It’s the kind of smile that saystry me.
“You do now,” he says. “Walk away.”
The man mutters something under his breath and disappears into the crowd.
I’m still frozen.
Still stunned.
“You okay?” His voice slides over my skin—low, dark-roasted, with a hint of smoke curling at the edges. I catch the scent of warm cognac on his breath, and something subtler—like wet cedar after a thunderstorm.
I nod, blinking too fast. “Yeah. I think so. Thank you.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me.
Andthen that dangerous smile returns—softer now, but still sharp around the edges.
“I figured you looked like someone worth rescuing.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my whole body still tight with adrenaline and something else—something electric that hums beneath my skin in the space between his words and mine.
“Well,” I say, voice barely steady, “that’s... a dramatic thing to say to a stranger.”
He grins, unapologetic. “Masquerades are for drama. Masks, gowns, intrigue. You want boring, try a shareholder meeting.”
I huff a surprised laugh. “You sound like you’ve been to a few.”
“Unfortunately.” His eyes flick down, then back up, lingering in a way that makes my spine tingle. “But none this interesting.”
Oh.
Heat curls in my stomach like a lazy cat stretching into the sun. He’s still watching me—no,readingme. Like he knows I’m five seconds from combusting.
He shifts closer, just enough that I catch the scent of him again: smoke, something citrusy, something expensive. His cologne smells like a late-night secret. Like a dare.
“So?” he says, gaze catching on my mask. “What’s a girl like you doing at a party like this?”
I swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just figured...” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s playing detective and muse at the same time. “You don’t exactly look like the champagne and schmooze type.”
“You mean I don’t look rich?”
“I mean you look real.”
That throws me off balance. I blink, caught somewhere between flattered and flustered. “Well. That’s forward.”
He shrugs, utterly shameless. “I don’t like wasting time. Life’s short, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Jesus. My knees weaken on the spot.
“I’m actually a last-minute stand-in,” I admit, fingers tightening around the delicate stem of my champagne flute. “My friend Emily was supposed to be here, but she’s at home, very dramatically dying of the flu.”
The stranger raises an eyebrow, amused. “So you’re the understudy in heels?”
“Basically,” I mutter. “She begged me to go in her place. Said it was a ‘networking opportunity.’ I think she just wanted me to accidentally fall into a millionaire’s lap.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “And how’s that working out so far?”
