Page 3

By the time I near the oversized glass doors of the hotel’s bar, my steps are steady, the slight shake in my hands pure nerves.

I grip the note tighter, trying to smother it.

Refusal simmers under my skin. Accepting the paid debt like free candy is something my mother would do without a second thought.

Handouts and hand-ups are her lifeblood.

I am not my mother. Despite needing this bailout, the ever-thrumming pulse to be nothing like the woman that birthed me, says I have to turn this mystery man down.

Too focused on how to best handle this ludicrous situation, I nearly walk into a guy who appears out of nowhere.

The top button of his impeccable suit undone beneath a strong jaw.

I startle, flushing under his intense gaze.

A fine layer of stubble, warm green eyes, and a shock of dark hair flood my vision.

My God, is he good-looking. Like take-me-now and what’s-my-name-again good looking.

I take a step back, muttering something that sounds more like a giggle than an apology.

“Apologies.” The man purrs, eyes locking on mine with an intensity that clenches my stomach. His head tilts. “This is a strange question, but do I know you?”

The tightening in the pit of my stomach wishes I could say yes.

But he’s a total stranger. A dangerously handsome stranger.

The kind a girl makes irrational and possibly life-altering decisions for.

So yeah… No. I don’t know him. With a shake of my head, I repress the urge to lean in.

Having made enough stupid decisions tonight, I force a step back. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re right, my fault. I would never forget a face like yours.” His smile softens in a way that causes my heart to dip. Before I can reply, he pulls open the door, gesturing to go ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you.” I sweep over his face again as I pass.

For one ridiculous moment, I hope this is the man I’m here to meet.

That his hand might slip to the small of my back, and he’ll introduce himself.

Add that thought to the ranks of stupid things I’ve done tonight.

Men who look like that don’t go around paying for random women’s charity dates.

Plus, whoever did pay has to have a motive.

Not likely the philanthropic kind. People don’t shell out that kind of cash for nothing.

God, I hope it’s not a weird sex thing. Flashing boob to my landlord is one thing.

Pretty Woman level sexual payoff is a whole other ball game I don’t want to play.

The shocking moment of attraction fades as the man passes behind me without another glance, headed down the row of booths undoubtedly to find his date.

Focus, I reprimand myself. You don’t have time for a guy like that and you can’t waste the brain space right now. You have a wealthy fairy godfather to find who dishes out cash instead of pumpkins and rodents to turn down.

Like everything else tonight, the bar is also beyond my pay grade.

I guarantee there’s not a drink on the menu under fifteen dollars.

Taking a note from The Great Gatsby, it’s the perfect place for those who want to disappear into a quiet corner or others who want to be seen, snapping an Insta photo worthy of a high school nemesis’s long-simmering jealousy.

The lights are turned low, setting a mood that does little for my nerves.

I sweep the bar for anyone familiar. Hell, anyone who makes eye contact.

The nape of my neck tingles, prickling as if sensing watching eyes, but no one looks up as I approach the forest-green granite counter.

Sobering up suddenly feels like a terrible idea.

Five men sit at the bar. Two with partners, the other three engaged in quiet conversation while nursing cocktails.

The bartender smiles, placing a napkin on the counter before I pick a seat.

“What can I get you, love?” His smile widens, and I don’t miss the not-so-subtle sweep over my chest. I repress the urge to cover up and decide to use my assets.

Gliding onto a stool, I lean in, watching his gaze drop again. “No one’s asked for a…” I stammer, trying to remember the name assigned to the paddle. “Jacqueline. Jacqueline Philips?”

His focus slides up to my lips, finally settling on my eyes. I pray he can’t see the panic pooling there.

“Not yet. But the evening’s young. Can I get you a drink, Jacqueline?” His tongue wraps around my fake name in a way that implies sex or hopes for a bigger tip. Wrong tree, dude.

“Espresso martini, please.” I need the booze as much as the caffeine right now. Definitely not in the budget, and I definitely don’t give a shit at the moment.

With the bartender disappearing to mix my drink, I get a better look at the group of men gathered ten feet down the bar.

Two men are sitting while the third stands, legs spread wide, suit jacket open, blonde hair teased into a well-sculpted messy coif.

One hand is shoved into a pocket as he sips what looks like an old-fashioned.

There’s something predatory about the stance.

Domineering even. When my gaze reaches his face, I suck in a breath.

He’s staring back. With a swipe of his hand, he gestures to himself in a “like what you see” motion.

I barely have time to blink, much less gag, before he prowls forward, ditching his friends mid-conversation.

Like the bartender, his eyes remain fixated on a point a foot below mine, displaying a similar level of unashamed focus.

Their pressure against my cleavage is almost palpable.

His tongue darts out, licking his lower lip.

Fuck, if he’s the one who paid, there're strings attached, big fat sexually dominating stings.

I yank my gaze away at a clink, then the sliding sound of glass on stone as the bartender sets down the perfect espresso martini.

My fingers graze the stem when someone sidles next to me.

A hand slips over the back of my chair, warm rough fingertips caressing the bare skin between my shoulder blades.

