Chapter 2
Two
The valet moved fast, reaching for my door the second I pulled up to the hotel—as though he could sense I was late just from the way my tires tapped the curb a little too aggressively.
I stepped out of my car and handed over my keys with a practiced smile—one that hid the chaos clinging to me like static.
Traffic had crawled, inch by infuriating inch, until I was thirty-eight minutes behind—something that wasn’t like me. I was usually early. Polished. Reliable. The woman who had her shit together.
Tonight was different, and I could feel the untamed energy buzzing under my skin.
I smoothed the hem of my dress, straightened my spine, and rolled my shoulders back. Late or not, I knew how to make an entrance. One good strut, a flash of confidence, and no one would remember the clock.
I lifted my chin and walked toward the doors like I owned the damn place.
Me: I’m here.
I sent the text as I crossed the threshold of the hotel.
Dean: I thought you’d changed your mind.
Me: There was an accident. I was stuck on the 405.
Dean: I’m inside.
Me: I’m in a black silk dress, I have short brown hair, blue eyes.
Dean: I know what you look like.
Right.
Me: What about you?
The three little dots appeared… Then vanished almost as quickly.
I slipped my phone into my clutch and let out a slow breath as my heels clicked across the marble floor.
The hotel’s lobby was pure elegance—grand ceilings, gold trim, and displays of fresh white orchids that looked too perfect to be real.
The lighting was soft and warm, bouncing off every glossy surface like the place had been staged for a magazine.
Eyes tracked me as I moved without a single mistake. Every step practiced, perfected, and flawless.
I’d grown used to the attention. The kind that came with a certain dress, a certain walk, the type of presence that made people stop and wonder—Who is she? Where is she going?
I held my head high and offered a soft smile to the concierge as I approached. She straightened her spine slightly, her voice clear and practiced. “Good evening, miss. How may I help you?”
I hesitated, just for a beat. “I’m here with McHenry Law Associates,” I said, matching her energy to a T. But before she could open her mouth to reply, my phone buzzed in my bag.
Dean: Meet me in the ballroom. I’ll be at the bar.
My jaw tensed. Was he watching me?
Not a question. Not a suggestion. Just another man telling me where to be, as though I were a chess piece he could move at will.
I’d always bristled at that. Even when I was being paid to play the part. In a way it was what kept me safe. I could never fall for a man who ordered me around like a puppet.
I smiled at the woman behind the desk. “Actually… I think I know where I’m going.” Then I turned on my heel as I headed toward the ballroom.
I smoothed my hand down the front of my dress, squared my shoulders, and turned toward the bar. My steps were steady, but my stomach was in knots—both pretty standard when meeting a new client.
The room was alive with movement and light.
Crystal chandeliers cast everything in a soft, golden glow.
Laughter rose from tight little circles of people holding cocktails, their eyes scanning for the next person to impress.
I paused at the edge of the dance floor, letting the scene wash over me like a veil, allowing the energy of the room to sink in.
This wasn’t my world. Not really. But I knew how to move through it. How to walk as if I belonged. How to play the part.
The women wore dresses that cost more than my rent.
The men smiled with the kind of confidence that only came from money made a generation ago.
Old money had a rhythm to it—smooth and slow, like everyone had all the time in the world.
And me? I was just the performance. The prop.
A daisy dropped into a bouquet of white roses.
Still, I held my head high and moved forward.
I scanned the crowd, searching for the man who brought me here tonight. A glance, a signal—anything to anchor me in my shoes. But there was nothing. Just a blur of well-tailored suits and gowns that shimmered beneath ambient light.
I took a breath and adjusted the strap of my clutch at my wrist. Keep moving. Keep smiling. That’s what the job required.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a pawn without a plan. I needed to see him first. To read his body language before he had a chance to read mine.
Because that first look always told me everything, and tonight I needed to be sure who I was dealing with.
Tucking my cell phone back in my clutch, I forced myself to flip the switch. From anxious, broken, full of insecurities Emily—to the woman men hired to date. Poised. Polished. A little mysterious. An accessory, not a risk. A beautiful woman without baggage or strings.
