As the hot flush of embarrassment sets in that Yes, I just took out a random stranger accidentally-on-purpose, I remember my original mission and mentally throw up my hands, deciding I may as well go all in—then upend my purse, sending stray pens, napkins, makeup, and assorted debris raining down upon us. From my prone position, I watch one of my lipsticks disappear underneath a nearby table and want to die. The things I do for a story.
“I am so sorry,” I say, rolling off the poor guy, noting that—thankfully—he appears more amused than angry. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt? I’m so embarrassed,” I babble, quickly swiping a tampon that’s wedged underneath his shoe and stuffing it back in my purse.
He chuckles good-naturedly. “I’m just fine. Are you okay? That was quite a spill,” he says, passing me the travel-sized deodorant I carry in case of sweat-mergency. From the corner of my eye I spot Natalia watching from the bar, her entire body shaking with laughter. She is dead to me.
“I’m okay. And I really am sorry.” I frantically collect the stray hair ties, hand sanitizer, dental floss, Imodium tablets, Tic Tacs, and egg-shaped lip balms littering the floor while pretending not to notice the gaping stares of onlookers. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Must be my lucky day, then.”
I snap my head up to find him grinning at me. Flirtatiously.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me. There is no way this asinine stunt actually worked.
“I’m Chase.” He holds a hand out to help me up.
“Cassidy,” I reply, standing and brushing off my pants. It’s a damn miracle I didn’t break an ankle in these heels.
He points to the keys I’m clutching in my hand, a bright yellow banana charm dangling from the key ring. “Interesting key chain.”
I wave a hand. “Long story. An inside joke, really.”
“How about I get you a drink and you can tell me all about it?” He flashes me another grin, eyes twinkling.
Unbelievable. Gran will be peacocking all over the place when I tell her.
“I don’t usually drink at work events,” I start to demur, then change my mind. “Actually, I think I’ve earned it, right?” Honestly, I probably should’ve downed a couple shots before committing to this harebrained scheme.
“You’ve more than earned it,” he assures me. “Pick your poison.”
“Anything—whatever they’re serving. Beer, wine . . .” 100-proof moonshine.
He tells me he’ll be right back, and once he’s out of eyeshot I glare at Natalia, who gives me a shit-eating grin and a thumbs-up. I roll my eyes and busy myself reorganizing my purse, doing my best to tamp down the lingering feelings of humiliation . . . that is, until I get the distinct feeling I’m being watched.
I scan the room casually, surveying the crowd, which has grown thicker now. Several men in my immediate vicinity send me pitying looks, and I wince theatrically so they know I’m in on the joke. It’s not until my eyes sweep past a shadowy corner that I spot him: a tall, dark-haired man watching me with interest, head cocked to one side, a bemused expression on his face.
When we lock eyes I expect him to look away, but he surprises me again by meeting my gaze head-on. A brazen challenge. My heartbeat ticks up as I take him in, registering several things at once: his barely concealed smirk as he swirls a glass of amber liquid in his hand; the air of brash confidence he’s wearing as comfortably as his midnight-blue suit; his brutal good looks, the kind that feel dangerous.
I fold first, breaking eye contact and feigning preoccupation with my bag, hoping that by the time I look up again he’ll have trained that unnerving stare elsewhere. But I must have a sixth sense, because when I furtively flick my eyes back up to check, the mystery man has cut the distance between us in half and is headed straight for me with the cool, unhurried stride of a stalking predator. It’s the kind of stride that says I own the place, or maybe No one tells me no. He’s sauntering, really.
The second surge of adrenaline in as many minutes courses through my veins as he stops before me and pins me under his gaze. “What the hell was that?”
Chapter 3
I’m sorry?”
“What. The hell. Was that?” He enunciates each word slowly, accusation thick in every syllable.
I feel my face heat, like a light bulb burning brighter and brighter until it shatters. “What was what?”
“That Three Stooges pratfall I just witnessed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to pick his pocket.”
“Excuse me? I fell,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster—which, at the moment, isn’t much.
“You fell, or”—he leans in and drops his voice—“you were trying to pick him up?” He arches an eyebrow knowingly.
I cross my arms and take a moment to study this cocky stranger （who’s a little too observant for his own good）。 His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he attempted to style it but gave up when it refused to behave. His strong jaw is clean-shaven and jutted out slightly in practiced defiance. He’s what the Regency romances I sometimes read would describe as “broad of shoulder,” leanly muscled and tanned in a way that tells me he spends more time running outdoors than on a treadmill. He’s standing close enough that I have to look up at him, and I get the distinct feeling he enjoys that power dynamic.
He has an honest face, but under the surface there’s an unpredictability to him that has me on edge. He’s like Jamie Dornan in every frame of those Fifty Shades movies—he prowls around with calculated restraint, but you just know at any moment he’s going to snap and bend Anastasia over a table.
I match his conspiratorial tone, deciding my best course of action is to play along. “You got me. Throwing myself at him was the easiest way to get his attention.”
I smirk at my own cleverness. They say the key to pulling off a convincing lie is to keep it simple. What’s more believable than the truth?
He catches my eye and holds it. “Trust me, you don’t need to try so hard.”
I blink in surprise—and Chase chooses precisely that moment to reappear, a wineglass cradled in each hand. But before he can hand me one, my new companion intercepts it and passes it to me himself.
“Thanks for grabbing that for her,” he says smoothly, reaching a hand out to a clearly confused Chase. “I’m Jack.”
“Chase,” he answers slowly, casting me a quizzical look as he accepts Jack’s proffered handshake. I’m no help—I’m a deer in the headlights. “Are you two—”
“So what is it you do, Chase?” Jack cuts him off and takes a small step closer to me, wordlessly establishing dominance and staking his claim so shamelessly that I’m left speechless. Who is this guy?
Chase slides his eyes from Jack to me and back again. “Uh . . . I’m in investment banking. The retail and consumer side.” I would laugh at how accurately I pegged Chase but for the fact that I’m still openly gawking at Jack.
“No kidding?” Jack jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I was just chatting with a friend of mine, you might know him. Neil Waltham?”