Chapter 2
KRISTA
I’d been watching Dash Blackwell for an hour. In that time he had spoken to eleven women, danced with two, and consumed three whiskeys. He didn’t look the least bit buzzed, which told me he handled his liquor well. Men like him usually did.
I held the martini in my hand and made small talk with total strangers, making it a point to never stay in the same spot for too long.
Standing still would make me stand out. The martini gave me something to do with my hands, helped me blend in, and made me look like a perfectly ordinary wedding guest.
But I wasn’t drinking. Not really. The last glass had been nearly full when I placed it on a passing waiter’s tray.
I’d read all about Dash Blackwell prior to this evening. In my mind, the things women said about him had to be exaggerated. A rich playboy without a care in the world. A man who indulged in women the way some men sampled different vintages of wine.
Dash Blackwell was exactly what those women had claimed he was, and the asshole had the audacity to hit on me?
And dammit, I hate that I felt flattered. Seen.
As prepared as I thought I was, I hadn’t fully accounted for how hot he would be in person.
It was cruel that one man could be that sexy.
Dash exuded charisma. Every look and smile was a promise of pleasure.
There was no woman in the place that was immune to his charms—except his sisters-in-law.
I watched them with him. It was clear they loved him, but they all had eyes for their men and their men only.
I didn’t blame them. The Blackwell brothers won the gene pool lottery. Weirdly enough, from my observations, they didn’t seem arrogant about it. Like they just accepted they were born that way and that was that.
Dash definitely knew he was attractive. The way he moved through the crowd with the confidence of a man that never had to doubt he was the hottest man in the room.
But he was also very friendly. He ogled the women, but not in an ugly way.
It was flattering. Even the older ladies practically swooned under his gaze.
Earlier in the evening, I’d watched him dance with a ninety-two-year-old woman in a pink tweed dress with pearl earrings the size of Barbie heads dangling from her earlobes.
She’d shimmied right up close and said something that made him howl with laughter. Every woman on the dance floor noticed.
How could they not?
Presently, he had his hand in the small of a woman’s back, guiding her through the crowd and onto the dance floor.
He caught her hand in his, twirled her effortlessly back to him in a way that seemed to catch her off guard, and then dipped her low.
When she let her head fall back, he shamelessly looked down his nose right into her cleavage.
When he drew her back up, he tucked her hair behind her ear, gently removed a strand that clung to her lip gloss, and hit her with a smile that matched his name. Dashing.
Technically it was short for Dashiell, but it fit nonetheless.
I shifted my position to the far end of the bar and kept my eyes on him over the rim of my glass. He was impulsive. I’d clocked that within the first hour, long before he noticed me. There didn’t appear to be a lot of thought before he moved or smiled at a woman.
In his defense, he was disastrously good-looking. His brothers were handsome but Dash had a shine to him that set him apart. His face was a fucking weapon. The jaw. The way his hair fell that looked accidental but was absolutely intentional.
The woman dancing with him must have felt the same way because she was breathless, giggly, and totally clumsy trying to follow his lead, and he seemed to enjoy being in control and making her flustered.
I’d built a career on making impossible operations look easy, first in uniform and now through my own firm. High-stakes clients, complex moving parts, zero margin for error. My record was perfect. If there was ever a client that would present a challenge, I was looking at it.
I loved a good challenge.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to bring up a special guest tonight,” the lead singer of the band declared. “Elicia Jean is currently on tour, but as a special gift to the bride and groom, she’d like to dedicate a song to them.”
Everyone in the ballroom turned toward the stage. Curious whispers filled the air.
A woman stepped up and took the microphone.
She was around my age with dark hair twisted up and a sparkly blue gown.
I didn’t know her, but that wasn’t a surprise.
I listened to old songs, and I had basically given up trying to keep up with new music.
From the reactions of the people around me, the woman on stage was a big deal.
She opened with the first few bars of something I recognized immediately.
Your Song, the old Elton John standard, arranged down to almost nothing, just piano and her voice.
The lighting dimmed to a soft spotlight on the newly married couple, who made their way to the dance floor, where the crowd had pulled back to make space for them.
I stood at the edge of the ballroom and let the first swell of Elicia Jean’s voice wash over me. Her voice was the kind that got inside your chest. Her tone was immaculate. She sang from her soul.
The loving couple at the center of the dance floor were completely absorbed in each other. They swayed without appearing to move at all. The old familiar ache bloomed in my chest.
I’d had a voice like that once. Not like hers. I was never going to claim that, but I had something. I watched the singer close her eyes on the bridge, and I felt the moment she became one with the song. It was a feeling I knew too well, even if it had been ages since I’d felt it myself.
That could have been me.
I cleared my throat and shook my head, dispelling the hold the song had on me.
But nope.
The universe went ahead and fucked me, and now instead of singing, I’m tailing billionaire fuckboys.
Which reminds me…
I picked up my martini and relocated to a new position where I could watch Dash stare at the singer. Was he going to make a move on her next? She didn’t really seem his type, but the woman had the voice of an angel.
The song ended and applause burst from the crowd. Sebastian and Bernadette turned, the bride with tears in her eyes, the groom offering Elicia a chivalrous bow of gratitude before straightening, holding his new wife’s face in his hands, and kissing her silly.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I’m not bitter. I have a good life. I make a good living. Singing was never my destiny.
