1. Chapter 1 #2
“We were just…” The creep clears his throat, his laughter suddenly nervous, brittle. “Getting to know each other. I didn’t realize she was taken, man.”
“She is.”
Flat and absolute. His gaze slices to the man, head tilting like he’s measuring his worth and finding nothing there.
The asshole swallows hard, mutters something unintelligible, and turns, vanishing into the crowd with a disgusted look on his face.
I’m still pressed against a wall of muscle, burning alive in his hold.
“Thanks,” I murmur, tilting my head up, nerves crackling through me.
His eyes don’t soften. They stay locked on mine, his hand still anchored at my waist.
“You owe me,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate against my ribs.
“Owe you? For pretending to be my boyfriend for thirty seconds?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me .
“For saving you time and energy. He seemed persistent.”
“Well,” I smile, tilting my chin, trying to claw back some ground, “what’s the going rate for rescuing damsels in Miami? Ten minutes on the dance floor?”
His eyes flick down my body and back up, like he’s taking his time imagining it. “Terrible bargain.” His mouth curves, not quite a smile, more like the idea of one. “I deserve at least fifteen. And your name.”
My breath catches.
The laugh that escapes me is sharper, breathier than I mean it to be. “Fifteen minutes, huh? Confident.”
“Accurate.”
The air between us feels charged, buzzing.
“And your name?”
“It’s Jess.”
He turns smoothly toward the bartender, voice cutting through the noise. “Jess’s drinks,” he says, nodding toward me. “Anything she wants. Put it on the Blazers tab.”
The bartender blinks, then beams like he’s just been knighted. “Of course, Captain.” He scrambles, sliding a napkin and a pen across the counter. “Would you mind? Just an autograph. My kid’s a huge fan.”
The man takes the pen and scribbles with quick, neat strokes. Then he pauses, assessing the bartender with the same calm weight he’s been pinning me with. “Bring your phone. He’ll want a picture.”
The bartender practically stammers himself into pieces. “Y-yes, sir. Thank you!” He leans in for the selfie, grinning so wide his cheeks must cramp. The man gives a small, precise half-smile for the shot—just enough to make the bartender beam harder—before handing the phone back.
That’s when I notice the phones in the air. Not one or two, but a sea of them, pointed at us. My chest goes tight. A flash detonates, blinding me white. Spots burst behind my eyelids as the club photographer grins and walks off.
My first thought is stupidly vain. They can’t possibly be taking pictures of me. Sure, people recognize me from sewing videos, but no one points a dozen iPhones at a girl who curses at her Singer machine. Which leaves only one explanation: him. He’s someone .
“Thank you, Captain. Really. Thank you,” the bartender says.
“Anytime,” the man nods once, then turns back to me.
And just like that, the full force of him is back on me.
“So… you’re famous?” I cock my head, a smirk tugging at my lips. “I didn’t realize my fake boyfriend was such a big deal.”
“Didn’t realize I was your boyfriend.” His mouth twitches, the smallest ghost of amusement.
“Fake,” I remind him, playfully.
“Mm.” His eyes drag over my face like he’s filing away every detail. “So, what do you actually do?” I tip my glass toward him.
“I’m a dolphin trainer.” His mouth curves into a small smile.
“What?” My drink pauses halfway to my lips.
“Dolphins,” he repeats, gaze steady on mine. “I clap my hands; they jump through hoops. Very fun.”
“You do not.” A laugh bursts out of me .
“You think I couldn’t?” His eyes narrow, but the corners crease like he’s secretly pleased he made me laugh.
“Oh, I definitely think you could. You look bossy enough to make dolphins jump through anything.” I lean closer. “But seriously. What do you do?”
“Just got a new job, actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
He leans closer, so close I feel his breath stroke my skin. “A dirty blonde hired me.” His gaze drags down my body and back up. “Fake boyfriend. Benefits pending.”
My laugh stutters, caught between thrill and panic at the double entendre.
“So… you’re a gigolo?” I tease, my voice high, shaky with nerves I try to hide.
“I’m not sure yet.” His mouth curves into a smile, sharp and devastating. “I still don’t know the full extent of the services required of me.”
My pulse detonates. My clit throbs so hard I grip my glass tighter, like it’ll keep me from visibly shattering. Heat surges under my skin, and I manage a laugh that sounds way too breathless .
“Do you always talk like that to strangers?”
“It’s our two-minute anniversary and you call me a stranger?” He furrows his brows, eyes amused.
“Ugh, the bathroom line was…” Dannie’s voice cuts through the music as she pushes her way back to me, but it dies the second her eyes land on the man beside me.
She stops mid-step, mouth open, eyes wide. She flicks a look at me, then him, then back at me like she’s trying to compute a math problem that doesn’t add up.
I give her a bright, guilty little smile, pretending my pulse isn’t jackhammering. “Dannie, this is—”
I falter because… yeah. I don’t actually know his name.
My head whips back toward him, ready to ask, but instead, he slides something into my hand.
A rose. Crisp folds of white paper, twisted and shaped from a napkin into a flower.
I stare, stunned.
“If you’d be more comfortable, you can join us upstairs.” He’s watching me with a steady gaze.
Upstairs .
I glance past him, twirling the paper rose between my fingers. The only “upstairs” is the VIP section, with loud men, louder women, bodies pressed against the ropes—all teeth and claws for a chance to get closer.
The thought of being just another body in that swarm, blended into a pack of desperate women in heat, makes my stomach twist.
“No,” I hear myself say, firmer than I mean to. I want to be close to him—more than I’ve ever wanted to be close to anyone. But not like this.
Something flickers in his expression. It’s not disappointment, more like curiosity.
Before I can unravel it, his hand reaches out and plucks the rose back from my fingers. My heart dips, thinking he’s taking it back because I refused him. But my gaze follows his large hand as he tucks it gently behind my ear.
His mouth lowers, his breath warm against my skin, and my entire body erupts in goosebumps.
“Enjoy your night.”
His voice is way clearer next to my ear without all the music diffusing it, and the richness of it makes my knees weak.
Before I can respond with something, anything to make him stay, he’s already walking back through the crowd, leaving me standing there with a paper rose in my hair, every nerve ending in my body burning, and a hundred eyes suddenly on me.