"What kind of problems?"
"The kind people would rather not have." His smile is sharp, almost dangerous. "But we're not here to talk about work."
"No?"
"No." He shifts closer, and I'm suddenly very aware of how tall he is, how he seems to take up all the space around me. "We're here to forget about work. Forget about obligations. Forget about everything that made tonight terrible."
My heart is beating faster. I'm not naive—I know exactly what this is, what he's suggesting. "And how do you suggest we do that?"
"I have some ideas."
The air between us shifts. It's not subtle. One moment we're two strangers having a drink, and the next there's heat, tension, something that makes my skin feel too tight.
"I don't do this," I hear myself say.
"Do what?"
"This. Whatever this is." I gesture vaguely between us. "I don't go home with strangers."
"Neither do I." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, woody with hints of sage. It reminds me of old libraries and leather-bound books. "But tonight, I think we're both looking for the same thing."
"And what's that?"
"An escape."
He's right. God help me, he's right. I'm exhausted. I'mscared about Gabe and the loan sharks and the ticking clock on his life. I'm humiliated about tonight, about being dismissed and patronized and made to feel small. I'm drowning in a life that feels like it's actively trying to destroy me.
And this man—this beautiful, dangerous stranger—is offering me a way out. Just for tonight.
"Okay," I whisper.
His eyes darken. "Okay?"
"Okay."
He sets down his glass and extends his hand. I take it.
His hand is warm, strong. It engulfs mine completely.
We leave the ballroom without a word. The hotel lobby is quieter, all marble and soft lighting and the muted sounds of late-night Manhattan. Adrian leads me to an elevator at the far end, away from the main banks. This one has a keycard reader.
He swipes a card and the doors open.
"You have a room here?" I ask as we step inside.
"Something like that."
The elevator rises smoothly. I watch the numbers climb—past the guest floors, past what should be the top floor, higher than seems possible.
"Where are we going?"
"The penthouse."
Of course. The penthouse makes sense because this man isn't just wealthy—he's obscenely rich. For once in my life, I don't question anything. I just dive headfirst into bad decisions.
The elevator opens directly into an apartment, and my breath catches.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. Modern furniture in blacks and grays, all clean lines and expensive materials. Everything sleek and impersonal, like a magazine spread or a very expensive hotel suite.
