Better than staying here.
I change out of my work clothes and into jeans and an oversized hoodie. Comfortable, forgettable clothes. I pull my hair into a messy bun and don’t even check myself out in the mirror. I’m past caring how I look.
The bar is on the main floor, tucked off the lobby with dim lighting and a sophisticated vibe that plays off the shiny surfaces, velvet stools, and shelves of expensive liquor backlit in amber. A handful of people are scattered around. A couple in the corner booth, a lone businessman nursing a stiff drink at a table, two women laughing over martinis near the windows.
I claim a stool at the far end of the bar, away from everyone else.
The bartender wanders over. “What can I get you?”
“A Coke, please.”
If he finds it weird that I’m ordering soda at a fancy bar, he doesn’t show it. He nods and fills a glass with ice, adding Coke from the gun, and finishing it with a black straw and a lemon twist. He slides it across to me over a black napkin.
“Thanks.”
I wrap my hands around the cold glass and stare in the mirror behind the bar, watching the other patrons in the reflection. Not really seeing them, but existing in this space that isn’t my empty room.
Footsteps approach the bar, confident and unhurried. A blur of black leather passes behind me in the mirror.
The newcomer drops a black motorcycle helmet on the counter and sits a few stools over. His deep voice echoes to my left. “Macallan, neat.”
I roll my eyes at the order of the most expensive whiskey in the house. An asshole flex if I’ve ever heard one.
The bartender pours the drink—two fingers of amber liquid in a crystal tumbler—and sets it down at the other end of the bar.
I sip my Coke and ignore the new arrival.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t return the favor.
He keeps glancing over, never sitting still long enough to be overlooked—tapping his glass, tilting his head, watching me through the reflection in the mirror, then masking the look with a sip, like I wouldn’t notice. Is he trying to get my attention? Why? I hope his plan is not to hit on me because I’m not in the mood.
My patience burns out. I set my drink down and turn to face him, ready to tell him to fuck off.
Then I see his face, and the words die in my throat.
He’s… striking. That’s the only word for it. Tall—at least as tall as Ryder—with sharp, aristocratic features that belong on a painting. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. Full lips that somehow look cruel.
His hair is short, black, and falls across his forehead stylishly disheveled despite just being flattened under a helmet.
He’s wearing riding leathers, practical but expensive-looking. The jacket hangs open over a white T-shirt that clings to a lean, athletic torso.
And his eyes are gunmetal gray. The color of storm clouds. Captivating, not for their shade but for the focus behind them, how controlled, deliberate, remarkable his gaze is.
He’s unfairly handsome for an asshole.
I recover fast from the shock of his beauty. I couldn’t care less how hot he is.
“Is there a particular reason you’ve been staring?” I ask, voice flat.
His mouth curves into a smirk, slow and maddeningly confident.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up his whiskey and takes a sip, his gaze never leaving mine as if he’s savoring the moment. The power I gave him by speaking first.
When he lowers the glass, he shrugs one shoulder.
“I was simply wondering,” he says, his voice smooth and cultured, laced with a hint of amusement, “what Whitney Rose is doing at my hotel.”
He knows who I am. How? But my mind snags on a different detail first.
