5

Anger and fear fight inside me. “Who’s the guy?”

“Better you don’t know yet. You’ll meet him soon enough.” He grins, cocky as always. “Relax.”

He playfully dangles the envelope in front of me, only to click his tongue and yank it back, like the dick that he is. “Oh, and Lexi?”

I grit my teeth. “What?”

“Try not to look like someone ran over your dog. He’s gotta want to fuck you. Get dolled up for your date, Cinderella. Clock’s ticking.”

I can’t help but snarl as I fling the door open. “Guess I missed the part in Cinderella where she swipes the prince’s Benz.”

Deano cracks up like we’re suddenly best buddies. But before I can bail, his hand clamps my wrist in an iron vise.

“You should be thanking me.” He winks. “I’m basically your knight in shining armor here.”

Yeah, right.

I’m way out of my depth here. But it’s not like I have a ton of options.

Guess I’d better go get prettied up for my hot date tonight.

Just my luck that there’s no fairy godmother in this twisted tale waiting to pamper and prep me.

Nope, it’s all on me, as always.

THREE

Lexi

The air in this upscale hotel bar is so thick with money and ego, I half expect my next exhale to come out as Chanel No. 5.

This, right here, is the scent of “making it.”

A world away from my reality of unpaid bills, leaky roofs, a toilet that belts out sea shanties, and upstairs neighbors who think my ceiling is a trampoline.

I can’t even recall the last time I was in a joint like this just for kicks. It’s always work-related, schmoozing clients.

But tonight’s different. Tonight, I get the grand honor of feeling wildly out of my league among the Gucci crowd, while becoming an unwitting accessory to grand theft auto.

Girl can’t catch a fucking break.

I fidget with my straw, stirring desperately for courage that won’t come. My legs uncross-recross-uncross as I scope the room. At this rate the bartender probably thinks I have a raging UTI.

My gaze lands on a guy in a velvet vest. Clearly on a date, yet he has the audacity to throw a wink my way, the filthy bastard. Is it him?

Oh god, I can’t do this. I’ve been here half an hour, eyeing every dude that walks in. Deano said he’ll text when the “target” arrives, and that I should expect him here by nine. I’ve never dreaded a text more. I’m seconds from revisiting that sad noodle salad I choked down earlier.

I adjust the thin strap on my shoulder, cursing the AC blasting my nips. My ancient black satin dress from Target screams cheap against these designer labels. I’m a planner by nature but Deano only gave me thirty minutes to get ready. So here I am, my only strategy being plunging necklines and nipples on full alert.

Because men are programmed to ogle boobs, thanks to some kind of breast voodoo from feeding that forever hooks them through the eyeballs. Vallure PR exploits that weakness constantly—cleavage here, artful sideboob there. Hence my painted-on Little Black Nothing tonight.

Grace nearly choked on her cheesy bites when I strutted out, feeding her some emergency work meeting bullshit for a new client.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Ever since I got roped into this madness, normal breathing’s been a luxury.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the bar mirror. I’ve got the whole femme fatale look down—smoky eyes, bold red lips, my dark hair loose and lightly curled, dress clinging like my dignity. But it’s only an illusion masking the panicked little girl inside.

I’m not a bad person, I swear. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal. That’s not me.

I’m trying to convince myself that maybe the target’s a grade-A jerk who had it coming. That’ll make it easier, right?

To anyone here, I’m just another gal nursing a drink, either because my date’s a no-show or I’m unfashionably punctual.

But they don’t know about the pair of eyes tracking me from across the lounge. Deano, the Don Corleone wannabe. I feel his gaze like it’s licking my spine, sending horrific shivers up and down.

Tick tock.

I can’t hear the diamond-encrusted clock on the wall, but I swear it’s ticking in sync with my pounding heartbeat. How many times have I snapped my head around to check it, then the door, then back at my drink? A zillion. I must look deranged.

That minute hand just keeps moving, relentless. Deano’s mark is late. Apparently, I have sixty minutes once he shows up. Deano seems to have a lot of misplaced faith in my powers of seduction. This entire plan is ludicrous.

