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We add an amendment of mutually agreed upon destruction, that no part of the conversation leaves this booth.

Then one drink pours over into two and a side of french fries Dalton sweet talks the waitress into procuring.

Based on the way she grazed the phone-shaped bump in her pocket when dropping off the fries, she clearly recognizes Dalton and is itching for a selfie.

Turns out, the man sharing my booth is somewhat of a big deal.

It doesn’t take much for him to open up about what landed him as an eligible bachelor on tonight’s list. Just one little prod asking about what I’m losing out on by turning down the date, accompanied by the threat to Google him, and Dalton dishes out the back cover details.

New York’s youngest captain and right winger for The Vortex, his hockey team is the front runner for this year’s playoffs.

With a body like a Greek statue, it’s no surprise he’s a professional athlete.

What is surprising is his subtle modesty.

Dalton deflects key bragging points, putting the praise on his team, the coaches.

Even three drinks in, my PR brain reads between the lines, working the angles.

At only twenty-seven, three years older than me, Dalton talks with the air of a seasoned professional twice his age.

It’s impressive. Unlike the few sports bros I’ve come across in my field, Dalton doesn’t say much about himself.

The lack of bragging is astonishing. Most athletes are ready to whip it out and measure at any given chance, impressing mostly themselves.

Dalton, on the other hand, pushes to learn more about me.

The conversation floats on a surface level, glazing over personal details like names, then deep dives into confessions I haven’t even admitted to my best friend and cousin Lacey.

A Sparknotes version of recent terrible dates, comparing exes, and work stress fill the time.

Some things we laugh off, others we commiserate over.

It’s shocking how easy it is to divulge your life’s messiest bits to a stranger when you agree to forget them later.

Anytime someone presses toward something too personal, one of us flips the conversational tables, and the other follows suit, no questions asked.

We talk about how my ex jumped jobs all the time, always looking for a get-rich-quick opportunity.

How he hated that I worked so hard, but also never had a problem mooching off of me either.

I breeze over the cheating part and Dalton picks up on the fact that I don’t want to talk about it, so he doesn’t press.

Just like I don’t press when he doesn’t want to talk details about the ex I outbid tonight.

I know she stalked him, made some creepy threats when he broke up with her, and that’s enough.

The entire experience of talking so openly is utterly freeing.

“So spill,” he coaxes. “Is Ramona a total hard ass boss?”

I grin, swirling the ice in the bottom of my near empty gin and tonic. It’s mostly water now, which was the idea.

“She’s a total bulldog—stubborn, aggressive, passionate, brutally honest. And the best boss I’ve ever had.

If you’re loyal to her, she’ll protect you like her own kin.

I beat out sixty-five other applicants for this job.

Ruined my last serious relationship and have practically joined the sisterhood of celibacy to make it work. And it’s been worth it.”

“Sounds like my kinda boss.” Dalton pushes the dregs in his glass around the table and gives the empty basket of fries a forlorn glance. “So, you’re currently single too?”

I’m instantly grateful he skimmed over the whole celibate part of my rambling. “You’d be correct. Being a workaholic doesn’t exactly allow for time for quality relationships.”

Especially with cheating assholes, I think, curling in on myself reflexively.

His eyes narrow so quickly, it’s possibly a trick of the dim lights. “Relationships aren’t exactly easy when you’re in the public eye, either. Being a public figure has its downsides.”

It’s my turn to nod, then I shoot him a wicked grin. “But the sex…?”

“The sex is fantastic,” he admits without missing a beat. “Getting laid has never been so easy.”

We both laugh at the honesty of the admission. It’s been a month since my last Bumble date and this non-date is proving way more fun than any past serious attempts.

“Must be nice. What I wouldn’t give for a good lay and no groundwork. Do you know how much effort goes into vetting out the creeps online?”

“I can only imagine. But you’re not getting any sympathy out of me tonight, forty-eight.

I offered my services. Hell, even paid for them.

You’re the one who turned all this down.

” He gestures to his well-honed body mockingly, but there’s a real sting that I am, in fact, stupid enough to turn that down.

“Annnd on that note, I think I’ll call it a night and go have a date with my room’s handheld showerhead.

