by Piper Rayne
Feeling whiplashed, I flinch back a few inches. “Wait. What?”
“Unless you were just flirting with me to distract me from a very late performance by your friend?” he challenges. The bastard has me exactly where he wants.
He leans a little closer, his whiskey-laced breath fanning across my cheeks and scattering my thoughts like leaves in a windstorm.
A date?
“You’re serious?” I ask.
“Like the plague.”
“But…why?”
“You’ve intrigued me, Sammie Norris. And I haven’t felt intrigued in a long time. Unless you admit that your flirting was all a rouse and you aren’t interested…”
I lick my lips but don’t pull my arm away from his warm grasp. If anything, I lean closer.
That same arrogant grin shines back at me before he murmurs, “When do you get off work?”
“I, uh, I’m not sure.”
“I need to have a little chat with Gibson. I’ll be back in ten. Don’t go anywhere.”
He lets me go, and I’m left reeling.
And to think I wasn’t going to come to work tonight…
Chapter Two
My palms are sweaty, my heart is racing, and every single sense of mine is hyperfocused on the back hall where Hawthorne disappeared a few minutes ago.
What is wrong with me?
How can a ten-minute conversation with a person evoke such a strong physical response, let alone the emotional rollercoaster I’m on? I don’t act this way. I don’t get flustered. I don’t get hung up on guys. It just isn’t me.
So, why am I anxious to see him walk back in here and fulfill his promise to take me out?
Drying a cup with a white towel, my attention darts over to the back hall again.
“You okay, there?” Ashton, my manager slash cousin asks.
Nearly dropping the small cup, I clutch my chest and turn to him. “Oh. Hey.”
“Hey,” he returns. “You doing okay?”
“Yup.”
“You sure?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Ashton, I’m just dandy, thank you very much. Although, now that you mention it, how generous are you feeling tonight?”
“Are you wanting to take off early for another exam?”
“Maaaaybe?” I lie. I should be asking to get off work so I can study tonight, but going on a date with Silver Fox sounds like a hell of a lot more fun.
“Fine, I’ll have Gibson cover for you––”
“Oh.” I cringe. “You don’t have to do that––”
“We got this. When do you want to leave?”
“Um…” My voice trails off as a certain silver fox rounds the corner from the back hall. “Maybe in fifteen minutes or so? I need to close out a few tabs, but then I’ll be ready.”
“Sounds good. The sooner you get your degree, the better.”
Again, I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. The fate of SeaBird depends on it. You’re starting to sound like my dad.”
“That’s ‘cause Chuck’s a genius who built this business from the ground up and wants to have someone to pass it down to when he retires,” he reminds me before one of the bouncers waves at him from the front. “Look, I gotta go, but head out whenever you’re ready. I’ll chat with Gibbs as soon as I take care of this and fill him in.”
“Thanks, Ash. I owe you one.”
“You owe me a hundred,” he calls over his shoulder as he saunters away.
“Should I be jealous?” a deep, familiar voice questions from my right.
I turn back to Hawthorne in all his gorgeous glory.
“Of my cousin?” I ask. “Hardly.”
Scratching his jaw, he gives me an amused smile. “Are you ready to go?”
My attention flashes from Ashton back to Hawthorne. “You go first. I’ll meet you at the back door.”
His brows furrow. “Something else to hide, Sam?”
“Not sure it would look very good for me to walk out with a customer when I told my cousin that I had to go home and study for a test.”
“You’re still in school?”
“Getting my master’s in business so I can take over this place once my dad retires. Why?”
With a new sense of appreciation, he looks around my family’s pride and joy and tosses a couple of fifties onto the counter.
“Hawthorne, I said I was buying––”
He grabs my wrist to stop me from shoving the bills back at him and steps closer until the heat radiating from him brands me from head to toe.
Then he drops his voice low so only I can hear. “While I’m all for feminism and shit, when I’m interested in a girl, I treat her like a princess, and that includes paying for everything when we’re together. We clear?”
“I’m not a princess,” I argue.
“And I’m no Prince Charming, but this isn’t up for debate.” He lets my wrist go, and it falls limply at my side. “I’ll meet you out back.”
He leaves, and I’m left gaping at the man who’s completely thrown my evening off-kilter, yet I’m too intrigued to put him in his place.
Biting my lower lip, I watch him exit through the front, tugging at the lapel of his soft gray suit before disappearing from sight.
I count to ten and head to the breakroom, trying to keep my steps steady when my heart is racing a million beats per minute. Once I’ve gathered my purse from my locker, I head out the backdoor and find a very suave, very sexy man leaning against the brick wall.
“Fancy seeing you again,” I quip.
He dips his chin. “Hey, Princess.”
“That nickname isn’t sticking.”
“It is for the night.”
For the night.
The words act like a wet blanket, though I have no idea why. A one-night stand is exactly what I was looking for. The idea of anything else usually gives me hives, but for some reason, hearing him say it out loud feels…off-putting.
I shake it off and fold my arms as the cool night seeps into my bones. It isn’t cold by any means, but in a tank top and cut-off shorts, it’s a little chilly.
