6

Unbelievable.

He doesn’t catch the hint, eyeing me up and down, practically drooling. “So what does a pretty little thing like you do? You a model? Actress?”

My hands tighten around my drink, imagining pouring it over his polished head. “Actually, I run bingo nights. You should drop by, it’s a blast at the senior center on Tuesdays.”

That’s the kicker that finally wipes the smug leer off his face. “You little—”

But I’m not listening. My eyes bulge at the flashing message from Deano:

He’s here. White shirt. Jeans.

Below it, a picture of Connor Quinn. I nearly choke. This has to be a cruel prank.

“Beat it,” I growl at Gramps. I feel sick.

CONNOR QUINN??? My fat fingers can’t type fast enough. THIS A JOKE??

No way is this real. I’d rather watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre on repeat—and that says a lot considering I’ve refused Grace for over a year.

Please don’t let this end Chainsaw style.

I sneak a look across the bar. There’s Deano, looking sharp and oblivious, as if he’s just a regular Joe waiting for a date. If only the reality weren’t so painfully ridiculous.

I shoot him a furious What the hell? look.

My phone lights up: Stop fucking around. It’s him.

A maniac laugh followed by a throaty gurgle burst out of me, making Gramps slide away fast.

Well done, Deano, you’ve just clinched the title for America’s Dumbest and Most Dangerously Delusional.

I whirl around, and there’s Connor Quinn, swaggering through the bar. He bumps into some dude hard enough to almost send him flying, but doesn’t even pause or look back. The guy’s complaint dies on his parted lips the second he realizes who bumped him.

Quinn’s heading straight for a stunning blond at the far end of the bar. Every woman in here is laser-focused on him. He dishes out smiles to the prettiest ones, boyfriends be damned.

He slips an arm around the blond and leans in close, saying something that makes her giggle like a schoolgirl.

When she turns around, I can see why he picked her—it’s safe to say she doesn’t look like the rear-end of a bus.

Fuck.

I finish my drink, grimacing as ice smacks against my teeth. If Deano thinks I can push through Quinn’s herd of fangirls and just bat my lashes to get his keys, he’s on another planet.

I wish Grandpa was the target now.

My odds are less than zero. Quinn is way out of my league. I’m squinting from the bleachers while Blondie scores touchdowns on the field. I’ll have better luck seducing the Moet ice bucket.

The guy grins like he doesn’t have a care in the world—probably doesn’t—as he hits on Blondie. He slugs back his drink then slams the glass down, missing the bar completely. It shatters on the floor. His new friend startles but Quinn just leans closer, like it never even happened. Charming.

So he’s an asshole. It’s not entirely unexpected considering the rumors. Apparently he’s broken up marriages left and right without so much as batting an eye, putting fools who dare cross him in the hospital, then miraculously making it all disappear. He hardly notices the bartenders sweeping in to clean up after him. Is he drunk?

Our eyes meet for a heart-stopping second before he looks away, dismissing me entirely.

No way this is happening. I don’t have the guts to approach Quinn. I’m screwed, well and truly screwed.

But this isn’t some silly game. This is nasty real-life business. Deano and his gang don’t mess around, and I’m up to my neck in debt to them.

I grab my shawl, bolting for the bathrooms, but Vogue cover lookalikes are laughing and blocking the way.

Fuck. I can’t deal with people right now.

Then I spot a unisex bathroom tucked away in a less crowded area of the bar. Good enough for me.

I scurry back in the direction I came and swing open the door, finding it empty.

Tucked in a stall, I dial Deano, my hands trembling.

“What?” he barks over the line.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I whisper-yell into the phone, glaring at myself in the mirrored walls. “Connor Quinn? Absolutely not!”

“Mind the mouth, honey. He likes classy chicks.”

“My mistake, I’ll start curtseying immediately. Like seriously, are you stupid? No way. He’s too powerful. You looking for the fastest route to jail? ’Cause I’m not tagging along for that ride.”

“Calm down,” he growls. “Quinn’s been off his game, drinking too much. That’s why we’re doing this now.”

“I can’t do this. I’m out.”

“Not your call anymore, sweetheart.”

I’m borderline hyperventilating now. “Can’t I swipe someone else’s keys? Did you see the old bald guy sucking olives? I bet he has a lovely car.”

“Has to be Quinn’s ride.”

I close my eyes tight.

“Pull this off, or the boss will make you regret it. Got people outside your place ready to visit Grace.”

The stall tilts around me. I plant my forehead against the cool mirrored wall, embracing numbness.

Deep breaths, Lexi. You’ll find a way through this.

“You sick fuck,” I seethe through clenched teeth. “Go rot in hell, you and that stupid goat beard. Prancing around pretending you’re Scarface doesn’t make you tough.”

In my mind, I gleefully dig his grave, eyes wild as I shovel dirt onto his arrogant face. Maybe I’ll braid daisies and ribbons into his beard—really doll him up. He’d hate that.

