Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
You don’t even know me.
I know enough, he says.
Do you? I want to ask. Do you know that I’m not the kind of woman who does casual dating? Do you know that I’ve spent the last year convincing myself that I don’t need romance to be happy? That I can be fine on my own?
But the same reckless voice that urged me into that fantasy now whispers, Say yes.
Maybe it’s the loneliness talking. Maybe it’s the undeniable curiosity of what kind of man has the confidence to ask out a complete stranger and actually make her want to say yes.
Whatever it is, it has me typing out a response before I can talk myself out of it.
Fine. One date. But if you turn out to be a weirdo, I’ll be the one leaving in the middle of dinner.
I promise you won’t have any reason to.
The certainty in his words makes my stomach somersault.
Tomorrow night. Seven. I’ll send you the location, he types.
So bossy.
You’ll like that about me.
And just like that, I have a date with a stranger whose texts have my body reacting in ways it shouldn’t. A date with a man I know nothing about. But for the first time in ages, I’m not dreading putting myself out there. I feel excited.
2
SERGEI
The city feels unusually quiet tonight. Most nights, silence doesn’t exist for me. There are always voices in my ear yammering on about business, security updates, or men confirming orders, deliveries, and even potential threats. I’ve learned to live with the noise and to thrive on it, even. A night this quiet is so rare it’s almost unsettling. Still, it proves I’ve trained my men well enough to handle crises without me.
Tonight, the only sound is the soft clink of ice in my whiskey. My phone sits face-up on the table next to me, also silent. My penthouse is dark except for the low glow of the city skyline filtering through the windows. Shadows stretch across the hardwood floors, creeping toward me, but I don’t turn on the lights.
I don’t need them.
The whiskey burns as I take another slow sip, my mind razor-sharp despite the hour. There are a dozen things I could be handling, but I’ve been in the business long enough to know when to step back. Now is the time to let things simmer and trust the groundwork I’ve laid will pay off.
I consider something mindless—flipping on the TV and zoning out to some inane late-night drama—when my phone buzzes. My eyes flick toward the phone, a slow pulse of dread already curling in my gut. My men call more than they text. It could be Mom needing something downstairs. She would use the penthouse intercom, though.
I lift the phone, the screen lighting my face, and frown at the message.
I stare at the screen, trying to make sense of the words. Then I read it again. I read it three times, in fact. Plenty of people might call me an asshole, but I sure as hell didn’t ditch anyone at dinner.
I don’t recognize the number. The area code is local, but that means nothing to me. What the fuck is this? I start to set the phone down, about to ignore it, but something stops me.
Whoever it is—probably a woman—sounds angry and hurt. She clearly has no problem speaking her mind, and that intrigues me. Despite myself, I’m curious to know more about this person calling me an asshole.
I hesitate all of three seconds before my thumbs fly across the keyboard.
I suddenly want to know more about her. Maybe it’s boredom or the eerie quiet of the night. Still, I spend the next hour sucked into her world, wishing I could see her. I even send a couple of photos for encouragement, but she keeps things playful. I don’t even get her name.
Yet, I’m drawn to her in a way I don’t fully understand.
I lock down a date for tomorrow night before the moment cools. I imagine I tortured her well over text. I had a feeling she would enjoy my teasing much more in person. I wanted to hear that filthy mouth screaming my name.
The next evening I sit in the farthest corner of an overpriced restaurant with my back to the wall, whiskey in hand, and eyes trained on the entrance. I’m waiting for this mystery woman with no idea what to expect.
She texted to confirm she wouldn’t stand me up and said she’d be wearing red.
She’s late. Not by much, but enough to tell me she’s not rushing to impress me. Another point in her favor.
Then I see a woman in a red dress walk in. And fuck me, I wasn’t prepared for this. She’s petite, yet nothing about her is fragile. She walks in like she owns the place, exuding an easy confidence. She’s commanding in her aura, something her texts hinted at last night.