V

Woof!

(Lena)

I am not upset.

I will not get upset.

I definitely can’t afford to get upset, because that upsets Dr. Ezzie.

Just in case my body betrays me, I repeat the mantra two more times.

Doing it, that’s easier said than done, especially considering my hands are still shaking after that awful encounter with Harry every time I think of it.

Yes, even though it was a couple days ago.

Ugh.

Years have passed, and it still feels like a trauma response. My body’s still hardwired to reject him in the most visceral way possible.

Smarmy, soulless asshole.

It’s embarrassing that I ever thought I loved him. Me, Lena—the girlie who hands out tough love advice every time a friend panics over a guy.

God, the way I held Elle’s hand last year during her whole fake-engagement-turned-real with billionaire hottie August Marshall . . . Where would my bestie be without me?

I have a good head on my shoulders and a heart wrapped in barbed wire. I can forgive my younger self for a lack of judgment.

It’s going to be okay. I’m older and wiser and determined to never let a man like Harry walk all over me again.

Sighing, I suck in a deep breath and knock gently on Dr. Ezzie’s door.

“Come in.”

I am not upset.

I step inside her adorably cramped office, closing the door carefully behind me. Dr. Ezzie sits at her computer. The usual laser focus gleams in her eyes, but her shoulders are slumped.

Crap.

This doesn’t look good already.

“Hi, Lena. Is everything okay?” She gives me a tired smile.

“Um, mostly. I actually just wanted to talk to you about a man you met with a couple days ago. Harry Jay.”

“The investor, yes.” Her brows knit together. “You know about that? Do you know him?”

“I—” My mouth clamps shut. Where do I begin? “I knew him in college. He’s a big-time real estate investor now, right?”

I’ve done some googling, and I know the answer.

“Yes,” she says.

“I just—I have concerns. About whether or not he’s right for Pawsome Hearts. His local track record seems pretty cutthroat.” I looked into him the second I got home. It’s no surprise Harry made a splash in the years since he smashed my heart—and not in a good way.

Not if you have a moral compass in good working order. If you have no standards, then Harry’s record of pure rat fuckery in business probably seems like a good thing.

Cutthroat can be code for efficient.

With him, it proves his cruelty to the core.

That’s not just my personal experience talking. That’s every reason why I need to warn my boss before it’s too late.

“Look, I know it’s not my business. You can yell at me for that.” I raise my hands defensively. “And I know things are crazy tight and you have a ton on your mind, but . . . I feel like getting him involved won’t end well for us. Surely, there must be better options more aligned with our values, if you’re looking to inject some cash?”

Dr. Ezzie’s face looks so sad my heart lurches.

“I hear you, Lena,” she whispers. All I can hear is But it’s not enough to convince me.

No, of course not.

If she’s at the point of bringing Harry in, doesn’t that mean she’s seen his reputation?

“Have a seat,” she says kindly. “I appreciate your concerns. Unfortunately, we’re at a crossroads where we can’t be too choosy.”

“. . . Is it that bad?” I whisper.

“Worse. Our position is dire, Lena. I don’t mean to scare you, but even if I didn’t have to take care of my parents, we’d still be in a tough place. With them, I’ve had to take out personal loans for their care, and the clinic counts as collateral.”

My heart spirals.

“The truth is, you know the boarding staff was downsized last year and kennel capacity reduced. We just don’t have the clients anymore, never mind the repairs coming up to keep everything in working order. We can’t keep up with all the shiny corporate places that have exploded over the past ten years. We certainly don’t have ball pits and pools for dogs to splash around in.”

“But they’re not the same, Doc! We have people who care.” I have to bite back the words We’re better than them.

We are, though.

The big corporate places are understaffed and usually can’t keep up with individual dogs, even if they have better toys and entertainment. But Dr. Ezzie needs me to stay calm.

I can’t lose my shit, no matter how tempting.

