The Perfect Fit: A stand-alone why choose romance(13)

I shake my curls, watching as they fall over my shoulder. “Do I look okay?”

Jen comes up behind me and wrinkles her nose at my reflection in the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

Lips pressed together, she assesses my outfit. “You look cute.”

I glance down at my knee-high boots, skinny jeans, and tight turtleneck.

“You couldn’t be just a little more covered up though?” she says sarcastically.

“It’s cold out and it’s only dinner.”

She pulls a face in the mirror. “Yeah, right.”

“It is just dinner,” I insist, even as nervous excitement and trepidation curl in my gut. I glance at my overnight bag. The one I swore to myself that I wouldn’t take. But it’s just a precaution, right? It never hurts to be prepared. I can still leave after dinner if things get weird. “Do you think I’m crazy going to this thing? I mean, I don’t even know them.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Everybody knows them. They’re the three most powerful men in New York.”

“Exactly. They could sell me to a drug cartel or something and nobody would be able to prove anything because they’d buy everyone off.”

The spot between her brows pinches in a cute frown. “Why on earth would they sell you to a drug cartel?”

“Dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe that’s how they got so rich. Selling the unsuspecting women they invited for dinner.”

She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Pretty sure they got rich taking over failing companies.”

A pang of guilt gnaws at me. One of those companies is the one that’s about to give me my big break.

“Also pretty sure one of them just wants to fuck you,” Jen adds with a giggle.

I shake my head and look over my outfit one more time. Maybe I should change.

“You think the other two like to watch?” she asks, her wide eyes locked on mine in the mirror.

“Jen!”

She wraps her arm around my shoulder. “I’m playing with you, girl. And if they do harvest your organs or sell you off to some cartel, trust me when I say that no amount of money will buy me off. Pinkie swear.” She holds out her little finger, and I laugh. But I still can’t help wondering what the hell the Unholy Trinity wants with me.





Chapter

Eleven





LILY


Standing in the private elevator on my way to the penthouse apartment of the most expensive building in Manhattan, I can’t stop my legs from shaking. The interior is gold and glass and bigger than Jen’s living room. My knuckles turn white around the handle of my overnight bag.

What the hell am I going to talk about with the three richest men in the city? Which of the five boroughs has the best slices of pizza in the city? What series I’m binging on Netflix this week? There’s no way we have anything in common. Well, I guess there’s one thing—I’m currently working in the mail room of the Grayson News building, and they’re about to buy the company.

The elevator doors open to Xander leaning against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest. How the hell does this man make low-slung faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt look hotter than a bespoke suit?

“Hey there, shorty.” He steps forward, his hand held out for my bag. I reluctantly release it and take in my surroundings. The floors of the hallway are white marble, and the walls are a muted olive green. Simple but tasteful.

He nudges my arm. “Cat got your tongue, shorty?”

“I’m not short,” I retort. “I’m five-five. That’s like average height.”

Granted, he does tower over me, all six foot whatever of him, and I have to crane my neck to look into his eyes. He winks, and my ovaries explode with the memory of his kiss last night. I’m pretty sure he had his hands on my ass at some point. My face heats.

“Let me take your coat too. You look a little warm.” Grinning wickedly, he holds out his hand. I shrug out of my coat and pass it to him.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen and then put your things in the guest room.” He walks down the hallway and indicates I should too. I follow him and the mouthwatering scent of roasting meat into the kitchen.

Zeke is seated at the island looking at his cell phone while West stands over the stove.

“Our guest is here,” Xander announces, and they both look up.

“Lily,” West says with a hint of a smile. “Take a seat. Dinner won’t be long. Zeke will get you a drink. Use the end guest room, Fitch.” Then he turns back to the stove.

“Fitch?”

Xander rolls his eyes. “My nickname. Zeke came up with it. He used to call me Abercrombie, but it was a bit of a mouthful, hey big guy?”

Zeke scowls at him.

“Like Abercrombie and Fitch?” I ask.

Wearing a sheepish smile, Xander shrugs and nods.

A laugh bubbles out of me. That is the best nickname he could possibly have. “Because you look like a catalog model?”

“Apparently so,” he answers, then walks out of the kitchen carrying my bag.

Zeke slips off his stool. “Wine?”

“Um.” I tug at the sleeves of my sweater. “Can I have a soda?”

He frowns at me. “Soda?”