The bartender blinks, then beams like he’s just been knighted. “Of course, Captain.” He scrambles, slidinga napkin and a pen across the counter. “Would you mind? Just an autograph. My kid’s a huge fan.”
The man takes the pen and scribbles with quick, neat strokes. Then he pauses, assessing the bartender with the same calm weight he’s been pinning me with. “Bring your phone. He’ll want a picture.”
The bartender practically stammers himself into pieces. “Y-yes, sir. Thank you!” He leans in for the selfie, grinning so wide his cheeks must cramp. The man gives a small, precise half-smile for the shot—just enough to make the bartender beam harder—before handing the phone back.
That’s when I notice the phones in the air. Not one or two, but a sea of them, pointed at us. My chest goes tight. A flash detonates, blinding me white. Spots burst behind my eyelids as the club photographer grins and walks off.
My first thought is stupidly vain. They can’t possibly be taking pictures of me. Sure, people recognize me from sewing videos, but no one points a dozen iPhones at a girl who curses at her Singer machine. Which leaves only one explanation: him. He’s someone.
“Thank you, Captain. Really. Thank you,” the bartender says.
“Anytime,” the man nods once, then turns back to me.
And just like that, the full force of him is back on me.
“So… you’re famous?” I cock my head, a smirk tugging at my lips. “I didn’t realize my fake boyfriend was such a big deal.”
“Didn’t realize I was your boyfriend.” His mouth twitches, the smallest ghost of amusement.
“Fake,” I remind him, playfully.
“Mm.” His eyes drag over my face like he’s filing away every detail. “So, what do you actually do?” I tip my glass toward him.
“I’m a dolphin trainer.” His mouth curves into a small smile.
“What?” My drink pauses halfway to my lips.
“Dolphins,” he repeats, gaze steady on mine. “I clap my hands; they jump through hoops. Very fun.”
“You do not.” A laugh bursts out of me.
“You think I couldn’t?” His eyes narrow, but the corners crease like he’s secretly pleased he made me laugh.
“Oh, I definitely think you could. You look bossy enough to make dolphins jump through anything.” I lean closer. “But seriously. What do you do?”
“Just got a new job, actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
He leans closer, so close I feel his breath stroke my skin. “A dirty blonde hired me.” His gaze drags down my body and back up. “Fake boyfriend. Benefits pending.”
My laugh stutters, caught between thrill and panic at the double entendre.
“So… you’re a gigolo?” I tease, my voice high, shaky with nerves I try to hide.
“I’m not sure yet.” His mouth curves into a smile, sharp and devastating. “I still don’t know the full extent of the services required of me.”
My pulse detonates. My clit throbs so hard I grip my glass tighter, like it’ll keep me from visibly shattering. Heat surges under my skin, and I manage a laugh that sounds way too breathless.
“Do you always talk like that to strangers?”
“It’s our two-minute anniversary and you call me a stranger?” He furrows his brows, eyes amused.
“Ugh, the bathroom line was…” Dannie’s voice cuts through the music as she pushes her way back to me, but it dies the second her eyes land on the man beside me.
She stops mid-step, mouth open, eyes wide. She flicks a look at me, then him, then back at me like she’s trying to compute a math problem that doesn’t add up.
I give her a bright, guilty little smile, pretending my pulse isn’t jackhammering. “Dannie, this is—”