“So… Shall we?” I ask.
He slips off his designer jacket and hangs it over my shoulders. The scents of orange and sandalwood envelope me, nearly knocking me on my ass all over again.
How can he smell so damn good?
“Thanks,” I murmur, peeking up at him.
“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and puts some space between us again. “Do you want to take my car, or should we take yours since you’re supposed to be studying?”
“I actually live on the top floor of this building, so I don’t exactly have to drive to work.”
“Ah.” He nods his understanding. “Got it. Follow me.”
He tangles his fingers with mine and leads me across the parking lot to my freaking dream car––a 1967 Shelby GT 500.
My mouth gapes. “I-is this your car?”
Head cocked, he answers, “Yes?”
“How?”
He laughs. “I like to drive.”
“Well, yeah. When it’s a beauty like this, I don’t blame you. Hello, Eleanor,” I purr, running my hand along the charcoal gray curves of the gorgeous vehicle.
“Pardon?”
“It’s from Gone in Sixty Seconds. My dad’s favorite movie. There’s a car––”
“Named Eleanor,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. I know. It’s why I bought her. You’ve seen that movie?”
“What? You think I’m too young for that one, Cradle Robber?” I tease.
He opens the passenger door for me and helps me inside. “Oh, so now, I’m Cradle Robber?”
“Only if I’m Princess. How old are you, anyway?”
“Younger than you’d probably think.”
My gaze flicks toward the white streaks in his slicked-back hair.
“It’s called Poliosis,” he explains, reading my mind. “I quit dying it by the time I reached middle school.”
“Oh.” My fingers itch to reach out
and touch it, but I restrain myself. It’s kind of sexy. Sophisticated, almost. And it only makes me like him more. “You still didn’t answer my question, though.”
“About my age?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m thirty-eight, Sam.”
Thirty-eight? I can do thirty-eight.
“Is that a problem?” he challenges.
“Not at all,” I answer vaguely.
With a dark chuckle, he leans over me and buckles my seatbelt, his hand softly grazing between my breasts as he stretches the nylon strap around me. That same familiar scent hits me at full force, making my mouth water before his low voice vibrates next to my ear. “Does that still make me a cradle robber?”
His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t give me the much-needed space to breathe. To think clearly. To not kiss the crap out of him when he’s this close and is looking at me like he could devour me whole.
I lick my lips, then shake my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.” The sound vibrates up my throat in the otherwise silent car, acting like a siren if the heat in his eyes is anything to go by. He steps back and closes the door quietly. Like he didn’t just rock my world with a single heated look. A simple touch. A decadent scent that’s already tattooed itself in my mind. Oh, that smell. It’s like an aphrodisiac all on its own. Lifting my shoulder that’s still shrouded in his suit jacket, I sniff softly.
I’m in so much trouble.
My heart pounds against my ribcage as he rounds the front of the car before slipping behind the wheel with a finesse that’s damn near hypnotizing. He squeezes the steering wheel, making the veins in his hands and upper wrists pop as he backs out of the parking spot.
I gulp.
“So, tell me. What’s wrong with being a princess?” he asks.
“I dunno? I guess it makes me feel like a damsel in distress or something. What’s wrong with being a cradle robber?”
“Because it makes me feel like I’m way too old for you when I’m hoping I’m not.” He gives me the side-eye. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-six. I know, I know. It makes me feel like a grandma, going to school and hanging out with a bunch of twenty-year-olds. But my mom got sick during my freshman year, and I put my schooling on hold to help take care of her. And once she was officially cancer-free again a couple of years later, I was able to go back to school.”
“So you can take over SeaBird,” he surmises.
“Exactly. And what do you do, mister No-First-Name Music Man?”
His mouth quirks up on one side. “A little bit of everything.”
“That’s not vague at all.”
He laughs. “Let’s just say that I’m a good judge of character.”
“Because that’s less vague,” I tease, loving our banter way more than I should.
Another laugh slips out of him. ”All right, Smarty Pants, this is what I do. I find and assess diamonds in the rough.”
“Like Aladdin?”
He rolls his eyes. “Sure. Like Aladdin. I help get them in touch with the people who can take them to the next level. Sometimes, that means scouting an up-and-coming band before hooking them up with an opportunity to tour with someone who could share the same audience. Sometimes, that means stumbling upon raw, untapped talent and setting them up with a manager who can get the ball rolling. And sometimes, that means salvaging said talented individuals by covering up an incident that could lead to bad PR. It just depends on the day.”
“Sounds like you’re a jack-of-all-trades. Is that why you were hesitant to work with Broken Vows?”
Giving me the side-eye, he asks, “Am I talking to the bartender I’m interested in sleeping with tonight or the sleuth that was sent to distract me and is digging for information?”
His casualness makes me blush as I untuck my hair to cover my cheeks before staring out the passenger window like the winding road is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.
“The, uh, the first one,” I mutter.
“Then, yes,” he returns. I can still hear his amusement. The slight lilt of his voice. The husky undertone as if he’s holding back another laugh. My insides tighten.
“That’s why I won’t be working with Broken Vows,” he continues.