“It’s a matter of style, perhaps. People want sleek and fun,” she continues. “They also want the full package, groomers and special play options, but we just don’t have the funds to hire more staff or renovate. It’s a pipe dream. Plus, we own a bigger piece of property than the other places around. I’ve had this practice since before the real estate boom. The property taxes on our land just keep ballooning, and without the clients to bring in enough bacon to make it financially viable . . . You’re a smart girl. You can figure it out.”

Oh, I know what she’s saying, but it still makes my heart implode.

My priority has always been animals and clients first. Making their experience as good as possible. Helping as many people as possible.

But I’m not stupid. Every word she says holds true in a shifting business where boarding can pad your revenue a lot.

Numbers are ugly things. They’re real, merciless, and they have teeth.

“And that’s not even getting into the roofing and insulation work due on the old building.” She sighs, looking down gravely. “Frankly, it makes me sweat just thinking about it. We’ll have to shut down for that, at least for a few weeks.”

Unfortunately, she’s right, and we know what that means.

Money dries up fast.

She rubs her face as she looks up, showing the exhaustion lining her eyes.

“So, to answer your concerns, yes. When I made a few queries in a small business group and Mr. Jay came calling with a very fair buyout offer, I had to hear him out. I had no choice. The moral high ground is a bigger luxury than it seems. Would you slam the door on opportunities when they knock?”

When it’s Harry Jay, hell yes.

Absolutely.

Without question.

Ideally, closing the door to trap him inside with a napalm fire raging.

“Dr. Ezzie, I get it. But he won’t be any good for Pawsome Hearts,” I say weakly. “You know he’s only after the land. The minute he thinks you’ll sell and close up shop, he’ll be on you like a hawk. Doesn’t keeping the clinic going mean anything?”

Too far.

Ezzie’s eyes start misting, and I instantly regret my words.

“Only the whole world.” Her voice cracks, and guilt drags me low. “But I’m just one woman, Lena. I’m so tired of swimming.”

“Let me help! Whatever you need.” So long as it’s not number crunching. She needs to keep her CPA for that.

“I appreciate that, really, but I’m afraid you can’t. Not with this. I’ve always loved how you’re so willing to fight, but sometimes hard decisions are inevitable. I suggest you brace yourself, and so will I.”

She slumps back in her chair, looking like any fight she ever had has drained from her already. I douse the feeble protests burning on my tongue.

She’s right that she’s only one woman stretched to her breaking point. You can practically see the boulder on her shoulders and her spirit buckling under it.

No, revealing the full horror of who and what Harry is won’t help today. Not when her mind is made up.

I just don’t have the heart to pile more guilt on her brittle shoulders.

“I should go.” I gesture to the door with my thumb. “Good night, Dr. Ezzie.”

“Good night, Lena.”

Time to get home, take a long soak in the tub, and figure out my next move.

Dr. Ezzie was right about one thing, though. I am a fighter, and I have no intention of giving up, even if I have to go it alone.

Sighing, I grab my bag and jacket and head out into the rainy evening.

At least, I try.

What actually happens is I face-plant into a massive wall of a chest.

When I look up, it’s Brady looking down at me.

His easy, disarming smile disappears when he gets a good look at the pain etched on my face.

Nice knowing I must look as grim as I feel.

“Lena,” he says, taking my shoulders and steadying me like I weigh nothing. “You look like you could use that drink today.”

Oh, this boy has a death wish.

“Holy shit, take a hint. I really don’t think—”

“Just one drink. Hear me out.” He holds up his hands. “No BS, no hookups, I promise. We can even just do coffee if you want.”

My first instinct is to smack him in the face. My second instinct is to smack him harder.

I’m so not in the mood for an awkward bar hangout with a stranger frenemy treating me like a piece of meat.

But he’s cute. I’ll give him that.

And I don’t know how truly bad he is inside.

I also don’t know what’s waiting for me at home besides another lonely evening where the highlight is ordering three days’ worth of Thai takeout to eat my feelings. Granny Lark, the old lady up the street, isn’t around to bother me this week because she’s hanging out with her granddaughter.

Would it really be so atrocious to just humor him? To get this persistent, grandstanding gold monkey off my back?

