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Chapter One
Now
Archer
You might think January in Chicago would be a shit time to open a nightclub.
All due respect, but you would be wrong.
My latest “den of sin,” as my brother Nate likes to joke, is packed with gyrating bodies. Sequins and short shorts, sweat-soaked T-shirts and smudged makeup. Throbbing bass thumps low in my belly as I navigate through fog-filled air, in the direction of the exit.
January isn’t just cold, but fucking cold here in Chi-town. Everyone in the surrounding neighborhoods has cabin fever. Two weeks after New Year’s Eve, and the elite are already bored. Loud laughter rises over the music, invigorating me like bubbles in a hot tub. These are the sounds I have steeped myself in for years. I love this business. I can’t help myself.
Unlike the well-dressed crowd who have come here to lose themselves in alcohol, music, and whatever relationships they make come closing time, I’m not lost. I’ve kept an eagle’s eye on the bar staff, as well as the till. It’s imperative every person in this place is served a drink in a timely fashion. I also kept watch over the club’s security team, who are here to make sure those imbibing the drinks don’t stir up trouble.
My attention is drawn to a dark corner, where a blond woman stands, her fair skin and hair aglow in the meager light. She’s staring. Sipping from her cocktail straw with glossy, pursed lips. Her dress is scandalously short, like most dresses I’ve seen tonight. She bites her lip, trying to look coy, but there’s no way she can pull it off. What she wants is written all over her face. One night of hot, sweaty fun wouldn’t be a bad way to spend the evening, but that’s not why I’m here.
“I’m out,” I shout over the noise to Reginald Mowry, my Chicago regional manager.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Owen.” He shakes my hand, dipping his chin to confirm he has tonight under control. I trust him. He used to bartend at one of my other Chicago locations. He’s been in my employ for too many years to count. I could have left tonight in his capable hands rather than fly in from Clear Ridge, Ohio, and, given how tired I am at only one a.m., maybe I should have.
I step onto the street, my ears ringing as they adjust to the quiet. I love what I do. Love the process from start to finish. But I admit, it’s getting old. I’ve been thinking of shaking things up for months now. Seven months, to be exact. Since last spring, when a certain brunette wearing silver rings on nearly every finger and a loose necktie dangling over a slouchy white shirt, distracted me from within an inch of my life.
Women don’t distract me the way they used to. That’s by design. But somehow, Talia Richards, with her confidence and that snarky “rich people” assessment snagged my utter and complete attention. In my defense, who wouldn’t have been enthralled by a beautiful woman with confidence to spare? But she shouldn’t still have my attention. I should have been able to walk away from her the way I did the blonde inside.
I wind around the line of people waiting to gain access into my club. Some are bouncing on their toes in an effort to keep warm, especially those dressed in very little. I consider it a compliment when people stand for hours in the frozen tundra to gain access to a new club I built. But then, I’m not surprised. I’m the best at what I do.
Which is interesting, since Talia asked me to do something different.
See? There she is again. Distracting me.
Last spring she challenged me to apply those same principles to the swanky spa she is opening as an employee of Ed Lambert, otherwise known as the founder of Lotus Leaf. The offer of a new and shiny project appealed. I’d been craving a challenge, and nightclub openings were becoming rote. That night, over bourbon, I gave Talia the yes she’d come for, and then I threw my expertise at an establishment that served wheatgrass juice instead of alcohol. Where muted pan flute was piped over Bose speakers rather than garbled lyrics nearly indiscernible when paired with too much bass. Yes, I had been craving a challenge. I also liked Talia a whole hell of a lot.
In the end, she’d been right. Turning her down had proved impossible.
I’ve seen her exactly twice since I’ve taken the job. The first time I showed up for a meeting at Lotus Leaf headquarters where she worked closely with some dickweed named Brandon. I don’t like Brandon. He’s spoiled and boorish. One of those preppy types you want to punch in the face just for fun. Rather than deal with him, I’ve gone around him to correspond with Talia instead.
The second time I saw her was last month. I was in Miami, a week before Christmas, and stopped by the office to gift her a bottle of bourbon tied with a red bow. It couldn’t be helped. Like the night at the fundraiser, I hadn’t been able to keep my distance. One look at her waist-length brown wavy hair that long-ago night, her unique attire, and the rocks glass in her grip, and I was intrigued as hell. Happening to be close by checking out a potential future nightspot, there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to surprise her.
But she’s more than intriguing and drop-dead gorgeous. She also knows what she’s doing. She’s hungry, which I appreciate. I like ambition. I understand it. Since Talia looks damn fine doing what she does so well, I decided no video conference calls. And since the boundaries are blurry when it comes to texting, we don’t dabble in that form of communication, either. I’ve kept to email out of respect for her position, and because I need to focus on the work and not on Talia’s smart, delectable mouth. What I wouldn’t give to experience her lips on mine.
Christ. There I go again.
I whistle for a cab, my breath fogging the air in front of my face. It’s colder than shit out here. I tug my wool coat tight as I climb into the cab. I give the cabbie the name of my hotel and the street and settle in for the ride, my gaze on the window rather than the city beyond.
So, yeah. Talia and I email each other. Though we still found a way to flirt over that antiquated form of communication. I started my first correspondence to her with “Hey, Wildflower.” I ended it with a cheeky “Sincerely, Kingpin.” She followed suit, using our nicknames in her response. I enjoyed it way too much to stop.
The woman in the club with the perfected pout and the thick, fake eyelashes might catch my dick’s attention, but there wasn’t anything there to intrigue my brain. Don’t get me wrong, she could have been interesting. Hell, she could have been a brain surgeon, I don’t know. High-end clubs attract all types, and if I’ve learned one thing about the clientele, it’s you can’t assume to know who they are by looking at them.
Aside from privileged twenty-somethings, who are there to hook up and get trashed, the remaining crowd is a mystery. Hell, I’ve met investment bankers, celebrity golfers, literal brain surgeons—men and women who had come out not to get trashed and hook up, but to let go of the grueling, stressful week behind them. No matter how interesting or successful the women who go to my clubs are, I learned a long time ago not to date them.
If I embark on a personal relationship, I’m careful to keep it separate from work, which includes any interactions with my family. To the Owens, work is personal. We practically bleed the shade of blue in our Owen family crest. Plus, any time in the past when I’ve bothered to bring a girl home, her presence was met with disapproval from my father. Nothing new there. He doesn’t approve of much when it comes to me.
Contrarily, Dad reserves his seal of approval for my brothers, Nate and Benji. I suppose if I really wanted to whine about it, I could blame the fact that they’re adopted. He chose them, after all. For a while, I resented how he wasn’t as hard on them as he was me. Later I realized it didn’t bother me when he took a light touch with them. What bothered me was how they’d received his coveted approval while I, well, didn’t.
Nightclubs and bars aren’t William Owen’s idea of respectable businesses. It’s one of the many topics on which we disagree. I’ve been defying him since I drove my first stake in the ground in this company. I wonder if defying him is more of a bad habit than anything.
The more I worked on the spa’s grand opening with Talia, the more my wheels cranked. Could there be more to life than thumping bass, fog machines, and the smell of sweat mingled with alcohol? I’m not sure, but I intend to find out. If I end up winning my father’s approval in the process, that’s a nice bonus, but I’m not seeking it.