I jab the end call button hard enough to bruise, then release a frustrated groan that echoes off the walls.

Drawing a deep breath, I fling open the bathroom door.

And stop dead.

There, by the sink, stands a formidable figure, veins bulging from clenched fists gripping onto the edges of the porcelain sink. His back muscles ripple beneath his tight T-shirt as he leans over the basin, his strong jaw and full lips set in a silent snarl visible in the mirror.

Oh shit.

Piercing blue eyes slice into me through the reflection.

I drop my phone with a sickening crack.

FOUR

Lexi

For a second, we just stare at each other in the mirror, him looming over the sink, me a deer in headlights barely breathing.

“Might wanna close that mouth before something flies in,” he rumbles.

My heart races as I scramble to grab my cracked phone, my hands all shaky. How much did he hear?

“Sorry about that little outburst,” I say, trying to sound casual as I move to the sink beside him. I turn on the faucet just for background noise. “How much of it did you have to suffer through?”

Please say none of it. PLEASE SAY NONE OF IT . . .

“I wasn’t listening to your boyfriend drama,” he mutters, all gruff and dismissive.

Wow, okay, dick. But thank god.

“Still, sorry if I disrupted your peace,” I mumble.

“For such a little mouth, you swear like a sailor,” he chides with a disapproving scowl. His lip curls in distaste. “Lower the vulgarities. This is a classy establishment, not a damn dockyard.”

I bristle at his condescending tone. “Guess you heard more than you let on,” I reply breezily. “But hey, swearing is in my job description. How did you know I’m a sailor?”

Idiot. Worst comeback in history.

But since he hasn’t dragged me outside to shoot me yet, I’m banking on the fact he didn’t hear anything too incriminating.

He spares me a brief dismissive glance, then he’s back to staring at the sink. So much for this guy’s legendary charisma.

“Sorry us sailors don’t live up to the high-class standards around here,” I remark, voice tinged with sarcasm. “It’s been one of those days.”

I risk a longer look at him. Damn. Up close, his intense, almost harsh good looks hit harder. All rugged edges that could cut you open if you got too close. The kind of unfair handsome that likely opens any door he wants, whenever he wants. Legs too. I’d bet Mom’s care home f*e he’s never heard the word no.

The masculine energy coming off him is stifling. And he reeks of top-shelf spirits.

He glowers at the sink like it insulted his mama. Any second now I expect punches to start flying at the poor thing.

I turn off the tap, pulse racing. I hadn’t expected to get this close.

Out of nowhere, he emits a deep, pained noise, his hand slipping from the countertop as he fights to maintain his stance.

“You okay?” I ask, real concern in my voice now.

“Leave it,” he growls.

“Wow, charming,” I snap back. Without his looks and wealth, I doubt he’d be half as charming. The magazines sure do a number on him.

“I’m all charm, little sailor. You caught me at a bad time.”

“Same here. I’m charm personified, just having a crap day.”

His response is a low, amused chuckle that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

I swallow hard, my cheeks warming.

He cranks the tap, twisting it with unnecessary force. Before I can react, he’s dousing water on his face with zero regard for the splash zone.

I yelp, jumping back as droplets assault my dress. “Hey, watch it! I didn’t come here for a wet T-shirt contest.”

“Sorry,” he grinds out. Doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Just when I think he’s going to perform a full-on baptism in the sink, he turns to face me. Those deep blue eyes, a bit unfocused, root me in place.

An awkward eternity passes as we stare at each other.

What’s his deal? Is he going to kick me out?

I should fill the silence with something witty, flirty even. But my tongue lies uselessly in my mouth. Besides, the volatility rolling off him in waves means one wrong word likely gets me ejected out of his hotel on my ass.

I contemplate sticking my hands under the dryer, anything to break this tension before I combust.

“Are you an angel?” he asks softly, sounding bewildered.

I blink, wondering if I misheard over the running water. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re an angel,” he insists, eyes fixed on me. He seems completely serious.

I laugh nervously. He’s clearly half-drunk and talking absolute shit. “Angels don’t have sailor mouths like mine. Are you high?”

He just keeps staring, lost in thought. “No, I’m pretty damn low,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

He looks it, with that grim expression. Part of me instinctively wants to help somehow. But the guy’s giving off some seriously intense, unpredictable vibes that put my nerves on edge.

I gesture toward the sink, where water’s still rushing out mindlessly. “Maybe turn that off before we drown here?”

That seems to snap him back to reality. He shuts off the tap, still looking like he’s carrying the weight of the world.

Then he steps toward me. Slow and careful, like I’m a skittish deer he’s trying not to startle.

His hand glides along the counter, steadying himself as he closes the space between us.

My breath turns choppy and shallow as his expensive shoes bump my cheap Target stilettos.