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He backs up a step, and I’m almost sorry he does, but now isn’t the time to crush on a man who’s so far beyond me he might as well live on the moon. I offer a brief, grateful smile before picking up the tray and hurrying off as safely as I can.
If I had to crash into somebody, I’m glad it was him.
2
WARREN
Winter.
It suits her. The pale, unblemished skin. The almost icy blue eyes. The shining, blond hair pulled back in a stern little knot at the nape of her long, slim neck. My fingers twitch from the impulse to follow her, to unpin that knot and sink my hands into her hair. To hold her in place. To claim her with my mouth, my tongue, my touch.
She’s a bulldozer, slamming into me, pushing aside everything I ever thought was important. I’ve known of her existence for no more than a minute or two, but the life I knew as I strolled into this ballroom is now the past. Before. Without.
It’s all about her now. I take a champagne flute when it’s offered to me before deciding no, something stronger is in order. “Whiskey. Double.” I narrow my eyes at the bartender who spoke so rudely to my angel, gratified but not surprised when he jumps into action.
Energy hums through my body the way it always does before I stake my claim. When I see what works, I waste no time taking it. That certainty, that belief I have in myself, is what brought me to this place.
The wealthiest in a room full of the city’s elite. In control of more than a dozen extremely profitable businesses that only became so profitable under my supervision. Constantly fielding requests to sit on this board or that—they want some of my magic to rub off on them.
I have a knack for cutting through bullshit, seeing through the extraneous, and getting to the heart of what matters.
That knack, those instincts, have never screamed at me the way they are now. The sound is loud enough to drown out the pointless ass-kissing conversations of everybody describing their holiday travel plans to the sound of cheesy Christmas music. It’s loud enough even to drown out my pounding heart.
It’s not the pounding of fear. I don’t waste time with fear.
It’s certainty. It’s the way my body reacts when I find what’s right.
“Warren Fletcher.” A honeyed voice works its way through the screaming between my ears an instant before a pair of arms wind around one of mine. The scent of a light, floral perfume gives away the identity of the woman distracting me. She considers it her signature.
When all I can do is stare at her like a stranger, she pouts her blood-red lips. “What? You’re not in a friendly mood tonight?” Before I can tell her to fuck off forever, she glances at my chest. “What happened to you?”
Good question. If I only had the words to describe the sense of my life truly beginning. Finding what I was born for. Who I was born for.
“A happy accident. If you’ll excuse me…” Her face falls as I extricate myself from her clinging. What did I ever see in her? A body? Pouty lips I knew would feel good around my dick? I was right about that much.
It’s in the past. All of it. As of this evening, I am a new man.
Still, even as I make the pretense of mingling while always, always keeping one eye trained on the kitchen door in anticipation of my angel showing herself again, there’s no forgetting the plans I made prior to meeting her. I didn’t go out of my way to be here tonight because of a particular fondness for Santa Claus or champagne.
Across the room stands the man I intended to have a word with. Look at him—give the guy a red suit and a fake beard, and Josh Crawley would be a dead ringer for St. Nick. From what I’ve learned of him, he wouldn’t mind a line of girls waiting to sit on his lap.
Only I doubt Santa would get away with shoving his hand up the girls’ skirts.
He’s slime. What’s worse, he’s a shitty businessman. That’s what I can’t forgive. Born wealthy, everything’s been handed to him, so he has no connection to it and doesn’t care if it tanks. He’ll never understand hunger beyond his cheap physical cravings.
He doesn’t deserve what he has. Why shouldn’t it be mine?
He can wait. It isn't like I needed to chat him up this evening, anyway. The only reason I'd planned to do so was to prove to myself whether everything I've heard about him was true. All the intel in the world can't make up for sizing a man up face-to-face. The way my head is still spinning, I doubt I would retain a word he said.
Besides, I can't take my eyes off that kitchen door. Every time it swings open, I expect to see her.
Finally, I do—and she's struggling. My chest tightens at the sight of her walking slowly, eyes wide with a tray balanced precariously upon one shoulder. One of the event organizers gets on the microphone, advising us to find our tables for the first course. I'm only partly aware of this because too much of my attention is focused on her. Where is she going? Which tables are hers?
She comes to a stop, lowering the tray to a folding stand. She's so worried, her eyes darting around like she's checking to be sure she's doing this right based on everyone else's actions. Not much in this world tugs at my heart, and I'm not certain what to do with the warmth spreading through my chest as I approach.
She does a double take when I reach her, her cheeks flushing, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Small world.”
“’Fess up,” I murmur, leaning in until I'm speaking directly into her ear. The scent of her skin and hair is dizzying. “You're new to this.”
