Page 21

21

KENDRA

I stare at my phone for a full five minutes, my thumb hovering over the call button like it might bite me. The phone's screen dims from inactivity, and I tap it impatiently to brighten it again. Enzo's name and number glow up at me, taunting me.

This isn't me. I don't reach out first. I don't put myself in positions where I'm waiting for someone—especially not a man—to pick up, to answer, to decide whether I'm worth their time. But this work event has me backed into a corner, and the thought of showing up alone makes my skin crawl. Not because I need a man, but because the vultures from the Westlake account will be circling, waiting to introduce me to their "very eligible" nephews and cousins like I'm some charity case.

I need someone who can silence a room with his presence. Someone who won't embarrass me with small talk about sports teams or cryptocurrency investments. Someone who understands power plays without explanation.

I need Enzo.

My finger finally makes contact with the screen, and I bring the phone to my ear, standing straighter even though no one's watching. Each ring stretches like taffy, making my jaw clench tighter.

He answers after two rings. "Kendra." My name in his mouth sounds different—smoother, edged with that quiet curiosity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Not a question, not a greeting. Just an acknowledgment that carries weight.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let this feel like surrender. "I need a date. A business thing. Interested?" My voice comes out clipped and professional, like I'm offering him a business proposition rather than asking for a favor.

There's a beat of silence before he hums, considering. I can almost see him—leaning back in whatever sleek, expensive chair he's in, those steel-gray eyes calculating what this means, what advantage it gives him. The image makes me want to hang up, but I wait, my foot tapping an impatient rhythm against my hardwood floor.

"And you want me?" It's not a question, not really. The subtle emphasis on "want" makes my teeth grind. He's enjoying this, the bastard. Making me say it. Making me ask.

I exhale sharply, my free hand curling into a fist. "Forget it." The words come out harsh, defensive—a reflex when I feel cornered.

But before I can pull the phone away from my ear, his low chuckle stops me. The sound slides down my spine like warm honey, and I hate my body's instant reaction to it.

"I'll pick you up at seven," he says, and there's that quiet command in his voice that reminds me exactly who he is—not just some suit I can drag to a corporate function, but a man who's used to being obeyed. A man who's probably killed people who didn't listen.

My Hades, coming to collect.

I hang up and stare at my phone, despising the flutter in my chest. Seven o'clock. Four hours to get ready for a man who shouldn't matter but somehow does. A man who holds my brother's debt over my head like Damocles' sword.

And yet here I am, standing in front of my closet an hour later, pushing hangers back and forth with increasing frustration. Nothing feels right. Too casual, too stuffy, too obvious, too safe.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, yanking out a black dress I've worn to a dozen corporate events. It's perfectly appropriate, perfectly forgettable.

I hang it back up.

My fingers linger on a deep crimson number I bought six months ago during a moment of weakness—a dress I've never had the courage to wear. The fabric drapes like liquid, cut to hug every curve before falling to mid-thigh. The neckline dips just low enough to be suggestive without crossing into inappropriate.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull it from the hanger.

By six-forty-five, I'm a bundle of nerves I refuse to acknowledge. My hair falls in glossy curls around my shoulders, my makeup precise but not overdone—a sweep of gold across my lids, lashes thick with mascara, lips painted the exact shade of my dress. The woman in the mirror looks like me but isn't quite me—she's dangerous, confident in a way that makes my stomach twist into knots.

The doorbell rings at six fifty-nine. Of course he's early.

I take a steadying breath, slip on my heels, and open the door.

Enzo stands there in a suit that fits him like a second skin, charcoal gray against a white shirt, no tie. His hair is styled in that perfect mess that probably took longer than he'd ever admit, and the scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive—hits me like a physical force.

His eyes meet mine for one electric second before dropping to take in the rest of me, moving with deliberate slowness from my face to my feet and back again. Something flashes in those steel-gray depths—hunger, appreciation, calculation—I can't tell which is more unnerving.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my bones.

The compliment settles warm in my belly, and I hate myself for it. I grab my clutch from the side table, brushing past him into the hallway. "Let's go. I don't want to be late."

"Whatever you say," he murmurs, close enough that I can feel his breath against my neck.

The gala is held at the Sinclair Hotel downtown, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers dripping from coffered ceilings. As we step through the doors, Enzo's hand finds the small of my back—a light, possessive touch that shouldn't feel as comforting as it does.

"Remember," I say under my breath as we approach the first cluster of my colleagues, "you're just arm candy tonight."

He leans down, lips brushing my ear. "We both know I'm never just anything."

The shiver that runs through me has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

What follows is nothing short of a masterclass in social manipulation. Within an hour, Enzo has charmed the CEO's wife, impressed the head of finance with his knowledge of market trends, and somehow convinced the notoriously stingy board chairman to consider increasing our department's budget. He moves through the room like he owns it, all quiet confidence and calculated charm, and I find myself watching him with a mix of professional admiration and something far more dangerous.

"Your boyfriend is delightful," whispers Annette from HR, who last week tried to set me up with her divorce attorney. "Where have you been hiding him?"

"He's not my—" I start, but Enzo chooses that moment to return, sliding an arm around my waist.

"Not your what?" he asks, handing me a glass of champagne. His thumb traces small circles against my hip, the touch burning through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Nothing," I say, taking a sip to hide my expression. "Annette was just singing your praises."

His smile is all predator. "I'm full of surprises."

The worst part is how right he feels at my side. How perfectly we fit together, moving through the crowd like partners who've danced this dance a hundred times. I catch myself laughing at his dry observations, leaning into his touch when his fingers trace patterns on my bare shoulder, forgetting—for moments at a time—exactly who and what he is.

By the time we leave, the night air cool against my flushed skin, I'm light-headed from champagne and proximity. The ride back to my apartment passes in comfortable silence, his presence filling the car like smoke.

At my door, I fumble with my keys, suddenly awkward. "Thanks for coming tonight. You were..." I search for a word that won't give too much away. "Helpful."

Enzo steps closer, one hand coming up to brush a curl from my face. "Is that all I was?"

My breath catches as he leans in, his body a wall of heat just inches from mine. For one wild moment, I think he's going to kiss me—want him to kiss me—but he only smiles, that knowing curl of his lips that makes my knees weak.

"Sweet dreams, Kendra," he whispers, and then he's gone, leaving me standing at my door, keys clutched in my hand, desire a living thing under my skin.