Only for Tonight

Chapter 1

Rebecca

The hotel room mirror isn’t being kind.

I’m standing in front of it in my underwear—the nice black set I packed when I still thought I’d have someone to appreciate it—trying to decide between the emerald wrap dress and the black bodycon. Four other options are draped across the bed like rejected possibilities.

The emerald makes my eyes look amazing but hugs my curves. The black is safe but feels like I’m trying to prove something.

And to who, exactly? You’re going to a romance convention alone because your ex is a dick.

My phone buzzes.

Sienna. Have you left your room yet or are you spiraling?

I snap a photo of the dress carnage and send it.

She calls immediately. “Babe. The emerald one. It’s gorgeous on you.”

“It shows everything though.”

“Good. Your body is perfect. Brett was an idiot who didn’t deserve you.” Her voice is firm. “Now put on the dress, go downstairs, and have the best night of your life.”

After we hang up, I stare at my reflection. Brett’s voice tries to echo in my head—maybe you should think about joining a gym—but I push it away.

The emerald dress. Book-themed earrings. Lipstick.

Good enough.

I grab my purse and the paperback from my nightstand—Amplified by Isabelle Stone. The newest rockstar reverse harem I started on the plane. Why choose romance with four guys who all want her. Wish fulfillment in paperback form.

Isabelle’s on a panel tomorrow morning. I want to be coherent when I meet her instead of just screaming about how her books changed my life.

Though I’ll probably do that anyway.

The elevator ride up feels surreal. But when the doors open, I take a breath and head toward the bar.

No more hiding. No more letting Brett’s voice dictate what I deserve.

Tonight is for me.

The hotel bar is stunning—velvet couches, low lighting, moody music. From up here on the twenty-third floor, the convention center looks like a glowing beehive below. Readers streaming in and out with arms full of tote bags and hearts full of book boyfriend dreams.

I’d planned this weekend for months. Printed questions for signings, organized my schedule, packed my favorite paperbacks in perfect Instagram-worthy stacks.

Then Brett dumped me.

One week ago.

After four years.

His excuse?

“I don’t get why you’re still into this book stuff, Rebecca. It’s kind of embarrassing. You’re twenty-eight. Maybe it’s time to grow up?”

Grow up. Like falling in love with fictional men who actually know how to communicate was a character flaw. Like wanting grand gestures and protective instincts and love that burns bright enough to rewrite your world was childish.

Like wanting more than settling was asking too much.

I slide onto a barstool, trying to look like I do this all the time. Drink alone at fancy hotel bars in emerald dresses while pretending my heart isn’t bruised.

The bartender appears. He has a purple mohawk, killer smile.

“What can I get you?”

I glance at the cocktail menu. Fuck. Too many options.

“What do you recommend for someone who’s had a really bad week but is trying to have a good night?”

He grins. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

Five minutes later, I’m holding the most ridiculously pretty drink I’ve ever seen. Aggressively pink with a purple flower floating on top, a sparkly sugar rim, and a tiny umbrella.

“It’s called a Pink Misery.” He winks. “Seemed fitting.”

I laugh despite myself. “Painfully accurate.”

I take a sip. It’s sweet and strong and exactly what I need.

I’m pulling out my phone to take a picture when someone speaks beside me.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

The voice is smooth and low and annoyingly accurate.

I turn.

Oh. Oh.

Ink running down his forearm in intricate patterns that disappear under rolled sleeves. Confident stance. A grin that looks like it could get away with anything. Dark hair mussed, and eyes the color of chocolate and sin.

“Is it that obvious?”

He nods toward my drink. “Only people having a really shit night order the cocktail with the purple flower. And the sugar rim. And the little umbrella.”

I glance at it. The drink is stupidly pretty. Like something a fairy would sip while crying over a broken heart.

“It’s called a ‘Pink Misery.’ I think it’s kinda ironic.”

His smirk transforms his face.

I laugh. The first real one all night. It surprises me how easy it is.

“Are you here for the convention too?”

He nods, those dark eyes never leaving mine. “Flew down from Sydney to support my best mate who’s working it.”

His gaze lingers, bold and slow and deliberate.

Warmth floods my cheeks, but I don’t look away.

“What do you do?” I ask. “When you’re not supporting friends, I mean.”

“I’m a chippy. Carpenter.” He grins. “Build things with my hands.”

Of course he does.

“Bec.” I extend my hand.

“Leo.” He takes it. Warm and solid and calloused in a way that makes me wonder what those hands could do.