I shift uncomfortably on my stool. The bartender catches my eye, lifting a brow. “Another round?”

“I’m good, thanks!” I chirp, taking another tiny sip.

He eyes me a bit too long, especially around the chest area. “Just holler if you change your mind . . .”

Oh, I will, right after I win the lottery. Or get out of prison.

Is anyone else here feeling this crushing weight? I’m surrounded by rich people, all fancy and carefree, clinking glasses to the sound of jazz. And here I am, drowning in anxiety, screaming like a banshee yet somehow producing no sound.

Tick tock. The guy’s a no-show. Thanks for nothing, clock.

That pesky strap slips off my shoulder and I fix it quickly. But not before some lecherous old man ogles me with a sleazy grin.

Jesus, is this our guy? Still no text from Deano.

A wardrobe malfunction witnessed by Grandpa Perv is the last thing I need. I sneak another peek back, praying I imagined it.

But nope—there he still is, eye-fucking me hard. A relic easily pushing seventy. Seriously? Men need to stop guzzling the lies about improving with age.

With equal parts horror and depraved fascination, I’m unable to look away as he locks eyes and fellates that olive in the most vulgar display imaginable.

Well, that’s an image seared into my brain forever.

I avert my gaze, trying to compose myself. I’m not sure if I want Olivesucker to be the guy.

Tick. Fucking. Tock.

To my right, a couple is deep in a heated debate about whether to buy or lease a beach house in the Hamptons. Must be nice to have those kinds of problems. I stifle an eye roll and sip my drink. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m an inverted snob.

From behind me, a girl half whispers, half squeals, “Oh my god, guess who just showed up? I knew he’d come.”

My heart skips, but I don’t dare turn around. Still no word from Deano.

“Are you serious?” her friend breathes. “Okay, here’s the plan—we’ll create a ‘spontaneous’ run-in where I fake trip and land face-first on his crotch as an icebreaker.”

Giggles dissolve behind me as I casually scope out the bar, my radar on full alert.

Fucking hell, it’s Connor Quinn across the bar. The youngest of those notorious Quinn brothers. Supposedly one of the richest men in the country, with so many hotels the Trade Commission is investigating monopoly practices.

Damn, what a face. I’m temporarily distracted from my horrific plan.

That jawline, rough with just the right amount of stubble; chiseled cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that could make even the toughest women swoon—check, check, check.

You just know he devours girls like me for breakfast, then wipes his mouth and goes back for seconds and thirds with a cocky smirk.

He prowls through like he owns the place. Which he does. Wearing faded jeans and a tight tee clinging to his muscular physique, he stands out from the tailored suits. Guess when you own the place you can break the rules.

I know his type—the kind of dangerous temptation all moms warn their daughters about, while secretly fantasizing themselves. Except my mom, who’d probably be waving her hands in the air and shouting “Hey, mister!” until she got his attention like a crazy lady.

But now’s not really the time for eye-banging.

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

I swivel and recoil. Fucking hell, it’s that decrepit olive-sucking letch from before, now hovering uncomfortably close, bleary eyes fixed squarely chest-level.

“Can I help you?” I ask coldly, angling away and attempting telepathic extermination.

“You look familiar. Have we met?” His hand lands on my arm.

I jerk back. “You probably knew my great-great-grandma before she died. People say we looked alike.”

That one lands a solid punch to his ego.

But he shakes it off quick, undeterred. He’s like Herbert the fucking Pervert from Family Guy, if Herbert was reconsidering his life choices.

“A beautiful woman like yourself shouldn’t be sitting here alone. How about some company?”

I muster all the revulsion I can into a glance. It’s almost impressive, his confidence. But come on, money or not, the age gap here isn’t just a gap, it’s the Grand Canyon. “Thanks, but my boyfriend’s about to show up. He’s probably just wrapping up strangling someone in his MMA class.”

Grandpa Olive Sucker plops down anyway, unfazed. “Let’s have one drink while you wait.”

He snaps his fingers at the bartender. “Another cocktail for the lady here.”

I clench my jaw. “I said no thanks.”