“You know what? Fine. You win.” My teeth clench with regret.

“You’re serious?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Damn, I thought I’d have to bribe you or something.”

“You do. When you buy me a cocktail, it better have the top-shelf stuff.”

“Noted.” His eyes flash like the winter sky.

“Also, I looked you up after our last—” Meeting isn’t the right word. More like disaster. “Our last interaction. Your channel’s kinda fun, and I appreciate you trying to rake in money for animals.”

“All the time,” he tells me, a whisper of a smile pulling at his lips. Not the spotlight charm he switches on when he wants something. This looks more real. “So you’re a new fan, huh?”

“Hardly. Wasting hours on YouTube isn’t my thing,” I say quickly, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “But I’m glad you give a damn sometimes. You only use your channel to puff yourself up about fifty percent of the time.”

“Flattering. I’ll work on raising that up to an even seventy.”

I glare at him, second-guessing my state of mind.

It’s a terrible idea to get involved with him at all, I’m sure. Tomorrow Lena is already side-eyeing me hard, demanding to know what the hell I’m thinking for even considering this.

But an evening out still feels better than moping over my nightmare ex and a business deal I can’t control. I’m due for a distraction, and a free drink or two feels like the ticket.

Even so, there’s no way I’m going out dressed like this and covered in dog hair.

“Two hours,” I say. “We’ll meet at Benny’s. I’ll Uber.”

Benny’s is a local wine and espresso bar, which gives me the option of keeping it cool and getting a small coffee flight or yielding to temptation with alcohol.

I know which way I’m leaning, but I’d be stupid to let my guard down around him too soon.

He doesn’t smile, but there’s a smug, delighted glint in his eyes as he says, “Wish granted, Lena. See you soon.”

This is not a date.

It’s so not a date that I settle for a casual dress, nothing showy. Blue, summery, soft, and warm—something that screams modest comfort and not I’m going home with you later.

Because that’s not happening with half a dozen drinks. Not even ten, and I’m a lightweight who can’t pound it back like I used to.

The only reason I agreed to see Brady Pruitt is not his smoking hot body or the way his eyes felt magnetic when he asked me out.

Nothing to do with his mile-wide shoulders or the softness of his thick, dark hair or the scruff of shadow around his lips that could melt any red-blooded woman with a single scrape.

Still, I hate that I even had to think about what to wear to my next mistake.

When I get there, he’s on time, seated and waiting at the bar with one hand raised as soon as he sees me.

The place is crowded. More than usual for a breezy Wednesday evening, but then again, I don’t usually go out midweek. Not since Elle married herself off to a god and my other friends fell into careers where they live at the office.

In the corner, a few college guys hoot about something, clustered around one guy’s phone. Work colleagues in their business wear gather around another table, slowly swirling their wineglasses in idle conversation.

The best part is the smell: vibrant coffee and the subtle twang of wine.

Weaving my way through the crowd, I make it to Brady’s side. He helps me up onto the stool with a hand.

An actual gentleman.

Dangerous.

“You made it. Gotta admit, I wondered if you’d ghost,” he says over the low, thudding music.

“And look like I’m scared of what? You?” I snort. I nod toward the group of ladies in their thirties and forties. “Someone had to save you from those wine moms. Total cougar pack over there.”

His deep chuckle should be lost in the noise, but it vibrates through me. I watch his throat bob with the overwhelming sense that I’ve already sealed my doom.

When he leans in, I do my best to ignore his scent, that citrusy sea cologne again mingled with testosterone. It’s unfair how he smells like he just swaggered off a warm beach in Maui.

He’s dressed up for the occasion, I think, wearing charcoal slacks and an off-white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

I hate that I’m a sucker for rolled sleeves when men have muscles to show off. Especially when half the single men around here either don’t lift or still dress like they’re teenagers.

This man has guns. Sculpted, intense, and accented with a hint of a Celtic tattoo weaving up one bicep that makes him look even bigger.

Eyes on his face.

His face, Lena. Now.