Stop it. You literally just got dumped.

His gaze drops briefly to where the emerald fabric hugs my curves. When his eyes return to mine, there’s clear appreciation in them.

“That dress is doing amazing things for you, by the way.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.” His thumb brushes across my knuckles before he releases my hand. “Someone’s a fucking idiot for letting you come here alone.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“So, Bec.” My name rolls off his tongue like he’s tasting it. “What brings you to RomanceCon?”

“I’m a reader. An obsessed one.” I cringe at how inadequate that sounds. “I flew in from Perth to meet my favorite authors. Been following some of them for years. Collecting their books. Joining their Patreon. The whole stalker package.”

“You came alone?”

Not judgmental. Just curious and interested.

His eyes drop briefly to my lips before meeting mine again.

I nod. Lift one shoulder. “Was supposed to come with someone. Plans changed.”

He doesn’t press. Just leans against the bar, looking at me like I’m the only woman in the room. Like he’s got all night to figure me out and plans to enjoy every second of it.

We talk. He asks about my favorite books. I get too enthusiastic explaining Isabelle Stone’s rockstar series. Pull Amplified out of my purse to show him the cover—four shirtless men with guitars.

“Four rockstars?” Eyebrows raised.

His fingers brush mine as he takes the book to look closer. Heat spreads up my arm from the contact.

Fuck.

“Why choose.” I’m very aware of how close he is now. “It’s a trope where the main character doesn’t have to pick between love interests. She gets to keep them all.”

His gaze locks on mine, hungry and direct.

“Smart fucking woman.”

My neck flushes. The book isn’t the only reason my pulse is racing.

“I could use another drink.” The Pink Misery is half gone. So is my common sense apparently.

“I’ve got it.” Already signaling the bartender. “Let me order you something better.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what makes you think you know what I need?”

His smile is slow and devastating. “Sweetheart, I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

He leans over the bar. “Can you make her a Between the Sheets? Make it extra smooth.”

Oh my God.

My face goes hot. Of course that’s what he’d order.

Leo catches my reaction. His expression turns absolutely wicked. “It’s a classic cocktail. Why, what did you think I meant?”

The bartender gets to work on something infinitely more appealing. As he crafts the cocktail, someone else steps up to the bar on my other side.

Tall, with a crisp button-up rolled to his elbows. Dark hair with silver threading through it—distinguished rather than old. The kind of man who probably uses words like “indeed” and owns a leather-bound book collection.

“Excuse me.” That voice. God, that voice. Deep and smooth with a British accent that does illegal things to my nervous system. “Is this seat taken?”

I shake my head. Suddenly very aware I’m flanked by two impossibly attractive men.

“Go for it.”

He settles onto the stool with easy grace. His cologne reaches me—expensive, understated.

I resist the urge to lean closer.

The bartender slides the Between the Sheets across with a wink. It’s beautiful—amber and smooth-looking, with an orange peel garnish.

I take a sip. Infinitely better than the Pink Misery. Warmth spreads from the inside out.

“Much better.”

Leo looks entirely too pleased with himself.

The newcomer beside me turns. “Rough night?”

You could say that.

He offers his hand with old-fashioned politeness. “James.”

“Rebecca.” I shake it. His grip is firm and warm, lingering just long enough to make my pulse jump.

His eyes travel over me. Not rushed, not crude, but thoroughly appreciative. Like he’s cataloging every curve for later.

“A pleasure.” The word sounds indecent in that voice.

A slow smile transforms his sharp features. Recognition in his eyes. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Have we met?” I study his face. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. Eyes the color of stormy seas.

“I don’t believe we have, though you may have heard my voice before.

” He pauses. Mischief in his expression now.

“If you listen to audiobooks, you’ve likely heard me narrating rather explicit scenes.

Perhaps even moaning dirty words in your ear whilst you fantasized about your favourite book boyfriend. ”

My jaw drops. Wait.

“You’re a narrator?”

“Romance audiobooks, specifically. Primarily dark romance and reverse harem as of late.” He sips his scotch. Watches my reaction with obvious amusement.

“You’re James Cade.” Holy shit. “I just listened to Backstage Pass on the plane!”

Oh my god. Oh my GOD. I’ve listened to this man narrate sex scenes with my headphones in.

His smile turns sinful. “Ah. Did you enjoy the studio scene in chapter fourteen, then?”

Leo groans. “Mate, please don’t flirt with your voice. It’s not fair to the rest of us.”