Chapter 2 #2
My eyes flicked toward the entrance, scanning the crowd with a flutter of nerves I hadn’t felt in years. What if my client showed? What if this man—this impossibly charming, aggravatingly attractive stranger—discovered why I was really here tonight?
It shouldn’t matter.
But somehow, it did.
For one reckless second, I wished we’d met on a different night. Under different circumstances. In a different life, where I didn’t come with so much damned baggage.
He shifted in his chair beside me… a finger on the rim of his glass that would have gone unnoticed if I wasn’t hyper aware of every move he made. Like a moth to a flame I pivoted in his direction, unable to stop myself.
“It’s none of your business, now is it?” I asked, my voice low, teasing—so flirtatious I almost cringed.
I didn’t know why I was engaging, or why I was smiling. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself from doing either.
He did something to me. Something that felt natural and dangerous all at once. Like stepping barefoot into the ocean, knowing I couldn’t swim, but craving the pull of the tide anyway.
A small smile played at the edge of his mouth, and I braced myself. I knew his type—the kind who spoke in quiet tones and made eye contact feel like foreplay. He didn’t just wear confidence—he exhaled it. Like cologne that lingered long after he was gone.
Sooner or later, he’d say something to ruin things. I’d find out he had a wife. A second phone. A dating profile on an app that ended in “-Meet.”
Because there was always a catch. And men like him? They usually came wrapped in red flags that were impossible to ignore.
He took another sip, then lifted his gaze to mine in a way that made me feel drunk. "No, it’s not," he said. "But I’m still curious."
His eyes were as dark as coffee. So rich and smooth that I knew I’d drown myself in them if I wasn’t careful. I looked away, pulse ticking like a bomb under my skin.
What would he think if I told him the truth? That I was here to meet a man who was paying me by the hour?
"Why’s that?" I asked, trying to pretend like his closeness wasn’t affecting me.
"Because women like you," he said without pause, "usually aren’t kept waiting."
"Women like me?" My head snapped like a rubber-band pulled by a stick.
"You’re beautiful," he said. "But you know that already."
His sentiment landed sideways, stirring a strange cocktail of heat and unease. Yes, he called me beautiful, but it didn’t exactly feel like a compliment.
"I’m waiting for a client,” I said deadpan.
“Do you mind if I ask what you do?" he asked, unfazed by my less than inviting tone.
“I’m a web developer.” Which was the truth—not the reason I’d slipped into this dress tonight, but certainly not a lie.
He paused, studying me. And then, unexpectedly, his expression softened. The air, which was taut and humming only a second earlier, slowly began to settle. As though we’d both taken a breath we hadn’t realized we were holding.
I wasn’t sure what shifted—whether it was my answer, or the way I’d said it—but the tension eased, like air being let out of an overfilled balloon.
“Are you sure you don’t want that drink?” he asked then, and I swore his eyes dipped for a second to my lips.
I should’ve said no. Should’ve held the line, but his voice curved around me like silk—and I felt it all the way to my toes.
I forced my eyes toward the entrance again, searching for any sign that someone was looking for me.
For all I knew, my client had chickened out. Or worse, he was already here, watching me flirt with a stranger, but a part of me no longer cared.
“I’ll take a martini," I said, flipping open my clutch and checking my phone for missed messages.
"What’s your name?” he asked, as he simultaneously lifted his chin to signal for the bartender.
"Does it matter?”
“I’m Dean,” he said, dropping the bomb that instantly shattered me.
My jaw clenched. My skin prickled. And before I even realized what I was doing—I was on my feet.
He rose too, tall and composed, every inch a man in control.
A strange pressure began to build in my chest. For a second, I couldn’t name it. It was sharp, but hollow. Heavy, but cold.
And then I knew it.
Shame.
It crept up my spine like a tide rising too fast, chilling everything in its path and leaving me breathless.
I’d felt shame before—a thousand times before—but never about this job. Not when older men pressed money into my purse with one hand while guiding me around with the other. Not when I pretended to be everything they wanted, but nothing of myself remained.
With Dean, it had been different.
Because before I knew who he was, I’d felt something real. I’d been myself, and there had been a spark. A fire in my belly that I hadn’t experienced in years.
His expression didn’t change as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim white envelope, and discreetly handed it to me.
"If you need to count it," he said, "I’d appreciate it if you did it in the restroom."
Regrettably, I’d let myself forget the rules. Forget what this was. Forgot why I was here… But he hadn’t. Not for a second.
I was a service. A transaction.
"What the hell was that all about?" I muttered, grabbing the envelope and slipping it into my clutch before anyone could see it.
The look he gave me was unreadable. Cool, but not cruel.
"I needed to make sure you weren’t crazy."
I blinked. Because of all the things he might have said, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
It made sense.
He was trusting me to step into his life and not make him look like a fool. To blend in with women who dripped in diamonds and looked like they walked off the pages of Vogue.
Of course he had questions. Of course he wanted to make sure I wasn’t crazy.
The bartender slid my martini across the counter, and I reclaimed my seat and took a long sip, welcoming the burn of vodka I hoped would loosen the knot between my shoulders. “How can you be sure I’m not crazy?" I asked.
A dimple appeared on his cheek, visible even through his beard. “I can’t, but you seem normal enough."
“Normal?” I nearly choked. I’d never been normal in my life. I almost laughed in his face, but then his gaze held mine—steady and unreadable, with just enough heat to make my skin tighten.
I crossed my legs in his direction, just as he slid a card across to the bartender and instructed him to close out his tab.
"Follow me,” he said as he signed the receipt and slipped the card back into his wallet.
Two words. Low. Commanding. Like a man used to being obeyed—
Then he walked away, broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like a born leader.
I watched him go, my stubborn streak begging for me not to follow. But did l listen?
Absolutely not.