There are some men who don’t take a hint. If I can be so generous as to call my style a hint. It’s not exactly subtle. That’s why it works.
Dark makeup, bright hair, black clothes—they’re a shield. To keep my feelings in and the rest of the world out.
Probably not all that healthy. Probably more of Dad’s influence.
But, hey, that’s a concern for another day. A day when I’ve solved the whole money issue.
Bills take up all the space in my brain. There isn’t room for anything else.
And this…
I’m meeting Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. To discuss… something. There’s no way it’s a bartending gig. Who invites a potential bartender to an exclusive Manhattan restaurant?
The elevator stops at the restaurant floor. The couple gets out. Then the businessmen.
I move along the black and white tile. To the hostess table.
She recognizes me immediately. “Eve?”
“Do I know you?” My head is fuzzy lately. She doesn’t look familiar, but she might be a former classmate. Maybe she got her job the way I did. Maybe they run a brothel out of the back. Maybe that’s why I’m here.
“Mr. Hunt is ready for you.” She grabs a menu. Flashes a serene smile. The one that means this customer is a good tipper. “This way, please.” She leads me through the interior. To a wide open patio. Around a corner.
Holy shit. The buildings of Midtown come into view. Steel and glass in every direction. The Empire State Building to the left. The skyscrapers of the Financial District to the right.
A sliver of the East River.
The clear blue sky. Still bright and vibrant.
I almost wish I called in sick. This place must be beautiful at sunset. And after. When the buildings light up the night sky.
“The one at the end.” She hands me a menu. Another serene smile and she turns on her heels.
Okay…
Weird. But maybe that’s what money is like.
People fawn over you. Help you arrange trysts with women you meet at strip clubs.
Is that what he expects? I don’t know. This isn’t the place. The restaurant is open and airy. Even by rooftop bar standards.
I trace the menu with my pointer finger. Okay. No problem. I can meet Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.
I can hear his offer.
I can sit across from him without melting into a puddle of desire. Maybe he’s not even that handsome. Maybe I had beer goggles. Uh, gin goggles. Whatever.
Deep breath. Steady exhale.
It’s ten steps to the booth.
And there he is, on the bench against the wall, in a sleek black suit. Even sitting down, he’s tall and broad.
Power incarnate.
It’s something he exudes. I can’t explain it. Plenty of rich, influential men come into the club. They all have a hint of his x-factor. But he’s swimming in it.
No gin goggles.
He’s still sexy as fuck.
Not pretty or beautiful.
Handsome. Masculine in every possible way.
“Eve.” His deep voice flows into my ears. “I’m glad you made it.” He offers his hand. Motions to the step to the booth. “Careful.”
“Do you always help potential enemies into their seats?”
He nods. “Harder to kill sitting down.”
I place my hand in his.
It’s not in my imagination. His touch is electric. And there’s something about the way his fingers close around my wrist.
Strong hands. Firm grip. Just the right amount of pressure.
God, he’s so handsome. Coffee eyes. Dark skin. Short hair. And under that suit—
Ahem.
I force my eyes to the table. Step into the booth. Take a seat across from him.
There. I’m sitting. My knees can buckle all they want.
Why are my knees buckling? He’s handsome, yes. Hotter than hell, yes. So what?
I see hot guys. I don’t react like this. I don’t have time to react like this.
If circumstances were different, sure. I could flirt all night. Go back to his place. Finally punch my v-card.
No concerns of following my heart (or my libido) instead of my head. No voice asking me is he worth whatever the doctor will pay for my hymen? No weight on my shoulders.
One night of bliss.
No strings.
The end.
It’s a beautiful fantasy.
But it’s just that. A fantasy.
I don’t have time for trysts with strange men. Even strange, handsome, richer than sin, sexy as hell men.
His eyes meet mine. He stares at me with those soulful browns. Stares at something I try to keep hidden.
I reach for a reply. Come up with, “Aren’t you hot in that?” Ugh. I bite my tongue. Talk about inability to banter.
He lets out a low chuckle. “I’m used to it.”
There is a breeze up here. And the sun isn’t quite as overpowering as it was this afternoon. But I’m sweating in my combat boots. “I’m not.” I straighten my leg, showing off my shoes. “I’m dying in these.”
“Take them off.”
“Already asking me to strip?” Okay, that’s a little better. Slightly less awkward. Pretty good, considering the circumstance.
“If it will make you more comfortable.”