This is the twenty-first century and I’m a sensible girl. We’re not animals fresh off some cheesy sexting conversation from an app.

I have standards.

It’s just entertainment—something to take the edge off a long, beastly week.

“So how about that drink? I’ve got you covered tonight.”

“Only if I take the next round.” The words are too aggressive, but I can’t help myself. He might be inhumanly rich, but that doesn’t mean I’ll skimp on paying my way, outside the obligatory top-shelf drink he promised.

“Sure.” The corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Espresso martini. That’s their signature thing here,” I decide.

Best of both worlds. Who needs sleep, anyway?

“Good plan.” He gestures to the bartender and orders. While we’re waiting, he props his elbow against the table and looks at me again.

How does he do it?

Making me feel so small with just a glance?

I can’t lie—it’s a little unsettling.

Also a lot disconcerting when men this fit usually aren’t strong in the subtlety department. They’re prone to getting grabby rather than stripping me down with bedroom eyes.

Is this a thing rich guys practice? Flirting with just the eyes?

“Thanks for bringing Charlie home last week,” I say. “And, um, for saving me from getting knocked down by Sherry. Her owner swore he’d work on her manners for the last two years, and it still hasn’t happened.”

“She was just enthusiastic.” A small smile, but he shrugs. “You handled it well. I just broke your fall.”

“Mm.” Our drinks arrive, and I take a large sip. Sweet perfection. The coffee, vodka, and sugary liqueur go down like water. Too easy. “So how many pets do you have? Any purebreds?”

He pauses mid-sip and stares at me before he swallows.

“None. I’m too busy to invest the time, and my parents never allowed it, growing up.”

I can’t hide my surprise.

“Wow, really? With the fundraisers and animals on your channel, I guessed you’d have a whole menagerie.”

“Not yet. Maybe that’s why I care so much for everyone else’s pooches and cats.” He sips his own martini, reflecting, and I watch the way his throat moves.

“But they wouldn’t let you have one dog? Don’t tell me it was a money thing?”

“It was an optics thing. Image is law when you grow up like I did. We had all the resources in the world to have a few dogs, sure—hell, even a small hobby farm a few hours away. But my mom wouldn’t dirty up the house with a puppy, and Dad won’t be seen showing a single human crack in his armor.”

Interesting and complicated.

The more I learn, the more I want to know, and that’s not good. It shows the lack of excitement in my life.

Hanging out with him feels more interesting than a lonely bath at home, though. The bar is so low it’s basically a flooring pipe.

But it doesn’t mean anything.

Yet I still find myself leaning forward, my body language open. Tell me more.

Maybe by the end of the night, he’ll spill some dark secret that would bring his family’s entire empire crashing down.

Or maybe he’ll offer me a ride home on a unicorn, but a girl can dream.

He gives me that sharp, spearing glance again, like he’s looking at the most interesting woman in the world.

“You really do love animals, don’t you?”

I blink. “I mean, that’s kinda a given, considering where I work. With you, it’s more interesting because you don’t have to love them to make rent. Where does it come from if you didn’t have any pets, growing up?”

“I was big into greyhound races when I was young. My grandfather’s hobby. He’d take me out to the tracks pretty often. He’d usually lose a bundle on his bets, but he loved it to death. I loved hanging out with dogs on the side, and Gramps had the weight to get us VIP access. My mother hated me when I kept begging her to open a racetrack in Seattle three Christmases in a row, even after Gramps was gone. I wanted her to name it after him.”

Oof. That’s a big, heaping ask I can’t begin to imagine. The kind that only comes with money. But it’s also an adorable one for a little rich boy.

“Oh wow. Greyhounds are fascinating. We have a couple who come to the clinic.” I don’t have to fake my enthusiasm.

Too many people think these gentle giants are ugly with their lanky bodies and oversize snouts, and it pisses me off all the time. Especially when you’ll never meet a bigger sweetheart in your life than a lazy lump of a retired racing dog.

He takes another drink, but the warmth in his eyes fades as he looks past me, into the distance. “Honestly, I think my interest truly took hold later.”