Unlike most men, those never disappoint.

” I slide out of the booth, enjoying the heat burning in his gaze as my words settle in and he pictures it.

Two can play dick tease games and I just won this round.

“Well damn, forty-eight. Way to put me in my place.”

“Anytime. Just helping keep that big VIP ego of yours in check.”

He reaches for the bill on the table. “I’m calling it a night, too. Apparently, I have some phone calls to make first thing tomorrow, since I’m going to be stood up.”

Is that a hint of disappointment? I turn away before I can analyze further.

It’s then I realize just how busy the bar has become.

Outside of our private booth, the place is packed.

The entire banquet seems to have emptied in here, the winners celebrating and the losers consoling themselves.

Fortunately, everyone is too drunk and self-absorbed to spare a glance our way.

I’m barely three steps from the table when someone blocks my path.

It only takes a second to recognize the suit and predatory stance.

Wall Street from the bar is back. His eyes have a haze to them now as they lock onto my boobs.

“Nice tits.” He sneers.

I flinch back when the fucker steps way too close, forcing me to crane my neck back to hold his gaze.

Dalton appears at my side, speaking louder than necessary, “I’ll walk you to the elevators. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Excuse us, man.”

Wall Street glares, but eventually relents, side-stepping and gesturing for us to pass. I repress the pleasant shutter as Dalton’s hand once again finds the small of my back, guiding me away from the bar’s resident douche.

“Thank you.” It comes out a little breathless as we make our way through the foyer to the elevators.

“No one fucks with my non-date,” Dalton says. “He’s lucky I didn’t check him. Dudes like that give the rest of us a bad name.”

The elevator dings, and I let him guide me inside. The moment we’re alone, his hand slides from my back, fingers leaving a warm trail along my skin. He pushes the button for the eleventh floor, then turns to me.

“Where you headed?”

“The same, actually.”

“Is this a proposition?” His eyebrows raise, a smile pulling at his lips. “I do have a king-sized bed?—”

I slap his arm. “No, you jackass. They put all the event guests up in the hotel tonight. We’re in blocks. You and I happen to be in the same one.”

“And again, keeping that ego of mine in check. Thanks, forty-eight.”

“Someone has to.” I agree.

The rest of the ride lulls into a silence that has me fiddling with my purse.

When the lift opens, he presses a hand to the door, letting me out first. We start down the narrow hall, sneaking sheepish glances at each other. When we get to 1135, I stop and tap the door with my knuckle, holding up the key.

“This is me.”

Turning, I find Dalton’s smile has grown into an idiotic grin. He’s holding up a key packet with the number 1136 scrawled on it, pointing to the room across from mine. “Guess we’re neighbors.”

He’s swaying a bit, the night’s drinking session catching up.

His gaze, however, is steady. Slowly, he places a hand on the wall next to me, leaning in.

He smells like aftershave and mint. My head naturally inclines to meet his gaze.

At this distance, I can’t help but fixate on those perfect lips, imagining how they would feel against mine.

“Tonight was fun. I don’t get to talk to women like that very often.” His voice is softer now, the teasing friendly tone it’s carried all night slipping into something more intimate. “Best non-date ever.”

“It was. Thank you. I didn’t realize I needed that either.” A flush creeps into my cheeks, and he responds by inching closer. The lingering ache of anticipation building between my legs blooms. Damn, I need to get properly laid.

“About tomorrow…” he pauses, leaning in so his lips brush my ear. Shit. He better not ask me to reconsider the date. Because right now, I might not refuse. Hell, I might just grab this man, yank him into my room and fuck his brains out.

There’s a ding at the end of the hall announcing the arrival of another elevator.

We turn in unison as the door slides open, revealing a raven-haired woman in a scandalously alluring black dress that shows an impressive amount of tattoos.

Her head is bent over a phone, heels dangling from a hand as she wobbles, well under the influence of something recreational.

I vaguely recognize her as a guest of the event, or maybe from somewhere else?

The shape of her face oddly familiar, like seeing an old friend after too many years.

