Chapter 1 Alessia #2
“So,” I say, swirling my fresh glass idly, “you know I’m not one of your employees and you obviously didn’t come over here to kick me out of your holiday party. What’s the real reason you’re here talking to me while the rest of your team is enjoying themselves?”
He props one elbow on the bar top and angles his entire body toward me like he’s giving me his full focus. His knee nudges mine again, and it’s not accidental. He’s purposely touching me. Testing the water. He’s not surrounding me, but his presence is still caging me in, nonetheless.
His posture is pure dominance. Legs spread wide, thighs taking up all the space on the stool until none of the wood is exposed.
A dark curl of hair falls across his forehead.
It’s not exactly messy, but it isn’t filled with product.
It looks like he ran a hand through it once and decided that was enough.
It makes him look dangerous. Or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking at me.
Because he is looking at me. His eyes drag over my body like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s memorizing. Like he’s deciding exactly how he wants to reply to my question.
There’s no hiding the hunger in his gaze.
I've tailed dozens of targets before. Men who cheat.
Men who lie. Men who think they're slick. Occasionally, I’ll come away with footage that proves their faithfulness.
At least for that night. I've never once felt attracted to any of them. They're a job and nothing more.
Until right now. Roman is making that rule of attraction extremely difficult to follow.
The moment his full attention locks onto me, something electric snaps under my skin.
A slow burn starting low in my stomach, lighting up nerves I forgot I even had.
His knee presses a little firmer against mine.
His jaw flexes. His mouth tilts to one side, not quite a smile but a confirmation, like he already knows what I'm feeling and he's feeling it too.
It doesn't help that I'm ovulating.
Look, I know that sounds insane but hear me out.
Women are genuinely more attractive during ovulation.
Their facial structure shifts subtly, their scent changes to something that their partners can sense, their brain crackles with creative energy which means that painting and writing hobby I haven’t yet started? Now’s the time!
I even have a little ache low in my pelvis, the sharp, uncomfortable pinch of a microscopic egg barreling down my fallopian tube, desperate and greedy, searching for a sperm to latch onto.
It’s the cruelest kind of irony, feeling that, given that I spent five years and an obscene amount of money and heartbreak trying to get pregnant with my ex-husband and never managed it.
Every time my period tracker app throws up that little starburst indicating I’m fertile, it's a reminder of everything I still can't control.
At least for tonight, my ovulating body is an asset and not a problem. My chest feels fuller, my grandma swore my cheekbones looked higher when I left her home, there’s even a glow to my skin that expensive creams and oils couldn’t fake.
My little egg is out here doing the heavy lifting and I'm just along for the ride.
"I came over here," Roman says, his voice going even lower, "because I thought you were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. And I wanted to know your name."
Oh, he is laying it on thick. Kacey's going to love this footage. Or hate it.
"I think you're one of the most handsome men I've ever seen," I say, and I hate how much I mean it.
His grin widens, teeth white and perfectly straight, his laugh a low rumble that vibrates in the air between us. "What's your last name, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart.
My heart stutters for a second as my brain tries to keep up.
This guy doesn’t know me, yet he’s already giving me a pet name.
I’ve never had a pet name before. Frankly, I’ve always thought they were annoying things that only guys in romance novels do and sometimes the names they give are straight up obnoxious.
I don’t want to read the word princess on four hundred pages of text repeatedly while describing a grown woman.
Even baby girl gives me the ick sometimes. Oddly, I don’t hate sweetheart.
I remind myself I'm working.
"Christina is enough," I say, and extend my hand.
He takes it with a firm grip that feels intimate, his thumb drags along the inside of my palm when he shakes it. Heat creeps up my arm.
"Well, Christina is enough, it's nice to meet you at my company party."
I tilt my head and let my hair fall over one shoulder. "So, do you want to take this somewhere a little more private?"
It's a test. If he bites, I have what I need for the footage. A quieter corner, fewer witnesses, better angles. He’s already confessed his attraction to me, but Kacey paid for the full package which means I need him to make a move or at least, reciprocate a move on me. And it needs to be on video.
Unfortunately, he shakes his head no.
"As tempting as spending more time with you is," he says, and the regret in his voice sounds almost real, "I can't."
I let my expression fall on cue. "Oh. Because you have a girlfriend?"
His laugh is low and easy. "No. Haven't had one of those in a very, very long time." He runs a hand through his hair and glances briefly over my shoulder, somewhere distant.
And there it is. That single sentence ignites something hot and sharp behind my sternum.
Poor Kacey is at home, probably already suspecting the worst, and this guy is sitting here lying through his teeth without a flicker of guilt.
‘Haven't had one in a very long time.’ The audacity of it!
Men like this always have a story, always a justification, always some version of events where they're the reasonable one and she's the paranoid one.
I know that playbook by heart. I lived it.
"I can't because these are my employees," he continues, his eyes drifting to the room behind me.
"I recently started this business, and they've worked hard to get here. We’re celebrating our first winter together and the progress we’ve been making.
I don't want to leave them." He pauses, his gaze dropping to my lips.
"But can I give you my number? Maybe I could call you sometime. "
I bite my bottom lip like I'm considering it. I’ve now got him on camera, claiming he doesn't have a girlfriend, but Kacey paid extra for physical evidence.
