, fighting the pull. He could see the war within her: the jaded weariness of past disappointments battling a deep, curious hunger.
Any previous boyfriend’s were a ghost was in the room and he knew it.
If she’d dated fools before him and they were whispering at her, bringing all those hidden insecurities each person had locked away deep down inside…
it was time to exorcise those ghosts with a little panache.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” she whispered.
“I have reason to be.” He reached out, not for her, but to pluck a business card from the holder on her desk.
He tucked it into his pocket. “Now you have mine - and I have yours. The pursuit is officially on, Lana. You can run, but you know I’ll keep finding you.
And deep down…” he leaned in, his lips almost brushing her ear, his voice a dark, sensual promise, “…I don’t think you want to run forever.
Can you imagine what it would be like to get ‘caught’ by the right man – by me? ”
He left her standing there, her hands clenched at her sides, her breath coming in shallow gasps. As he pushed the door open, he glanced back. She was watching him, one hand pressed to her sternum, her expression a tumultuous mix of frustration and something dangerously close to fascination.
The seed was no longer just planted.
It was beginning to grow and thrive.