I took a step forward, heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
A man in a grey suit with a receding hairline turned in his seat. He scanned me up and down, gave me a knowing smile, and I moved in his direction.
He seemed nice enough. Not too tall, not too muscular. Someone I could handle if he got too frisky.
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” My words came out a little too fast.
He remained quiet, turning back toward the bar as he took a sip of his drink.
“There was an accident on the 405––” I sat on the stool beside him. “I called, but—”
He turned toward me, brows pinched together with misunderstanding. “Are you talking to me?”
And that’s when I noticed her––his wife… or a woman I presumed was his wife––sitting on the other side of him, a champagne flute in one hand and a diamond ring on the other.
Fantastic.
My cheeks flushed as I crossed my legs in the opposite direction and placed my clutch on the bar, trying to recover some semblance of composure. Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should move. Maybe I should fling myself into the nearest Ficus and pretend I was part of the décor.
But then, a man leaned over the bar on my other side, and all the air evacuated my lungs.
He was an Adonis. Big, sturdy, handsome in a way that made every nerve in my body aware of every cell in his. He was dressed in a gray suit that hugged his frame as if it had been stitched there by God.
As if I didn’t have a choice in the matter, my eyes tracked from his arms to his neck, then to a well-trimmed beard that traced the sharp lines of his jaw instead of softening them.
It only made him more attractive—rugged without trying, controlled without being cold.
Broad shoulders. Dark hair. And a face that made me forget, for one suspended second, how to breathe.
“Whiskey. Neat,” he said to the bartender.
His voice was deep and smooth—like a secret whispered in the dark.
Normally I wasn’t affected by men that looked like him, but lust immediately filled my belly.
Thank God I was sitting down, because I instantly felt faint…
The worst part? He didn’t even notice me.
I could have burst into flames, and he wouldn’t have blinked. His eyes stayed on the bartender, calm and serious, as though ordering his drink was the only thing that mattered to him.
My gaze slipped to his mouth—full, serious, with a sexy sort of pout to it.
I found myself wondering what had him so upset.
He seemed like the kind of man who could have anything he wanted.
The kind who would break your heart, then show up the next day with your own stupid permission to do it all over again.
“Can I help you?” he asked, deadpan.
I blinked––three times in rapid succession––then finally recovering enough to snap my neck in the other direction. Lord, kill me now.
Just ignore him. If I ignored him long enough, maybe he’d go away. Forget about how awkwardly I’d been staring at his mouth.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Nope. Of course not. I was never that lucky.
My spine straightened, I cleared my throat like an idiot, then lifted my chin. “Are you talking to me?” I hated how breathless my voice sounded.
I wasn’t someone who flustered easily—years on the job had trained that out of me—but the way his voice curled around those words knocked something loose in my chest. From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth tip into a faint smirk.
“You were staring,” he offered. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Heat surged to my cheeks. I gripped my clutch like it might anchor me to the floor. “I’m actually—I, uh… I’m waiting for someone.” The words tumbled out my mouth as though I were starstruck.
He didn’t respond right away. Just turned a little, resting his hand on the bar until he faced me fully—his gaze steady, unreadable, a faint smile transforming his features. “Should I move?”
I tilted my chin, still clinging to whatever pride I had left. "It’s a free bar. Do what you wish."
The bartender slid his drink across the counter, and I was instantly grateful for the two seconds of distraction. But then the man lifted his glass—and my eyes landed on lips that should have come with a warning label—to a mouth so intoxicating I couldn’t remember my own name.
“Who is he?" he asked, his voice low, like he was telling me a secret.
"Pardon?"
A dimple carved its way into his cheek. "The man you’re waiting for. Is he your husband?"
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
I forced my eyes away, sure that if I didn’t, I would end up in his bed. "How do you know it’s a man?"
A spark lit his face, and the corner of his mouth curved in a grin again. “Touché," he said, as though genuinely enjoying the banter.
I crossed my legs in the opposite direction, the fabric of my dress straining against my thigh.
Some small, ridiculous part of me—one I didn’t listen to often—felt strangely pleased with myself.
Not smug, exactly. Just…aware. Like I’d earned his approval.
Like I’d surprised him in the best kind of way.