After what feels like an eternity, he moves on, promising to see me again soon. The moment he’s gone, I rush to the bathroom as fast as I can without actually running and lock the door behind me. I inspect the card, running my finger over its glossy black finish and embossed silver lettering that reads:Dameon Hayward, CEO, Hayes & Hayward Media.
So, Dameon Hayward, what proposition do you have for me?
***
My eyes flutter open, taking in my surroundings. Soft light seeps through the blinds, casting a gentle glow over the small hotel room. It’s way too early for me to be awake, especially after struggling to fall asleep until well past 2 a.m. My mind was relentless, refusing to quiet down even after a scalding hot bath.
A notification blinks bright on my phone on the nightstand. Instinct tells me it’s from my stepfather, and a sense of foreboding creeps into the pit of my stomach. I push it aside for the moment and roll over, stretching out my back, calves, and the arches of my feet. As much as I love those Jimmy Choos, they have wreaked havoc on my body.
I grab my phone, dismiss the notification and shoot a message to Beth, just to check in. Then I open a social media app and let my mind drift. It’s become a habit now, endlessly scrolling without really absorbing anything. Another notification from my stepfather interrupts my browsing. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that; it’s not even nine in the morning. I roll my eyes and flick away the notification once more. He can wait.
The more I think about last night and the men my stepfather introduced me to, the angrier I become. The thought of being tethered to Do Not Resuscitate Douglas or Fuck Boy Jacob for a decade is infuriating. It’s a steep price to pay for one lousy phone call to the transplant board. Fuck him. And fuck my mother for allowing it. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was all her idea.
I drop my phone onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. The shiny black business card on the nightstand catches my eye, and I feel a surge of curiosity. I know next to nothing about Dameon Hayward. Yet, I know every inch of his decadent body, the sound he emits when aroused, the way he shuts his eyes in pleasure when he comes, and the earthy taste of his release on my tongue. Is that enough to trust him? Hell, no. But before I entangle myself with a stranger for a decade, I’m intrigued to hear what he has to say. I snatch up the card, type his number into my phone and send him a text.
Me
I’m happy to report I survived the attack of the canapé.
Dameon
Good to hear. Would hate for anything to mar that beautiful throat of yours, except, perhaps, for my cock.
I giggle at his swift reply. That dirty bastard. But I love it. I could continue this banter all day, but unfortunately, I have a Machiavellian stepfather breathing down my neck.
Me
So, Mr. Hayward. What’s your proposition?
Dameon
I have an offer for you. One you’ll find hard to refuse. And no, not in a “dead horse head in your bed” kind of way. Meet me for brunch in an hour at Lafayette.
I smile at hisGodfatherreference. It’s my all-time favorite movie—not that he would know that. But nevertheless, point one to Mr. Hayward. I “like” his message and jump into the shower.
An hour later, as I step out of the rideshare on to Lafayette Street, the enticing aroma of butter and pastries wafts through the air, making my mouth water. The NoHo brasserie is buzzing, but it’s not overwhelmingly noisy, just right for a conversation. Spotting Dameon near the back of the café, I make my way toward him. The thought of indulging in Lafayette’s lemon ricotta pancakes makes my stomach growl.
When Dameon catches sight of me, he devours my outfit from head to toe with an appreciative gaze. I’ve opted for a floral summer dress, paired with ballet flats, and left my hair loose, still drying at the ends after my shower. My makeup is non-existent—I wanted to keep my face clean and fresh. After all, this man has seen me naked more times than I can count, in all sorts of unflattering positions. Trying to impress him with contouring and styled hair seems unnecessary at this point.
Dameon is dressed casually in slouchy faded jeans that probably cost more than my entire outfit, a simple white T-shirt and sneakers. He looks sonormal, not like a multi-billionaire media tycoon. During the ride to Lafayette’s, I did a quick search on him and found numerous articles about Hayes & Hayward Media, including one particularly intriguing piece about a failed hostile takeover attempt by my stepfather’s company a few years ago. That explains their tense interaction last night.
“Hello, Mr. Hayward.” A genuine smile stretches across my lips.
“Hello, Ms. Mann.” He dips his head in greeting, and those dimples make an appearance. You’d think dimples would give him a boyish charm, but no. He’s all man, and those dimples are sexy as hell. He gestures to the seat across from him.
“Thank you,” I respond, pulling out the chair. “Three times in forty-eight hours, we’re going for a new record.” I wink.
“Indeed, we are. You look gorgeous, by the way, even better than last night. Although I must say, I prefer you naked.”
“Ah, I would have to agree with you there.” His striking eyes heat at my admission.
The waiter interrupts our conversation to take our order. Dameon briskly orders for both of us: lemon ricotta pancakes for me and the brisket burger for him, along with a selection of pastries to share. Point two to Mr. Hayward. I’m not fond of men ordering for me—not just because I find it chauvinistic, but because they never order enough, and what they do order is usually rabbit food. A light salad is not a meal.
“I’m on the edge of my seat,” I say when the waiter disappears. “What’s this offer that’s too good to refuse? NiceGodfatherreference, by the way. It’s a classic.”
“You’ve seen it?” he asks, mildly surprised. “Most of the women I date have never watched it.”
“Really? Then that was risky, mentioning a dead horse head. I might have thought you were a serial killer.”
