Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
“I’m working,” I mutter. “I’ll introduce myself later.”
“Be careful.” Roman leans in, voice dropping. “She’s young.” I didn’t really need his warning. I can see Naomi is young. I’ve gotten pretty good at judging whether or not girls are legal after years of practice. The gorgeous redhead is definitely legal but probably not by much. She’s way the fuck too young for me but that doesn’t matter. Something is drawing me to Naomi, and I don’t plan on resisting. “Handle this shit the right way. Last time we had a staff romance it ended with a sex tape, a civil suit, and two ruined carpets.” This is a story I definitely need to hear sometime. “Make sure it ends up with a marriage and babies this time.” His words send a longing cutting through me that shocks the fuck out of me. I’ve never considered myself the settling down type but now it’s all I want.
I’m about to reply, but Naomi catches my eye from the bar. For a split second, it’s just us, both of us locking in and holding for much longer than necessary. All the blood in my body heads straight for my cock waking the motherfucker up. As I struggle to keep my predicament hidden, she looks away, her face a perfect mask, but there’s a quick flutter in her lashes that says she’s not immune.
Roman claps my back. “See. It’s mutual. Don’t wait too long to make a move or someone else might get to her first.” Oh hell fucking no. No other man is going to make a move on my woman right in front of me. Fuck that.
He’s gone before I can answer, blending into the shadows like a smug, well-tailored ninja.
I force myself to do a full circuit of the club, walking the perimeter and checking the private rooms, but my radar keeps pinging back to Naomi.
She’s efficient, fast, and absolutely unfazed by the party’s slow slide toward debauchery. One of the regulars, a guy who owns half the strip malls in town, grabs her arm. She leans in, listening, then peels his hand away with the practiced grace of someone who knows every trick in the book. She doesn’t even break stride.
A few minutes later, she ducks into the staff hallway and I find myself following, just far enough back to avoid looking like a creep. She slips into the break room, and I linger outside, pretending to inspect the fire extinguisher.
Inside, she’s adjusting her skirt, staring at her phone, and mouthing the words to some song only she can hear. For half a second, she looks up and our eyes meet through the smoked-glass window in the door. Instead of the expected annoyance or embarrassment, she just raises one eyebrow and gives a little salute.
I nearly laugh.
Back on the main floor, I run a diagnostic on myself. My hands are steady, my walk is fine, but I can’t shake the feeling that my entire system is lagging. I’m making stupid goddamn mistakes. I can’t believe I missed a couple faces in the crowd, forgot to check the coat check at the turn of the hour, and nearly walked straight into a server carrying a loaded tray. It’s not much, but for someone who used to time his bathroom breaks to the second, it’s a big motherfucking red flag.
At midnight, the performance starts. A small crowd gathers by the stage, but I stay at my post, watching the feeds and scanning for threats.
Except the only real threat is the woman now moving around the lounge, her every step mapped onto my frontal cortex like a topographic survey.
I run down the security checklist in my mind. All the exits, cameras, radios, everything is in perfect order.
Except for the new variable, Naomi Bardot.
My mouth is still dry. My heart is still outpacing the music.
And I know, with the kind of certainty that comes from years of seeing bad decisions in action, that she’s the best goddamn decision I could ever make.
CHAPTER 4
NAOMI
I’m barely through the staff hallway when the world hits me like a blast of cologne and cash. The Sterling Rope is every bit as extra as the rumors promised. Filled with equal parts black leather and black velvet, gold trim, and a literal wall of mirrors reflecting every move I make, it’s way over the top.
I step into the main lounge and get a look at the clientele, and immediately want to step back out again. It’s all very eyes-wide-shut, with people who could buy and sell my childhood home without getting off their barstool. There’s a soft thump of expensive music, the hiss of expensive soda, and the background hum of rich people pretending they aren’t bored.
At the bar, the bartender who’s hot, but nowhere near as hot as the head of security, hands me a tray and a “you’ll get the hang of it” smile. I clutch the tray with both hands and make for the first table, which is already flagged down by a woman in a latex catsuit and a guy wearing what I’m pretty sure is an ascot.