Before I can place her, Dalton’s voice comes out rough against my ear. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…”

In one swift motion, he has the key card out of my hand, tapped to the lock and is pushing us inside my room. I barely have time to squeak before Dalton has the door shut and his hands on my hips, pinning me to the wall.

“What the hell!?” I blurt out, shoving at him and getting nowhere. His grip is like a vice.

“Shhhh. Sorry, I’m sorry!” He apologizes frantically as he slides a finger over my lips in an effort to calm me down. It’s only the look of panicked apology in his eyes that stills me. The instant I stop fighting, I hear the drunken yelling that’s started down the hallway and is coming closer.

“Dalton!? Dalton, God damn it, where the fuck are you? You were supposed to be mine tonight. That bitch cheated me!” There’s a clattering that sounds like a shoe being dropped and then an unbalanced attempt to recover it.

We both jump at the body-sized thump against the wall right next to my door.

Dalton’s eyes are locked on mine, pleading with me to stay quiet.

We jump again as she pounds on the door across the hall. His door.

“Open the damn door, Dalton! I know you’re in there. I sucked off the concierge to get your room number. Open the God damn door! You better not be in there fucking that little whore who outbid me!”

The pounding punctuates each word. Dalton closes his eyes as if he can shut her out by pretending this isn’t happening.

At some point during her continuing screams, my hands shift from pushing him away to holding on, trying in vain to ground him.

The fingers on my hips tighten, his forehead tipping to mine as if seeking support.

Easing a hand between us, I tap his lightly stubbled chin, forcing him to open his eyes.

Your ex? I mouth.

He watches my lips, then sighs, nodding.

Another voice joins the previously one-way screaming match on the other side of the door.

“Hey! Shut the fuck up lady, some of us are trying to sleep here!”

“You shut the fuck up, dude! Do you have any idea who I am? I’m America’s God damn sweetheart!”

“I’m calling security!” Our neighbor fires back.

“Good, do it! I’ll give them an autograph!

” A door slams and she returns her focus to Dalton’s empty room.

“I can stay out here all night fuckers!” There’s a final bang against the door and then a sliding sound.

Dalton presses an eye to the peephole, his fingers involuntarily clenching against my waist. With gentle hands, I push him back from the door and take his place.

Slumped on the floor against his door is the girl from the elevator.

She’s procured a flask from who knows where and it’s clear she’s in for the long haul.

As if sensing my gaze, she glares up at my door before flipping it off.

Then proceeds to flip off the entire hallway.

The long black hair shifts, the bangs pulling back to reveal honey blonde locks underneath.

She slaps at the wig, shoving it lopsidedly down, before slipping on oversized sunglasses and taking another drink.

It’s in that moment that I recognize her.

Holy shit.

Under the fake tattoos and disheveled costume is Ellie Edwards.

She really is Hollywood’s newest sweetheart.

Nominated for two Oscars and practically a shoo-in, she’s supposed to be one of the strip’s most wholesome and kind actresses.

Hell, I was going to watch her latest period romance tonight.

It’s impossible to associate everything Dalton just told me about his ex with the woman sitting in our hall.

Yet there she is, living up to every horrific thing he mentioned.

If this is the real Ellie Edwards, guess she’s a better actress than I thought.

When I finally look away from the train wreck happening outside, I find Dalton standing at the foot of my bed, one hand fisted in his hair as he flicks through his phone.

“I’m calling her manager. He’ll handle this,” He whispers.

I sweep a hand across the middle of his back as I pass on the way to the mini bar, and dig around while he leaves a hurried message I try not to eavesdrop on. When he hangs up, I offer my spoils.

“Coffee, booze, chips, candy?”

“Chips, and the stiffest drink they’ve got in there.”

I toss him the chips and go for the little bottles of scotch.

After handing over the drinks, I turn on the TV, crank the volume and drop the remote on the bed.

“I’m going to change into something less ‘hello, here are my boobs’.

You take off your jacket. Then make yourself comfortable and find us something to watch. We might be here a while.”

And with that, I leave Dalton to settle in as I disappear into the bathroom. The speed with which this night just went from potential epic pent-up tension releasing sexcapades to boner killing hostage situation is neck breaking. Once again, this day has fucked me in all the wrong ways.