“Wait, you’ve already decided?”
“The lead singer fucked up tonight––”
“Aren’t we all allowed to make mistakes?”
“Is it the first one he’s ever made?” he challenges.
“Well…no, but––”
“I have a reputation, Sammie. I work with people who are serious about their craft, and they should be rewarded for it. I’m not saying Broken Vows isn’t talented, but there are enough diamonds in the rough who take their shit seriously that I don’t need to waste my time on a ticking time bomb.”
I jerk back with pinched brows. “But they’re not a ticking time bomb, and they do take their music seriously.”
“It’s not enough for the majority of them to take it seriously, Princess. That’s my point. What happens when the lead singer––”
“Fen,” I clarify for him.
“What happens when Fen doesn’t show up to a performance? It doesn’t just look bad for him. Hell, it doesn’t just look bad for the entire band. It looks bad for me, too, if I’m the one who recommends them for a gig. I can’t let that happen.”
Annoyed, I fold my arms and rest my head against the passenger window.
He sighs, his tone softening as a glimpse of the non-cutthroat Hawthorne decides to make an appearance. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”
Glancing over at him, I take a deep breath and shrug one shoulder. “I guess I like cheering for the underdog. Besides, they’re practically family. Broken Vows has been performing at SeaBird for almost two years now. And they rock it every time. The idea of them missing out on this huge opportunity sucks.”
He nods. “It does.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything you can do?”
His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel before he tears his gaze from mine and mutters, “Are you hungry?”
“Gee, subtle subject change, Cradle Robber.”
With a smirk, he asks, “Never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Like I said, not if Princess is on the table. And yes, I’m hungry,” I admit. “Do you like tacos?”
“What’s wrong with Princess? What’s wrong with someone wanting to take care of you or treat you like royalty? Even if it’s just for one night,” he clarifies. “And yes, I like tacos.”
“Perfect. Turn right at the light. Burrito Bandito will be on the left. Their tacos are to die for. And nothing is wrong with someone taking care of someone else or being treated like royalty. I guess my dad taught me to be a strong, independent woman.”
Flicking on his blinker, he follows my directions before asking, “And being worshipped and cared for takes away your independence?”
I shrug. “I dunno? Maybe? I guess I’ve never thought of it that way. And since when does one worship a princess?”
“Hmm,” he hums. “Would you prefer Goddess?”
“I would prefer Sammie,” I quip.
He shakes his head, his mouth curled with amusement. “Nah, I don’t think so.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’m getting under your skin.”
“And you like getting under people’s skin?” I challenge.
He grins. “Just yours. But it’s a moot point, anyway.”
“Oh really? Why’s that?”
“Because I think you’re taking out your frustration on me when the real villains are all the boys you’ve wasted your time with that've been doing it wrong.”
“Doing what wrong?”
“Worshipping you. Taking care of you. Making you feel like royalty without taking your independence.”
I purse my lips, trying to rein in the butterflies assaulting my stomach, but i
t’s no use. They’re in full-blown attack mode, and I’m seconds from swooning. What girl doesn’t want to be worshipped? To be shown what it’s like to be appreciated, both physically and emotionally. And he’s right. I’ve never bothered to give any guy the time of day because I thought that if I did, I’d be giving up my independence.
However, with how Hawthorne is putting it, it sounds like it can be the opposite. But only when you’re with the right guy, and I’m afraid I haven’t met him yet. Or at least, not before tonight.
When I realize he’s still waiting for my reply, I shrug and lie, “Meh. I get by.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re a resourceful little princess, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question.
“I guess you could say that. Tell me, do you call all your one-night stands Princess?”
“Only if they fit the bill.”
“Oh.”
Ouch.
I turn toward the side window, praying he can’t see my frown or feel my jealousy that’s simmering just beneath the surface. I shouldn’t care. I barely know this guy. And I’ve never been the jealous type. But the idea of someone else being his princess for the night?
It kinda stings.
“But,” he adds, “I’ve yet to meet someone who’s fit the bill before tonight.”
“Oh,” I repeat, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Swoon.
I glance back at him. “So…how long are you planning on sticking around?”
“I guess it depends on how tonight goes.”
“I thought this was a one-night-only gig?”
“I thought so, too, but like I said, you’ve intrigued me, Princess, and I’m not one to let diamonds in the rough stay buried.”
“Always was a sucker for Aladdin,” I remind him.
“Was it the dark hair, olive skin, and snarky attitude?” he quips, bouncing his eyebrows up and down.
Tilting my head to one side, I check off each proverbial box in my head as I shamelessly scan him from head to toe. Dark hair–albeit salted with white streaks. Check. Olive skin. Check. And snarky attitude? Double-check. All of these traits combined with his icy blue eyes? Jasmine wouldn’t know what hit her.
“Apparently,” I admit after a few seconds. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“I was raised here, but my father’s mother is from Greece, which is where I’m told I get the tan skin from, and my mother’s from Bulgaria, hence my first name being…” His voice trails off before he flicks on his blinker and checks his blind spot even though the roads are empty at this time of night.