Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DALLEN
I tell myself I deserve a drink. Not because I’ve had a hard day at work—though I have—but because my head won’t shut up.
Because every quiet moment is filled with Stephen.
His mouth, his hands, his sweetness and temper, the way he looks at me like I’m something he’s already decided belongs to him.
And because if I don’t talk this shit out with someone sane, someone who knows me beyond the lawyer and the good daughter and the woman who always does the right thing, I might actually implode.
I text Amy and tell her to meet me at the bar near my office—the one with the low lighting, the decent cocktails, and the merciful anonymity of weekday crowds.
By the time I arrive, heels clicking against worn floorboards, the bar hums softly, glasses clinking, muted laughter rising and falling like background noise.
It smells like citrus, gin, and polished wood. Familiar. Safe.
Amy is already there, perched on a stool with a martini in hand, dark hair loose around her shoulders. She smiles the moment she sees me. “There she is,” she says. “You look like you’re either about to cry or commit a felony.”
I snort as I slide onto the stool beside her. “Both are still on the table.”
She signals the bartender. “Dirty martini for the woman clearly in emotional distress.”
I wrap my fingers around the cool glass when it arrives and take a sip, letting the burn settle me. “Okay,” she says, turning fully toward me. “Talk.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Where do I even start? With Stephen and his possessive intensity? With my parents and their quiet disapproval that presses in on me like a vise? With the fact that I’m representing men whose names now make my stomach knot?
“I’m seeing someone,” I say finally.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seeing someone, or seeing someone?”
“Seeing someone,” I admit. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
She grins. “When isn’t it?”
I take another sip, buying time. “His name is Stephen, the hot god I met at the club a couple of weeks ago.”
Her expression sharpens with interest. “Okay, wow, wasn’t expecting that.” She studies me a moment. “So, what’s the catch?”
“There are several,” I say. “He’s intense. Infuriating. Completely inappropriate for both my family and my work, and probably me too.”
“And?”
“And I can’t stop thinking about him.” Wanting him. Wanting to be near him, have him next to me in bed, or walking down the street, enjoying simple quiet time. Urgh! I’m so pathetic.
Before she can respond, a man wraps his arm about my shoulder and squeezes. I look up, expecting to see a friend, someone I know. My stomach drops at the sight of Elio, suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder, untrustworthy smile already in place—too easy, too familiar.
“Well,” he says, “if it isn’t my favorite lawyer.”
My spine stiffens. “Good evening.” I wiggle out of his hold, and he thankfully gets the hint. Amy raises her brow at his familiarity but remains quiet.
He leans an elbow on the bar, far too close for my liking. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I work nearby,” I reply coolly. “And I’m meeting a friend…is there anything I can help you with?”
He chuckles, eyes flicking to Amy, then back to me. “Lucky me.”
“Well, have a good evening, Mr. Romero,” I say pointedly, wanting him to leave. Outside of work, I have nothing to discuss with this man, something he’s fully aware of. Stephen’s warning rings loud in my mind, and I can’t help but feel he’s up to something.
“Business, business,” he waves off. “Always so serious. Fortunately, we’ve met here. Maybe we can have a drink?”
His hand lands on my lower back. Not aggressive—but deliberate. Claiming. I step away immediately. “Please don’t touch me, Mr. Romero.”
He laughs like I’m joking. Amy stands and glares at him. “Relax. I’m just being friendly.” He raises his hands in defeat, but it’s clear he isn’t just friendly. Slimy, yes. Friendly? Hell no.
“No,” Amy cuts in sharply. “You’re being a slime. Back off.”
He doesn’t even look at her, and unease slides down my spine, slow and cold. I’ve dealt with entitled men before, but the way he ignores Amy entirely makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“I need to speak to you privately,” he says to me, lowering his voice. “Just for a minute.”
“There’s nothing we need to discuss outside of work,” I reply. “This is inappropriate, Mr. Romero. You need to walk away now.”
He leans closer anyway. “Come on. Don’t make a scene.”
I don’t want attention. I don’t want drama. And some stupid part of me thinks if I placate him for thirty seconds, he’ll leave. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur to Amy, already hating myself.
He guides me toward a quieter corner near the hallway, where the music is duller, replaced by the hum of an air conditioner vent and muffled voices.
“This is inappropriate,” I say again as soon as we’re out of earshot.
“You need to leave me alone when I’m not on company time.
” Not that I’ll have to see the Romeros soon, since my boss has agreed to take them on as clients so that I can step away.
He grins—and lifts his phone and quickly dives in next to me. Far too cozy looking and now captured in an image. The camera clicks before I can react.
“What the hell was that?” I snap, pushing him away.
“Just a photo,” he says, chuckling lightly. “You look good tonight, Dallen.”
Fury burns away my fear. “Miss Byrne to you and you will not take photos of me. You will not touch me. And you will not contact me again. Do you understand?”
His smile doesn’t falter. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You don’t want to upset the wrong people.”
A chill runs down my spine, and my denial of what both Stephen and my father have said to me shames me. “I’m done. Go away.”
He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but I know—deep in my gut—that isn’t harmless flirting. It’s a warning.
When I return to Amy, she takes one look at my face and slides off her stool. “What did he do?”
I tell her everything. What Stephen has said about the family, what my father disclosed just this morning in my office.
About the photo, his dismissal of personal space.
The threatening tone and words. My skin crawls at the thought of ever seeing the Romeros again.
I tell her about Stephen, his family, and what I’ve found online about them.
I tell her everything, spilling my truths out like verbal vomit.
Amy listens silently, jaw tight. “Your father was right,” she says finally. “And so was Stephen.”
I sigh, my heart at odds with my commonsense brain. I should remove myself from all of this drama. I don’t need to get involved with a family that has so much baggage. Why couldn’t I find a nice, hot guy who didn’t have danger tattooed on their body like Stephen clearly does?
But even thinking of seeing anyone else, of moving on, my heart seizes. To not see Stephen again. To not have him own me, kiss me with his wicked mouth, to have him shelter me with his chiseled body, I loathe the thought.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me wanting the bad boy? But is he so bad? He’s a property investor and his family's real estate agent. How wicked could he be? Just because his family had a history of being in the underworld doesn’t mean they are now.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times. Stephen. With an image attachment.
My fingers tremble as I open it. The selfie of Elio and me. Close enough to look intimate. My heart slams against my ribs.
Where are you? Why is he with you?
“Oh God,” I whisper.
“What?” Amy asks, leaning over to look at my message. Her eyes widen. “Oh no.”
“I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I kiss her cheek and head for the door.
“Be safe,” I hear Amy call from the bar.
I leave in a rush, the cab ride stretching my nerves thin.
When I arrive before Stephen’s building, I’m already bracing myself.
He buzzes me in, his tone calm, but I know he’s fuming.
I would be, too, if the roles were reversed.
Even after knowing him for such a short amount of time, I know I’d hate to see him with another woman.
Even if caught in an innocent trap, as the one I was tonight.
The elevator doors slide open—and Stephen is standing in his apartment's foyer, waiting.
The moment I see his bruised face, bloody knuckles, and barely restrained anger, my breath catches. “What happened to you?” I whisper.
The doors close behind me.
And I know—absolutely—that tonight is far from over.