Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
NATHAN
I fucking hate public speaking. Which is a hilarious cosmic joke, since I own the most popular nightclub in town and am forced at least once a month to get up on a stage and act like I enjoy being the center of attention.
Tonight is no different. And judging by the wall-to-wall crowd of horny bachelors, I’m about to hate every second.
Eamon’s off to my left, headset jammed onto his skull, barking orders to the staff and monitoring the security feed.
The man is more machine than human at events like this, every muscle coiled for crisis.
“Two minutes, Nate,” he says, glancing up from his clipboard to give me that flat cop stare.
“Try not to go off-script this time, yeah?”
I roll my shoulders, popping the tension in my neck. “I’m my best off-script.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. “Keep believing that.”
I flip him off as I stride toward the edge of the backstage area, heart pounding harder with every step. From here, the glare of the stage lights makes it impossible to see the audience. I palm the microphone, double-check my suit jacket, and glance at the little lineup sheet clipped to my hand.
First up is a wannabe Instagram influencer, followed by a med student, then a local weather forecaster whose voice makes my skin crawl, and from there, the list of bachelorettes reads like the society pages. The last slot is blank. “Mystery Bachelorette—TBA,” it says, in Eamon’s blocky handwriting.
I lean over. “Who’s the mystery girl?” I ask the nearest assistant, a stressed-looking brunette with a clipboard and a Bluetooth earpiece.
She shrugs, eyes darting nervously. “Was a last-minute addition. I think Deirdre knows her?”
Fucking hell. I hate surprises.
A stagehand waves at me and counts down from five on his fingers. My stomach does a somersault. I jam my thumb against the mic and hope I don’t sound as anxious as I feel.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, voice booming over the speakers, “welcome to the first annual Midnight Mischief Bachelorette Auction!” The crowd explodes with whistles and applause.
I pace at the edge of the curtain, willing my heart rate down as I launch into the intro.
“All proceeds tonight will go to our Christmas Campaign—providing gifts, warm meals, and new coats for kids in the community. So, if you were planning to be a cheap bastard, think again.”
The ensuing laughter is a tidal wave, and just like that, I remember how to do this. Banter, control, own the room.
“Our lovely bachelorettes have graciously volunteered to be auctioned off for charity—so treat them like gold or you’ll answer to me. First up is…” I read off the sheet describing the Instagram influencer.
The curtain parts and the first bachelorette struts out, winks, and blows kisses to the crowd.
She’s wearing a green minidress that shows off her stick-thin body, and she’s an instant hit.
The bidding is fast and furious, numbers flying across the screens as paddle after paddle goes up.
I ham it up on the mic, tossing in a few inappropriate jokes.
The energy in the club is a living thing—hot, hungry, electric. I love it.
The second bachelorette is a quiet, pre-med who only agreed to do this because she lost a bet.
She’s nervous as hell, and it’s actually kind of sweet.
The crowd goes easier on her, but the bidding still cracks a grand.
The weather forecaster after her is a crowd favorite, earning a raucous ovation.
Two guys nearly get into a shoving match over her, and Eamon dispatches a bouncer to keep the peace.
Three down, and a few more to go before the mystery bachelorette.
After the last of the social butterflies, I squint at the lineup again.
“For our final contestant, we have a last-minute addition—a real wild card,” I announce, drawing out the suspense.
“She’s got brains, beauty, and a reputation for drinking grown men under the table. Give it up for… Veronica Lewis!”
My world stops as I stare down at the words, wondering if I had a goddamn stroke.
Because there, at the edge of the stage, is Roni.
My fucking Roni.
For a second, my brain refuses to compute what I’m seeing.
Roni doesn’t do things like this. She doesn’t walk runways, or wear dresses that hug every inch of her curves like blue velvet shrink-wrap, or let her hair cascade in soft waves over her bare shoulders.
She’s supposed to be at home, eating takeout and watching reruns.
But here she is, high heels and all, stepping into the light with the kind of awkward grace that makes her a thousand times hotter than any of the bombshells who came before.
The crowd’s reaction is instant and nuclear—cheering, whistling, phones held high. Roni stumbles a little on her way out, catches herself, and flashes a bashful smile. My heart flatlines, then restarts in a panic.
I feel Eamon’s eyes on me, but I can’t look away.
This isn’t real. It can’t be. Who the fuck signed her up for this? Why would she do this?
Roni stands there, squinting into the crowd, obviously terrified. Her arms are pressed against her sides, hands gripping a tiny clutch like it’s a life raft. She looks lost, vulnerable, and so fucking beautiful I want to jump off the stage and carry her out of here.
But I’m the goddamn MC. And the show must go on.
I force my face into a smirk, trying not to sound like I’m having an aneurysm. “Well, this is a surprise,” I say into the mic, and the audience eats it up.
“Veronica Lewis, folks. Receptionist by day, stunning lady by night.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I start listing facts, anything to avoid thinking about her in that dress, on this stage, up for fucking auction. “She’s a caffeine addict and a reality TV junkie.”
She’s frozen. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest second, and the look on her face is pure terror and something else—something that feels like a dare.
I gulp, the microphone shaking slightly in my hand. “Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars, shall we?”
