Rich Player (The Dirty Thirty Pledge 3)

And he looks like a knight in shining armor, too. Taller than me—which is great because I’m already tall—and built like he clocks time in the gym daily. He looks like he should be in some glamorous city like New York or L.A. or London. Not…Nashville. But maybe I haven’t spent enough time in cities like Nashville to know what guys look like here. For the night, I’ll pretend that I’m just as glamorous and that I belong in a place like this. Like I’m not a small-town girl just pretending. He doesn’t have to know. I’ll probably never see him again after tonight, but based on what I’ve already seen, I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of him this evening.

I reach the bar and turn to watch him walking over to me, and I get the chance to stare just a little. God, he’s gorgeous. My gaze keeps getting caught on his jaw, and the way his shirt is open just a little too far.

It’s not a great angle from here, but as he turns to the side to slip between two people, I can see that he’s got an ass on him too. If I’d run into him before that guy decided that I would be a good target, this would be a perfect night. Who knows? He’s buying me a drink so there’s still a chance that this can turn into a pretty great night.

He settles against the bar beside me, and he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s taking me in. But unlike the way the other guy looked at me—with anger, entitlement, and a plan—this gaze is all heated appreciation. The kind of heat that settles in my gut and makes me wonder how many drinks I can get him to buy me and maybe more.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

His eyes snap to mine, dark and deep. I think they might be brown, but under the neon lights of the club, they’re blue and green, reflecting back the colors around us. “What?”

I smile. “I gave you my name, but I never got yours.” He’s right. Diamond isn’t my real name, but he’s not going to find out what it is. It’s boring. Normal. Diamond makes me feel shiny and special. I don’t even care that people assume it’s fake or that it means I’m in a particular career. It makes me happy, and that’s all that matters.

“Glenn,” he says, holding out a hand. I take it and we shake. It’s slow, and I like feeling the warmth of his hand, but it also seems weird to shake after we’ve danced and been pressed up against each other. It was hard to ignore the firmness of his body on mine, even while he was helping me escape.

“Nice to meet you, Glenn. And thank you.”

His smile it the kind you see in commercials. “My pleasure. What can I get you?”

I look him up and down, wondering what kind of drink he’ll order, and if he’ll be surprised by the kind of drink I like. “I’ll have what you’re having,” I say.

Glenn’s mouth tips up at the corner, like I’ve just issued him a challenge, and I have. He can order what he thinks I’ll like, in order to appear considerate, or he can order something he genuinely likes to see if I can keep up. Or even the third option, something neither of us sees coming. “What the hell,” he says, catching the bartender’s eye.

He leans over the bar and speaks quietly with the bartender, and he says something that makes the bartender laugh and nod before disappearing. “I’m celebrating my birthday, so I got us something special.”

“Happy birthday,” I say. “Is it tacky to ask which birthday?”

Glenn shakes his head with a smile. “No. I turned thirty a couple of days ago.”

“Big one,” I say. “Do you feel like you’re dying of old age yet?”

He laughs, “No. Do I look like I’m dying?”

“No, but I don’t know that I’ve looked close enough to tell.” As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I freeze. I’m not usually that forward, but I’m feeling a little brazen tonight.

Glenn raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling. “I’m open for inspection.”

I ease closer, so there’s barely an inch of air between us as I pretend to examine him for signs of age. “Hmm…definitely not dying, at least on the surface. But I think I’ll need some proof that you’re still healthy, you know.”

“What do I have to be healthy for?” His words are soft against my ear, making me shiver.

I pull back just far enough so that I can look up and meet his eyes. “Dancing, of course,” I lie, because right now, this close to him, I’m thinking about so, so much more. “We need a real dance, one that’s not just an escape maneuver.”