002

Skylar’s POV

The rooftop of Artemis Hotel hums with energy, the skyline glittering like spilled diamonds. Laughter swirls with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne.

It’s been a week since I called off my engagement.

Seven days since I walk in on Greg my fiancé and my sister in my parents’ wine cellar fucking hard.

A week of crying, sleeping too much, eating too little, and avoiding the internet like it’s radioactive.

Apparently, breaking up with Atlanta’s most beloved football star makes me the villain.

His fans call it “fumbling the city’s golden boy.”

I call it choosing peace over humiliation.

Still, I can’t stop replaying it, the betrayal, the headlines, my mother’s disappointed glare. She adored Greg. He was perfect on paper, and she’d finally approved of something in my life.

Until he ruined everything. Until they did.

Ugh.

Carrie squeezes my hand, her perfume sweet and grounding. “Remember, investors are just people with better suits.”

How she even gets passes to these events will forever be a mystery.

This is why I’ll always respect Carrie’s ambition and determination.

She’d said this was one of the first networking events for the young and extremely wealthy being hosted in Atlanta, Georgia, and she claims the networking event might “revive my spirit.” I doubt it, because I did meet Greg in a networking event too.

Maybe I do need a night out or maybe I just need one more reason to believe I’m still alive.

The low hum of conversation mixes with the soft clinking of glasses as sharply dressed men and women move through the space, exchanging handshakes and business cards.

Carrie and I stand side by side, trying not to look like we don’t belong.

She scans the room with a satisfied smirk. “See? This is why I made you come. Look at all these people, investors, CEOs, actual money-makers.” She nudges me. “Opportunities everywhere.”

“Carrie, how did we get a pass to this event again? Because I know our net worth isn’t even enough to qualify for something like this.”

“Relax,” she says, brushing her hair back smugly. “I handled it the whole time you were busy crying your eyes out last week.”

“Bitch,” I mutter, just loud enough for her to hear. “I just need a drink.”

Carrie rolls her eyes. “Fine, go to the bar. But don’t disappear for the entire night. We’re here to network.”

I wave her off and make my way toward the long, glossy bar stretched along the wall. I move past clusters of people laughing too loudly. The bartender is dressed in a crisp black vest.

I slide onto an empty barstool. Finally, a moment to breathe.

I glance at the menu and nearly choke. The drink prices are insane.

What was I actually expecting?

All thanks to my mother for blocking my credit card, so it’s either an Uber back home or a martini.

I sigh, pushing a strand of hair from my face, and tell the bartender, “Just water, please.”

“Sparkling or still?”

“Whichever’s free.”

A low chuckle sounds beside me, deep and amused.

“Classy choice.”

I glance sideways and instantly forget how to breathe.

A man’s leaning against the bar. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with his long, dark curls slicked back and the faintest smirk plays on his lips. His white shirt is rolled at the sleeves, showing strong forearms and a watch that could probably pay my rent for a year.

My throat goes dry. “Do you always eavesdrop on strangers’ drink orders?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Only when they make me laugh.” His smile is quick, confident, the kind that knows exactly how attractive it is. “You don’t strike me as the ‘free water’ type.”

“And you don’t strike me as the type who minds his business.”

He laughs again, a rich, quiet sound. “Touché.”

The bartender sets down my water. Before I can grab it, the stranger nods toward the shelf behind the counter. “Make it a martini. On me.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know.” He leans a little closer, watching me. “But I’m trying to change your night.”

I narrow my eyes, a small smile playing at the corner of my mouth. “That line works for you, doesn’t it?”

He smirks. “Only when it’s true.”

There’s something magnetic about him not just the confidence, but the way he looks at me, like he’s seen me before or I remind him of someone.

For a second, I think I’ve seen him before. Somewhere online maybe. I*******m? A friend’s post? The tabloids?

The bartender slides the drink toward me, and our fingers brush when I reach for it, sparking heat up my arm.

“So,” he says casually, swirling his drink, “what brings you here? Business or trouble?”

I take a slow sip before answering, “Would it be bad if I said both?”

He grins. “That’s the best kind of answer you know.”

He leans in, and I swear the air between us shifts, heavier, charged. The music fades into the background. I can smell the faint hint of his expensive cologne, and feel the warmth radiating off him.

We talk. I think we do. But all I really feel are his eyes tracing me like he’s memorizing every move.

And then, softer, closer: “You keep looking at me like you’re trying to figure something out.” His breath warm against my ear.

This is leading somewhere.

“Oh yes,” I murmur, feeling heat rise in my chest. “I need a little more time to figure you out.” I’m drunk. I swear I don’t plan to say that.

“Well,” he whispers, his tone low and dangerous, “it’s best to do it somewhere quiet. Far from the noise.”

He’s right.

His hands slide around my waist, steadying me as I sway. I have no idea how many glasses I’ve had already, but my hands find his chest on instinct, fingers tracing the firm lines beneath his shirt.

It’s been weeks since I’ve felt this kind of spark. Maybe a few times with Greg.

Shit. Don’t think about Greg.

Maybe it’s the martini. Or maybe it’s him, this stranger with the kind of aura that demands surrender.

“Do you want to go somewhere more quiet?” he murmurs, voice dropping to something sinfully seductive enough to make even a nun rethink her vows.

I look into his dark brown eyes as he looks into mine. I know I’ve seen this face somewhere. Maybe Forbes.

“Lead the way,” I whisper, slipping my hands into his.

Carrie, this is all on you.

We find our way to the elevator. My vision’s a little blurred, and I can’t spot Carrie anywhere in the crowd.

Once the elevator doors close, he doesn’t wait. He slams me gently against the mirrored wall, his hands braced beside my head, caging me in.

“Your eyes are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs before pulling me into a deep, consuming kiss.

My body reacts instantly. My hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer. His body presses into mine, all heat and power, every hard line of him demanding my surrender.

Fuck. His cock is already hard.

I place my hand over his pants, feeling every bit of his arousal, stroking gently as his mouth trails down my neck. A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.

His fingers dig into my waist, sliding down to my thighs. My hands tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as I pray the elevator counts slower.

His mouth crashes back onto mine, hungry and rough. I moan into the kiss, my back arching as he deepens it. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back while the other grips my hip like he’s trying to mold me into him.

I recommend kissing strangers.

Highly recommended.

The elevator dings. The spell breaks.

We pull apart, breathing hard, straightening our clothes as the doors slide open.

His phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his face changes in an instant.

“What is it?” I ask, still breathless, heart racing. “Aren’t we going to your room?”

I mean, I literally followed him because we were supposed to head to his room.

He looks up, eyes unreadable. “My wife just got here. She’s on her way to my hotel room.”

I blink, the alcohol evaporating instantly.

…Shit.

Scrap the recommendation.

Never kiss a fucking stranger.