I’d knocked down barriers and left that girl behind. I was a capable, independent, successful, merciless logistics specialist. I got shit done. I helped people. There was plenty of satisfaction in that.
I checked my watch. Eleven forty-seven. I’d been here six hours, the total duration of my initial-contact contract.
With zero desire to watch Dash Blackwell choose the woman he’d be taking back to his room for the night, it was an easy choice to call it a night.
My feet were begging to be free of the torture devices that were heels.
I had to look the part to attend the wedding and that meant stuffing my feet into these overpriced toe smashers.
I slipped out through the side corridor at exactly midnight and texted my driver. The air was heavy, promising a summer storm rolling in soon. I stepped out front and found the black limo already waiting at the curb as the first raindrops began to fall.
I got in the car, and before it had even pulled away from the curb, I had the clasp of my left earring open.
The right one followed. I worked them off quickly, the relief immediate.
They were way too heavy for my ears that were not used to more than simple diamond studs.
I opened my sparkly clutch and dropped them in.
The bag was barely large enough to hold my phone, my ID, and a lip balm I’d used once.
It would have been nice to wear a dress that had pockets, but that was too much to ask, apparently.
I pulled off the bracelet and my mother’s ring and deposited all of it in the bag.
My phone rang less than a minute into the drive home.
I answered without checking the screen. “Hedley.”
“Assessment?” my client asked.
“I’ll accept the terms.”
A beat of silence. “Good. I’ll have the contracts to you in the morning.”
He said goodnight and hung up.
For the rest of the drive, I worked through what the next weeks would be like with my new contract.
It distracted me from thinking about my feet, which ached terribly, but I didn’t dare take my heels off in the car.
I would never be able to get them back on, and truthfully, my pinky toes hurt so bad I feared they might have fallen off and blood would stain the back of the limo.
These feet weren’t made for stilettos. They were made for combat boots and sneakers. Function over fashion.
Half an hour later, I pushed through the door into my dimly lit apartment. I’d closed my blinds before I went to the wedding, but the glow of the streetlights and the moon shone through, washing my apartment in pale white light.
I extracted my feet from my shoes and tossed them aside like they were bear traps and I was their unwitting prey. The moan of relief I let out was almost pornographic. The good news was that my pinky toes were still attached, just bright pink and aching terribly.
I moved to my bedroom and took a second to look in the mirror, running my hand over the gown.
I reached behind me and carefully pulled the zipper, making sure not to move too fast and snag the delicate fabric.
I slipped the straps from my shoulders one at a time, let the fabric pool at my feet, and then stepped out of it.
It was on the floor less than three seconds before I picked it up. I’d been careful with it every minute.
I carried it to the closet and dropped to my knees in nothing but my underwear and strapless bra.
I slid the box out from the back corner of my closet and lifted the lid.
Inside were the fragments of a life I’d carefully packed away.
Photographs of Mom and me at various recitals, her smile brighter than the stage lights.
A sparkly Christmas brooch shaped like a treble clef that she wore every December.
I brushed my thumb over it. A CD labeled “Krista’s Greatest Hits” in her looping handwriting.
A couple of hand-written cards, the ink faded but the words still legible: “You were born to shine, baby girl.”
I laid the navy gown gently on top of everything, smoothing out the fabric with my fingers, making sure it lay flat and perfect.
“There you go, Mom,” I whispered. “I finally wore it.”
I placed the lid back on the box with the kind of care reserved for holy relics. Then I pressed a kiss to my fingers and touched them to the cardboard. My chest ached once again. It was different from the ache I’d felt listening to Elicia Jean sing, but part of the same wound.
I slid the box back into its corner and stood, my knees protesting slightly.
The old West Point T-shirt was where I’d left it that morning, draped over the chair by my bed. I took off my bra, freeing my breasts from push-up prison. It kept the girls high but attempted to squeeze me to death.
I pulled on my favorite shirt. The fabric was soft from years of washing.
It had a small rip near the hem and a coffee stain on the belly.
This was me. Not the woman in the navy gown with the beachy waves.
Not the woman Dash Blackwell had tried to charm at the bar.
He’d recoil if he saw me in my sensible panties and ratty shirt.
I brushed my teeth and washed my face. God, it felt good to get it all off. I rarely wore more than mascara and tinted moisturizer. I could feel the layer of makeup on my face and hated it. Mostly.
I shut off the lights and climbed into bed feeling a bit more like myself. The AC kicked on, cool air filling the room.
Three weeks. That was how long I had to keep Dash on track, to make sure the Greece campaign went off without a hitch, and to prove I could handle the most challenging logistics job of my career. If I could pull this off? My resume would be unbeatable. I would land any contract I wanted.
Tomorrow, I’d sign the paperwork and officially become Dash Blackwell’s shadow. His keeper. His professional babysitter.
And in three days? I’d be in Athens. With him.
At least there was zero chance of a travel romance when I was traveling with an insufferable playboy who hit on anything with a pulse. I had watched him work the reception tonight. I knew exactly what he was.
And I was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent immune to his bullshit.