“What did? Your crush on greyhounds?”

“Dogs in general.” He meets my eyes, and they’re serious. “I did a few years in the US Army. Mostly my father’s idea, to make me fly right and keep me out of trouble. It was trouble, all right, but fuck getting into that.”

I bite my lip so I don’t smile.

“Anyway, I wound up in Syria at a really chaotic time,” he says.

The confession stuns me a little. I never would’ve guessed he’s an army vet, but that helps explain the Instagrammable physique. Another piece of the Brady Pruitt puzzle I don’t know what to do with yet.

How much trouble was he in? Men like him don’t usually serve abroad. They don’t give up time and risk their neck for their country if they don’t have to.

“Surprised?” he asks. “Can’t say I blame you. Money shields you from a lot of bullshit in life. In my case, I’m glad it didn’t here. I had a lot to learn when I was nineteen.”

“That’s a wake-up call, for sure,” I admit. “What does it have to do with dogs, though?”

“A brave K-9 attached to our unit saved my life.” His voice grows serious. A bit low, slightly gritty, like the memory burns his throat coming out.

I can relate.

Some memories just do that to you. They burrow through your grey matter with hooks and claws, and every time you rake them out from the back of your mind, they draw blood.

But it’s not always bitter. There’s some sweetness too. And I can see it in the way he smiles.

Not with his mouth, but this tiny, half-hidden light swirling in his blue eyes.

My stomach flips. I’m suddenly worried it’s not just the espresso martini making my cheeks heat.

Oh boy.

“There was a small town outside our base. The people were good to us, always sending intel about terrorists, so we protected them. One day on our routine patrols, there was a hidden improvised explosive.” He pauses, watching how I stare before his eyes return to his drink. “I had no clue—my unit would’ve walked right into the damn thing if we didn’t have Oscar with us. Big old Belgian Malinois, friendly as hell off duty, more focused than a lot of people when he worked.” He smiles. “Oscar smelled the bomb, and if he hadn’t . . .” He trails off, but I can fill in the gaps.

“So scary,” I say softly.

“It’s what lit a fire under my ass. Dogs aren’t toys. They’re real companions. Sometimes, they save your life. That’s why I’m pouring energy into my current project. Working on a good, organic dog food that doesn’t cost more than the processed stuff. I want dogs like Oscar to eat well and live as long as possible.”

“Dog food? I thought you made your money with some kind of dating app?” At least, that’s what the internet said.

“I’m out of that game. Sold my entire stake off to a bigger company last year.”

“Why?”

“It got my foot in the door and let me make my own money and make connections, rather than resting on the family business. Still, it’s not what I care about. Another round?” He gestures for two refills. “But what about you?”

“What about me?” I shake my head. “I’m sick to death of dating apps, and I barely remember to charge my phone. I’m overworked at a small clinic and undersocialized. My friends are getting married to superheroes and living their best lives. I’m stuck with my bad self because my last date wouldn’t shut up about his fifty-dollar investment in a crypto coin with an anime logo. Blah.”

Too honest?

I wonder when I see the way he cocks his head.

“Never asked about your dating life, Sass.”

My face heats. It’s in the way he says it—no silly nickname should be that devastating.

“Hey, you asked for a briefing. That’s my messy, boring life. Stay away if you’re smart.”

“I’m more interested in today, woman. You going to tell me why you always leave work looking like you’ve had your heart split in two?”

Holy ouch.

The memory comes sweeping back, all sharp claws. The wound reopens in my chest, gushing fresh sorrow.

I think about Dr. Ezzie. Her defeat and despair, the sad way she’s resigning herself to being eaten by a shark before we ever put up a fight.

God, the way she has no fight.

One meeting, and Harry’s sucked that much life out of her.

“That face,” Brady rumbles, sipping his new cocktail and setting it down with a clink. “That’s the one I’m wondering about. You’re wearing it now.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m in no rush.”

I grab my drink and down half of it in one gulp that almost makes me choke. Not how anyone should relish a thirty-dollar craft cocktail, but hell, I needed a boost.