There's been nothing beyond some knee-grazing and flirting. It’s not enough.
I need the smoking gun, and I need it tonight, because I'm not making another trip to Manhattan for this man, no matter how devastating his jawline is.
Because Manhattan reminds me of my ex and everything I lost.
I slide off the barstool, reach for his hand and pull. He doesn't move. He's a wall. An absolute wall of muscle and the attempt to get him to follow me nearly dislocates my wrist.
"Ah, shit," I mutter, shaking out my arm.
He looks down at me with concern. "Are you okay?"
I laugh, because honestly, what was I thinking? I couldn't drag this man anywhere he didn't want to go if my life depended on it.
“Yeah, just need to see if I still have use of my fingers.” I stretch them out between us.
He smirks, and then slowly, stands to his full height, and now I have to look up to find his handsome face. He’s so tall. Much taller than any man I’ve ever been with. Not that it matters, of course.
I’m working.
I thread our fingers together and smile. "Come on."
This time he follows willingly.
The hallway near the restrooms is dim and quiet, a pocket of shadow away from the noise of his party.
And there, right where I hoped it would be, is that dusty sprig of mistletoe still hanging above the men's room door like it's been there since November, and nobody had the motivation to take it down.
I pull him into the dark until his back is pressed against the wall and I'm standing in front of him looking up.
It's not exactly a sexy setting; I'll give it that.
Standing outside a bathroom under a dying piece of holiday decor is not the stuff of great romantic stories.
But if Roman Carpenter is the cheater his girlfriend suspects, he won't care where we are when we do this.
"What are you doing, Christina?" he asks, his voice teasing, like he already knows. His hazel eyes are lit with heat and mischief. Even in my thigh-high boots, he towers over me.
I rise onto my toes, tilt my head back, close my eyes, and press my lips to his. I know. I know I didn't have to do that. In the years I've been doing this job, I have never once initiated kissing a target. That is a hard, fast rule.
Letting them touch my legs? Fine. A hug? Sure. Letting them attempt a kiss? That's the job. But me initiating it? Never. It's risky and invasive and a line I swore I'd never cross.
And yet.
Maybe it's the low lighting. Maybe it's the lingering holiday magic of the mistletoe or the fact that my body is in full biological overdrive tonight. Maybe it's just him. His good looks and that voice and the way he looked at me like he was memorizing.
Whatever it is, I go for it. And he takes the bait.
A deep groan rolls through his chest as one hand finds my waist. His palm is so large it squeezes into my core. His other hand slides up my side, his touch searing through my shirt, until his fingers curl possessively around my throat to hold me in place like he doesn’t want me to run.
His thumb strokes my chin, coaxing my mouth to open, and when I do, his tongue brushes mine, his lips close around the tip on a suck, and I swear my world tilts.
It’s like lightning striking a metal pole, hot, electric, and all-consuming. The jolt shoots through me, sparking every nerve from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, and, whoa help me, it doesn’t skip my clit on the way back down.
For a full fifteen seconds, I forget everything.
The camera in my zipper. The microphone stitched into my hem.
The case. Kacey. All of it. There's only his body against mine, his hands and the way he's kissing me like he has all the time in the world and no intention of rushing. My palms are pressed into his pecs. He’s pinning me against him with his hands.
One is curling around my throat deliciously squeezing, the other is curving around my back until he grips my ass and palms it with a deep groan.
Brian never kissed me like this. Brian never held me like this. He never squeezed my ass like he liked it. Brian wasn’t this big either.
I feel the press of his cock against me, very large, very real.
And hell, if he’s touching my ass, I should get to touch his.
My hands slide down and maybe because I’m curious and haven’t touched a man since my ex-husband, I let my hands slide down to cup his front instead of his back first. Dick, balls, the whole damn thing.
It’s long, thick and I can’t get around all of it, but I give it a solid squeeze anyway, partly to secure some bonus footage for the case, but mostly because I want to know how it feels to touch a man who’s turned on again.
He’s huge. And I’m not the least bit surprised.
Then the reality of what I’m doing crashes in like a bucket of ice water.
I stumble back, pushing against his chest to break the kiss. My breathing is all wrong, and my eyes are wide as I look up at him. My lips are practically tingling with pleasure. I wonder if he’s feeling what I felt. If he’s just as surprised as me by what we just allowed happen.
He’s staring at me like he’s ready to devour me whole, his pupils blown wide with hunger. There’s absolutely no regret or second thoughts in his expression. Any thoughts of his company party are gone now. This man looks like he’s ready to fuck.
“Damn… that was…,” he says, his voice heavy. His hand moves to his bottom lip where he swipes his thumb across it as if he’s trying to get another taste of me. It might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I shake my head, trying to remove the haze. “I gotta go.” And then I bolt.
It isn’t my smoothest exit, and I’m sure it’s going to raise some brows, but I don’t care.
I race out of the hallway, grab my fleece coat from the back of the barstool, and sprint out into the freezing night. There’s no way he’d follow me, not with his holiday party going on and his words about being committed to his employees, but I’m not willing to take any chances.
I run like hell, nearly breaking my neck on New York’s unsalted sidewalks, sliding and skidding like a drunk figure skater.
I don't stop panicking until I'm on the train back to my grandma’s home in Connecticut.