“Please put it on my tab, Mike.” A deep familiar voice speaks from my other side and I’m shocked to find not the Wall Street looking slick rick, but the green-eyed man who held the door for me.

Wall Street has paused mid hunt, glaring at the man’s hand still so close to my skin I can feel the heat. “Care to join me at my table?”

The flicker of hope sputters back to life. “I’m meeting someone.” I glance back at the other man, who's rejoined his friends, scowling.

“Yes. I believe we have some business to discuss, Miss Phillips.” He steps back, offering a hand to help me off the stool and shooting a glance at Wall Street.

“I’d rather chat somewhere a little more private, though.

Business should rarely be discussed out in the open.

I have a table in the back corner. We can finish our drinks and talk there. ”

I pause, staring at the offered hand, not moving.

What’s this guy’s angle? I can practically feel all the strings snapping taut.

Each one plucks, sending a pang of nerves down my spine.

The intention of telling this mystery man to fuck right off waivers.

Unlike the other men who are watching us, his eyes have never left my face.

Staring at the gorgeous man whose bow-shaped lips are ridiculously kissable, my traitorous, sex deprived brain is thinking that accepting the payment is a good idea. Stupid, Jenna. So fucking stupid.

His hand reaches closer, undeterred by my hesitation.

This time, I take it. It’s not like we’re disappearing into a locked room.

The bar is a public place with lots of watching eyes and too many questions that would need answering if I disappear.

I’m also intensely aware that, unlike with Wall Street, the alarm bells telling me to run are silent in this man’s presence.

With a gentle press of warm fingertips, he helps me off the stool.

Damn. Even with my heels on, I barely come up to his shoulder.

Handing me the martini, he scoops up his half-full beer, then gestures toward the corner where he first disappeared.

I expect him to take the lead, but he walks next to me, matching my pace, hand gliding over the sway of my low back, steering us toward a dimly lit booth virtually hidden in the corner. A warm shiver races to my toes at the light touch. I clench the glass tighter.

True to his word, he says nothing until we slip onto the leather seat.

The booth is big enough for at least six people and dark enough to keep us hidden from onlookers.

Instead of sliding in after me, like I half expected, he sits on the other side.

Then takes a sip of beer, studying me like a curious specimen.

All too aware of the tension vibrating between us, I cut straight to the nerve.

“You paid for my bid?”

Those spectacular eyes survey me over the top of his glass. He sets it down slowly before confirming.

“I did.”

“A fifty-thousand- dollar bill? You know that’s crazy, right? I can’t pay you back.”

“I kind of figured as much when I overheard the conversation you were practicing back by the payment table. I agree, by the way, the auctioneer is a total idiot. It was pretty obvious you weren’t bidding.”

I pull back, staring. “You’re the guy I ran into outside of the bathrooms.”

“You stomped my toes pretty good. Lucky they’re nearly as hard as my head.”

I wave away his cute humor. “Look, there must be some sort of mix-up. People don’t just pay off a stranger's debts to go on dates with some random guy. What exactly?—”

“Dalton Ward.” He interrupts.

“What?”

He leans closer to tap the winner’s packet I placed on the table. “Your ‘some random guy’ date—Dalton Ward.”

I glance down at the packet under my hand, realizing I never even checked which bachelor I had won. He reclines, arms spreading wide over the seat back. “You’re sure you don’t know who I am?”

I lean in, squinting in the dim lights, to scrutinize him more carefully, running through a mental Rolodex of faces.

Messy dark hair that hints at a subtle curl at his temples, penetrating emerald eyes above a narrow sharp nose, and full lips that turn up at the edges.

Heat creeps up my neck when I realize I’m staring at those lips.

“Sorry. But I don’t. Should I know you? I’m good with faces most of the time.

Obviously, I’m off my A-game tonight.” I drown the sentiment in a long draw of espresso martini. Damn it’s good.

“Obviously.” His laugh radiates warmth, transforming what could be a sharp remark into something gentle.

He shakes his head as if in amazement. “I’m also assuming you were fanning yourself back in the banquet and didn’t intend to bid tonight, much less fifty thousand dollars. Am I right, Miss Phillips?”

I snort, a bitter sound.

“Wasn’t planning on spending even a dime.

And it’s Jenna. Grant.” He doesn’t seem surprised by the fake name attached to my paddle number.

Most women use them for anonymity at these events.

Men wouldn’t be judged for spending exorbitant amounts of money to date a woman, but that sentiment rarely goes both ways.

When he doesn’t offer a name in return, I press.

“In the spirit of honesty, I’d like to know who exactly I’m indebted to and why. ”

“Fair request. I have a business proposition for you. One I think we can both benefit from.” He takes another agonizingly slow sip of beer. “Well, Jenna Grant. It’s nice to officially meet the woman who just made me the evening's most valuable bachelor.”

He offers his hand again in mock greeting, a grin widening as my jaw pops open.

“Dalton Ward. But please call me Dalton. Last names feel too formal for the discussion we’re about to have.”