“A couple days ago, my boss had a meeting with a man. Harry Jay,” I say. “He works in property investment.”

Brady tilts his head. “Think I’ve heard the name. Made a big splash in real estate, didn’t he? I remember he was involved in that pier renovation along the waterfront. I never wanted to touch that game.”

“That’s smart.”

“So, what about Harry Jay and your boss?”

I try—I really do—to keep my fury under wraps. But it’s impossible, because my ex gives me that imminent-spider feeling.

“He wants to invest in our clinic. It’s a high-risk situation with debt, and he’s the only kind of investor my boss could find,” I say. “But really, he’s not looking to help us keep the lights on. I think he just wants the land Pawsome Hearts is on. You’ve seen it—this big piece of property that’s gotten rare. Very few small businesses own a plot like that outright. Dr. Ezzie bought it back when things were cheap. But it’s been a struggle the last few years. She’s having a hard time keeping up for personal reasons. I just know that shithawk’s swooping in while we’re wounded and bleeding to—sorry.” I catch myself, taking another violent swig of my drink.

“Shithawk. I like it.”

“It’s true. The land is—I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it’s valuable.”

“A pretty penny,” he offers with a nod.

“Right. And Harry, he’s—he’s the worst kind of creep. A freak who enjoys humiliating people.” There it is: my anger boiling over in hot, vicious words.

At this point, I don’t know when I’ll ever be over him, and that’s embarrassing. Even on this not-date.

Brady’s eyebrows go up.

“Forget the last part. There’s a reason I don’t normally do the midweek-drinking thing,” I lie.

The clear blue of Brady’s eyes hardens into ice as he stares at me.

“You know him,” he growls. It’s not a question.

“. . . We might’ve dated in college.” The confession comes out in a rush. My face is burning.

“Shit,” he rasps.

“It’s whatever. Let’s just say it didn’t end well. He’s a raging asshole. It was years ago, and I thought I was done with that chapter, but now he’s coming in hot to ruin my life again. So yeah, it’s personal and I’m a little bitter.”

I don’t realize I’m almost breathless until Brady lays his hand on my arm. He orders a couple glasses of water from the bartender.

“Have you told your boss about him?”

My breath shudders on its way out. “I tried, but she’s hard up. Desperate almost.”

What is happening?

I didn’t think Brady’s thick palm could feel this good on my skin. He still carries himself like a massive prick, but tonight he’s being human.

“Hey.” He’s suddenly moving closer, his fingers twined with mine, and that’s when I realize I’m crying. My hands are trembling.

My vision blurs, and I suck in another shaky breath.

Holy hell, I’m ready to shrivel up and die from shame.

If only I’d stuck to coffee.

“Come here,” he says gently, and it’s so easy to let him tilt me forward until I’m in his arms.

That musky ocean smell is a welcome distraction. It teleports me to a peaceful place with clear blue skies, far from the ugly grey clouds of bad memories hanging over Seattle.

My face stays pressed against his shoulder, his arms around my back, his hands rubbing soothingly.

It’s so much nicer than anything I’d expect from him—and it feels so good.

His heart thuds slowly and strongly. The drumbeat vibrates through his body into mine, like he’s loaning me something I didn’t know I needed.

Steadiness. Calm. Courage.

It’s shocking how human he is, and maybe it shouldn’t be.

I feel bad for being so shallow, so jaded and quick to judge.

He’s made of flesh and blood, after all. Not emotionless metal and rubber, like some kind of AI robot powered by money.

My breathing slows to match his.

“Pawsome Hearts is more than just a job,” I whisper against his shoulder. My mouth moves against the fabric of his jacket, and I briefly imagine it against his skin. Salty sweet.

What the hell are you doing?

Stop.

I pull back, and he lets me, sliding away to give me space.

This would be so much easier if he was the ridiculous caricature I imagined.

I dab under my eyes. Of all the things I could’ve done in front of him, I just had to turn on the waterworks.

