Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
The good news?
I remembered deodorant.
The bad news?
There's absolutely no way I'm getting into the opening night masquerade ball. Not even by offering to buy my own ticket.
I'm standing in the hotel lobby, dressed like I belong in a 2000s rom-com with my strappy heels, swishy lavender dress, and matching masquerade mask doused in glitter.
"Sorry," the security guard says, barely glancing at me. "The event sold out. They're not selling any more tickets."
"Okay, thanks. Sorry for bothering you." I give him my best polite smile and back away like I'm not preparing myself to go cry in the stairwell. I don't want to go back to the claustrophobic hotel closet where Gisele and Bea have decided to house me and my rollaway bed.
My phone buzzes. A status update from one of Bea's social media accounts.
I cringe even before I see the post because Gisele is the better of the two at social media branding.
Half of Bea's posts are thirst traps that don't seem geared toward her reader audience at all, and the other half are not-so-humble brags.
I'm starting to realize I hate them. Not in the fun "sisters can be a pain" way, but in the "they get everything they want and still treat people like crap" way.
They're both inside the ballroom right now being fawned over by The Tempted , the online nickname for their aggressively loyal fanbase.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck in the lobby with a book and a protein bar that's melted into the shape of the airplane I rode into town on.
I slump in the velvety chair in the center of the empty social lounge in the lobby and pull out my well-loved book. I've read Electric Love in its entirety six times. Maybe seven.
Okay... nine.
Rereading the familiar pages is the only thing that keeps me from flailing my arms and screeching like a banshee when my ADHD goes off the rails and people treat me like I'm defective or too weird to risk interacting with.
I crack the book open to chapter nine and fall straight into Sara Fox's dreamy dialogue. In this scene, the love interest unexpectedly kisses the main character for the first time.
As I lose myself to the pages, I sigh audibly.
"You okay there, Lover Girl?"
The voice startles me so much I almost drop the book.
A guy has flopped onto the couch across from me, slouched and broad-shouldered, with his long legs stretched out like he owns the entire lobby floor.
There's stubble across his jaw, sparse as if he usually sports a clean-shaven look but was too lazy to shave today.
In comparison, his hair looks too perfectly mussed to be an accident.
The suit he wears is dark and perfectly fitted, a shade of gray that's nearly black and matches the dark masquerade mask he's holding in his hand.
Oh no, I'm staring.
I force my eyes to meet his since he seems to be talking to me; there's no one else sitting lamely in the lobby, missing out on all of the fun inside the ballroom.
His light blue eyes are completely focused on me. An amused glint in them as his mouth curls up at the corners.
I clutch my book to my chest. "I'm, uhm, fine?"
He gestures lazily toward my chest. ( The book. He gestures toward the book!) "You were sighing like your favorite character just died or proposed. Always hard to tell which with you romance readers."
"Neither." Heat crawls up my neck. Curse my pale, redhead skin for undoubtedly giving away my embarrassment. "This is just a really good part."
He nods, then smirks. "Let me guess. Brooding guy who wants an off-limit woman? Longing glances across a conference table? A kiss that shouldn't happen but absolutely does?"
"How did you know?" My mouth falls open in surprise, then closes. I'm doing my best goldfish impersonation for the hottest man I've ever spoken to in real life.
His guess is oddly specific and spot-on. Either he's read this book before, or he's a psychic. I wouldn't mind if the book conference hired an eye-candy psychic for the weekend. He can read my fortune in my tea leaves any time. I have a mug of chamomile every night before bed.
"I've spent some time around romance readers," he says, abandoning his mask on the couch so that he can watch me as he presses his fingertips together and purses his lips thoughtfully. "You're wearing the face of a woman who just read about a guy doing something particularly dumb and hot."
"Dumb and hot is an art form," I say defensively before I can stop myself.
He breaks out in a full smile, and oh no. Oh no. Oh no. This man is dangerous. He has the smile of someone who knows exactly what his handsome face does to people. And he has the most charming dimple on his right cheek that shows itself when he smiles with all of his teeth.
"What's the book called?" he asks, nodding as if he can't read the title facing him from my clutches.
I hold it out to give him a slightly closer look at the cover with its glossy typography–and shirtless man holding an umbrella in a thunderstorm–on the cover.
He squints. "Looks vaguely familiar."
"Probably because of the cover model," I say. "He's everywhere lately with his abs looking like... weaponized confidence."
He raises a brow. "Abs like weaponized confidence?"