For a half-beat, there’s silence. Then, from the VIP section, a paddle shoots up. “Five hundred,” someone calls.
My jaw clenches. I can already tell who it is. The voice is smug, practiced, and familiar—Terrence fucking James, wearing his signature smirk and Armani blazer. I watch as he leans back, cocky as hell, and mouths something obscene in Roni’s direction.
Roni’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t move. She just stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder. I want to punch a hole in the wall.
“Do I hear six?” I grit out, the words nearly catching on my tongue.
Two more paddles pop up, but TJ just raises his again. “Seven hundred.”
God, I hate this guy.
“Eight hundred,” a woman shouts from the middle tables, and I recognize Dee’s voice. Fucking hell. I should’ve known she was involved in this shit. TJ doesn’t even blink.
“Five thousand,” he calls, louder now, making a show of it.
The entire room turns to look at me. They can all see how rattled I am. Eamon’s headset is crackling with something urgent, but I ignore him. I’m too busy watching the way TJ’s eyes travel up and down Roni’s body, like she’s a fucking ribeye and he’s starving.
I’m supposed to be impartial. I’m supposed to finish the auction and keep the night moving. But there is no fucking way I’m letting this end with her going on a date with TJ.
I grip the podium so hard my knuckles go white. “Five thousand, going once—”
“Six thousand!” Some other asshole waves his paddle while flashing a shark’s grin. I actually see red. The crowd is loving this. Some are egging him on; others are shouting for Roni to give them a smile, or to turn around.
She’s trembling. It’s small, but I see it. Her hands are shaking. She’s about three seconds from bolting. I can’t stand it.
“Going twice—” I say, voice barely a growl.
“Seven thousand!” TJ roars. The crowd erupts, but I’m done. Done with the show. Done pretending I’m okay with this.
“Ten Thousand and sold,” I growl as the microphone drops from my hand and bounces off the stage.
I stride out, straight toward her. Roni looks like a deer caught in the headlights as I grab her by the waist and lift her up, like I’ve done a thousand times before, but this time I don’t stop.
I haul her over my shoulder and turn back to the crowd.
“She’s mine,” I snarl, loud enough that it echoes to the back of the club. “Auction’s over.”
Gasps. A ripple of laughter. Someone whistles. But all I hear is the pounding of my own pulse and the little squeak of surprise as Roni grabs at my back for balance.
I carry her offstage, past a grinning motherfucking Eamon, and through the door marked “Private.” Behind me, I can already hear Eamon’s voice over the PA, giving instructions for the end of the auction. The crowd is going wild, but I don’t give a shit.
Roni’s curvy body melts against my shoulder, driving me wild as I head straight to my private sanctuary. Once we’re safe behind my heavy office door, I set her gently on her feet, but I don’t let go of her waist.
She’s breathless, cheeks flaming, hair a mess from the ride as she stares at me wordlessly.
My brain is pure static. For a second, I can’t remember how to talk.
“Why would you do that?” I say, voice hoarse.
She looks down, fidgeting with her clutch, and for the first time tonight, she seems vulnerable. “Because,” she says, voice so soft I almost miss it, “I thought it might finally get your attention.”
My chest implodes. “You have my fucking attention,” I say, every word a promise. “You’ve been the center of my universe for six goddamn years.” I finally admit the words that’ve been stuck on the edge of my tongue for far too long.
She goes still, lashes fluttering. “What?” Her eyes meet mine, wide and glassy, and I see everything she’s been hiding for years. We’ve both been idiots.
I slide a hand up to her face, cradling her cheek. Her skin is soft and fever-warm, and she leans into it like she’s been waiting for this forever.
I press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes. “I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper. “I can’t pretend I don’t want you.”
She makes a noise—a gasp, maybe a laugh—and her hands fly to my chest, grabbing fistfuls of my jacket. “Then stop pretending, you idiot.”
I don’t need more encouragement. I crush my mouth to hers, and the world goes white.
She melts against me, lips sweet and hungry, arms winding around my neck.
I wrap her up, holding her so tight I’m scared I’ll break her, but she just presses closer, tongue tangling with mine like she’s waited her whole life to devour me.
Her body is soft, every curve fitting against me in a way that feels inevitable. Like coming home.
We kiss until I can’t breathe, until her lipstick smears across my mouth and her hands slide up into my hair, yanking hard enough to make me groan. I’m dizzy with it, drunk on the taste of her, the feel of her thighs pressed tight to mine.
When I finally pull back, we’re both panting. Her eyes are huge, lips swollen, hair a wild mess. She looks like a goddess and a disaster and everything I’ve ever wanted.
I rest my forehead against hers. “You drive me fucking insane, you know that?”
She grins, breathless. “Ditto, Brennan.”
For a minute, we just stand there, clinging to each other like idiots. Then I tilt her chin up and kiss her again, softer this time, savoring the feel of her.
“Was this your plan all along?” I murmur against her mouth.
She laughs, low and wicked. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see what it’d take to get you to finally kiss me.”
“Next time, just ask,” I say, biting her lower lip for good measure.
She moans—a tiny, perfect sound that goes straight to my cock—and slides her hands under my jacket, palms hot against my back.
I want her. I want all of her. And now that I have her, I’m never letting go.