The last time I met Carter Trescott, he didn’t have tattoos. I saw him naked. And he had zero.
Now, he has many. They’re scattered all the way up his arm, designs disappearing under his clothes. I look away, afraid that I’m gonna start picturing him naked.
The problem with me is that I always seem to go for the bad ones. The hot, emotionally unavailable men who are always too in love with their looks.
“What kinda trouble are you in?” Carter asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe we can help.”
If he wants to pry into my life, he can do a Google search.
If he still uses the internet. I don’t see any computers here.
I take another sip of gin and wonder why Carter decided to sell his business. Lots of things aren’t adding up at the moment. It’s why I should probably get my ass out of here. Now.
Except, there’s no voice inside me telling me I need to do a runner.
I sip the gin again, each sip even more delicious than the last. The men in front of me are becoming harder to resist too.
“You should be proud of what you did up there,” Carter says suddenly.
Proud? Is he kidding? I was running around on stage half-naked like a woman possessed.
“What are you talking about?”
“Most women are too scared to fight when they realize what they walked into. Though, even if you had been fully clothed, your actions still wouldn’t have made a difference.”
I note the beer in Carter’s giant hands and wonder if his words are being influenced by alcohol. “I don’t understand.”
“Somebody still would’ve picked you.”
I toss him another questioning look.
“Beautiful women aren’t beautiful just because they’re half-naked. They’re beautiful period, no matter what they wear.”
The alcohol has definitely reached Carter’s head. Self-made millionaires like Carter Trescott don’t toss words around like “beautiful” for fun.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I know we barely know each other, but I had to get you out of there.”
His grave face says it all. Maybe Serena was only touching on the surface earlier when she was telling me about Conrad.
“What happens if you’re bought by an O’Neill?” I ask.
Skipper downs the rest of his drink. “It’s best not to talk about that.”
Carter lifts his eyebrows, a pensive look on his face. “How did you hear about the auction?”
“Conrad approached me in a parking lot.”
“And you…agreed to attend?”
Carter can continue looking at me like I’m brain-dead, but what other fucking choice did I have? He should be grateful that I’m doing this for his son.
The one he doesn’t even know exists.