“What I really need,” I say shakily, searching for a lighthearted tone, “is a billionaire sugar daddy. My best friend married one, and she’s set for life.”

“What?” Brady stiffens like I just insulted him.

“My best friend, Elle. She’s awesome. Super-talented illustrator, sassy bitch, partner in crime. I love her to death. But she met this guy, August Marshall, and he paid her to be his fiancée. It was this whole drama arc, but now they’re married and she’s living out her dreams, illustrating stories. You know Inky the Penguin?”

“Who doesn’t? I used to have Inky pajamas when I was five. Must’ve wrote that penguin a hundred letters growing up.” His words are light, but there’s no humor in his eyes.

Dude, why is he looking at me like that?

Brady watches me like a hunting hawk and clears his throat before he drains the rest of his drink. The glass comes down with a loud clink.

“Actually, Lena, that’s the reason I brought you here tonight. I have something to ask you.”

What?

“. . . To be my sugar daddy?” I am so confused.

“Not quite, but when you put it that way, it’s not so different, I suppose.” He spreads his hands flat on the marble bar. “We both have problems we could help each other with.”

I almost snort espresso liqueur through my nose.

For real? What the hell can I do for Brady Pruitt, heir to billions and social media prince?

“I’m serious. Listen.” He leans in again, catching my hand, his eyes dancing with an energy that’s as intoxicating as my cocktail. “If you’ve stalked me online, you know I had a rough reputation growing up. Too many rich-kid parties and girlfriends I went through like eating grapes. Since then, I’ve been working overtime, getting my shit together. I promise you that shit chapter’s closed now. Only, my family’s been riding me hard to settle down. Get married. Look responsible. My father can’t be the public face of our brand, not since he wound up sick. They made me take over, and they want me to do it right. All for the almighty optics again.”

“So that’s it,” I whisper. “That’s why you’re with Blondie McBrat.”

“Nancy, yes. I’m sure you can guess they think we’re a match made in heaven—but you saw what she’s like.”

“Holy shit, yeah. I thought you guys were dating.” I make a gagging sound.

He chuckles roughly. “Fuck no. I’ll never be that hard up.”

The roughness in his voice rumbles through my bones.

I don’t like where this is going.

“Sooo, what are you suggesting?” I ask.

“I need to buy time. Enough to keep my family from climbing up my ass before I’m ready to launch my product line, find my footing, and rebuild my reputation with old-fashioned grit.” Those big blue eyes are midnight now, dark with determination. “I need a ruse. You need money. That makes us perfect partners, if we team up and—”

Panic.

I throw my hands up.

“Whoa, whoa. How about no?” I lean away from him. “No way, Brady. If you think I’m signing on to some wacky fake-engagement thing with you, count me out. Sorry, I’m not your girl.”

A slow, inappropriately sexy smile spreads across his lips. “Not even for a million dollars?”

A million—

Oh. My. God.

My vision starts spinning with zeros.

I’m glad I’m not the fainting type like poor Elle, or I’m pretty sure I’d be sliding off this stool boneless and face-planting on the marble bar.

“Nope, I—” I stop, staring at him. “Did you really say a million?”

“Seven figures. Count them, Sass. I told you: This can be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

Holy shit, I can’t do this.

That’s crazy money. Certifiable. And it comes with strings attached that originate in hell.

Worse, his offer tells me I should have listened to my instinct.

I knew I should never have gone out with him.

Does he seriously think he can bribe me into some sleezy romance arrangement worthy of a bad reality show?

Woof.

My instincts were right.

Brady Pruitt is a giant selfish dickprint.

“No thanks,” I strangle out. Then I start digging in my purse, thankful I have a few bills to throw down on the bar for my partial tab. He can figure out the rest for this humiliation. “Absolutely no fucking way. I’m out of here.”

And I’m moving like a bullet, bolting through the crowd as I hear him call, “Lena!”

This is so not my day.

Now, instead of moping around at home, I get to drag myself back with my tail between my legs.

And I’ll spend the night wondering why every man in this city really is a selfish psycho, and when I became a magnet for bad intentions.

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