"I mean that in a completely respectful way!" I blurt out in a slight panic. "I'm not, like, reducing a human being to their abs, or anything. Just appreciating the confidence of a man who will let strangers ogle his oiled-up torso from around the world."
There's a long pause where I manage to shut up, and the friendly stranger twists his lips like he's holding back a laugh at my expense.
I feel like a total idiot blurting all of that out to a man whose greatest mistake is choosing to sit across from me.
I do my best to filter my thoughts before they get to my mouth, but sometimes things just slip out.
He's the one to break the silence first. With a chuckle, he shifts forward to lean toward me and holds out a hand. "I'm Rob."
“I’m Daisy,” I say automatically before something tickles the back of my brain.
Rob’s eyes are enchanting. The kind of eyes a woman could never forget looking into. Eyes that belong on a romance novel cover... or a few dozen.
I blink.
He waits.
I blink again.
The eyes. The stubble. The athletic build.
"You're the cover model," I whisper.
"Guilty as charged." He settles against the couch again, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. "Though that photo of me, in particular, pre-dates reintroducing delicious carbs into my diet. Lower abs are a scam. Not at all worth sacrificing homemade lasagna or french toast for."
I snort-laugh before I can stop myself.
He grins wider. "Why are you out here instead of inside at the masquerade with the rest of the Cinderella cosplayers?"
"I don't have a ticket." I run my teeth nervously over my bottom lip and consider how to carefully word my next statement.
"I'm here as an author assistant, and the authors didn't get me a ticket.
It's a long story." I shrug as if I wasn't completely heartbroken about being left out just minutes ago.
Gotta seem unbothered to avoid looking any more pathetic than I'm sure I already do.
His brow furrows. "That sucks."
"Yep." I look down at my book. "So, I figured I'd hang here. At least I brought a book."
I run my thumb along the cover of a page I've dog-eared a dozen times. The one where the main character finally realizes the hero memorized her favorite poem just because he loved how much she loved it.
"That copy looks like it's been around the block a time or two." Rob's gaze lingers on the book.
"I annotate my favorite books," I explain, my voice softening with the revelation. "I brought it hoping I could sneak away from my book signing duties and get it signed this weekend. Sara Fox is my favorite. This copy is basically my emotional support object."
"I respect that," Rob says thoughtfully. He stands and offers his hand to me again. "Come on."
"Come on, where?" I ask, blinking up at him. The very attractive cover model seems to have forgotten he's a complete stranger to me.
"I'm getting you into the ball." He shrugs nonchalantly.
My heart jumps. "What? How? I don't have a ticket, and the security guy said they don't have any more tickets to sell. I don't think they're going to make any exceptions. Especially not for me. I'm not even... I mean, look at me. I'm just..."
I trail off, unsure how I even want to describe myself. So much for not making myself seem too pathetic. I'm sure my rambling has turned me into even more of a pitiful disaster in Rob's eyes.
"You're just someone who deserves a better night," he says simply, wiggling his fingers at me to encourage me to take his hand–and a major leap of faith.
My brain screams in a dozen different directions all at once. Social risk! Unknown variables! High chance of humiliation!
But he's still smiling with his hand out. Patient. Willing to wait for me.
I put my free hand in his and let him pull me to my feet slowly. (And I'm not a small woman, so I'm giddy to find out his strength isn't just for show.)
Rob glances at the book I'm still clutching in my other hand. "You should probably leave that out here so no one thinks you're trying to get in to sneak an early signature from Sara."
"I can't leave my book here!" My grip tightens. "What if someone steals it?"
"You think romance readers are avid book thieves?"
"Maybe not on purpose. But what if someone thinks it's a giveaway copy or left behind to be passed on to a new reader? Or what if one of the hotel staff picks it up, thinking it's littering? Or–"
Rob steps closer, gently plucks the book from my arms, and walks to the couch.
He crouches, lifts the cushion, and slides the book underneath the seat cushion with all the grace of a man completing a spy mission.
"Hidden in plain sight." He stands, wiping his hands together proudly, and flashes me his dimple. "Your book will be waiting for you when you get back. Don't keep me waiting, too."
I still hesitate.
"Trust me," he says so smoothly that I'm prepared to follow him anywhere in the world. Even the lion's den of a party I wasn't invited to.
I take a deep breath and nod.
And then I let him lead the way toward the ballroom, sparing only a single backward glance for my temporarily abandoned book. I'll be back soon, my love!