Hook, line ...

Chapter Three

Christiana’s POV

Tonight wasn’t about fashion. It was about precision, winning the heart of Bryan Adams.

The mirror didn’t lie, but even I had to pause. The woman staring back at me wasn’t the one who had cried into her mother’s pillow or slept in oversized sweaters for weeks. She wasn’t the broken thing hiding from the world. She was calculated, composed and deadly.

The black dress I chose was more than fabric, it was strategy. It hugged my waist, dipped low at the back, and clung to my hips like a second skin. Classy in the front, sinful in the back. My makeup was soft where it needed to be, striking where it mattered, smoky eyes, feathered brows, and lips painted in a deep red that whispered invitation and danger in the same breath. I let my hair fall in loose, dark waves over my shoulders, untamed, like something about me was just barely held together.

Every inch of me screamed one word: unforgettable.

“You sure about this?” I asked the girl in the mirror.

She just smirked back at me like she already knew how the night would end.

I grabbed my small clutch, gave myself one last glance, and stepped out into the warm Houston night. The air was thick with heat and the scent of distant honeysuckle. My heels struck the pavement with crisp, steady clicks that sounded like a countdown. 

Men stared too long that one almost missed his steps. Women glanced too quickly and looked away faster.

Just as I reached the edge of downtown, barely two buildings away from The Black Barrel, I passed a couple on the sidewalk. The woman was mid-sentence, laughing at something her boyfriend said until he turned and saw me.

He went still, lips parting slightly.

“Damn…” he breathed, not even bothering to be discreet. “You are gorgeous.”

She stopped walking, blinked at him like she misheard, then followed his gaze. The laugh died on her lips.

“Oh really?” she snapped.

His eyes darted between us. “Babe…”

The slap landed loud enough to echo down the block. It was humiliating.

“Enjoy the view, jackass,” she hissed before storming off in heels and fury, her arms swinging as she disappeared into the crowd.

I blinked, stunned for half a second. “Ouch,” I murmured to no one in particular. “Hope it was worth it.”

Let them stare and gossip. Let someone’s boyfriend get dumped in my wake.

I wasn’t here to be admired, I just declared a war.

The Black Barrel greeted me like an old friend. The amber glow from the lantern overhead flickered as I pushed the door open and stepped into the hush of low jazz, expensive liquor, and whispered conversations. The scent of cigars and aged bourbon was familiar. 

I chose a seat near the corner of the bar. I ordered a glass of red wine and sipped slowly, letting the wine glide across my tongue while pretending to people-watch, pretending to be the kind of woman who came here just to unwind after a long day. My posture was relaxed, eyes half-lidded, one leg crossed over the other, every move precise but effortless. But behind the veil of calm, my gaze kept flicking behind the bar. 

My heart, though calm on the surface, was drumming like thunder beneath my ribs.

Then there came Bryan Adams.

He stepped into the bar like he owned the air in it. Tall, poised, with the kind of confidence that wasn’t loud but deeply rooted. His white dress shirt looked crisp even in the moody lighting, the sleeves rolled just below the elbows, revealing strong forearms and a glint of a steel watch. His slacks were navy, pressed to perfection, and he didn’t wear a tie. He moved like a man who never begged for attention but always had it.

He scanned the bar with quiet calculation, his eyes taking in the room with practiced ease. I turned my head quickly, heart skipping. ‘Don’t be obvious,’ I reminded myself. I ran my finger around the rim of my wineglass and looked ahead, pretending to admire the gold trim on the shelf behind the bar.

I could feel him moving closer. One step, then two, then three until I could sense his presence like gravity. 

He stopped beside me.

I didn’t dare look up, but from the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at the empty stool next to mine. With a small, polite nod toward the bartender, he claimed it.

I took that as my cue. Slowly, I stood with my glass in hand as if preparing to leave. I shifted just enough, and in the motion, let my arm “accidentally” bump into his. The wine spilled in a dark splash across the front of his pristine shirt.

“Oh my God!” I gasped, instantly setting the glass on the bar. “I am so sorry…God, that was stupid. I wasn’t watching where I….”

He looked down at the stain, blinking, clearly stunned, then up at me. His eyes were startling up close, gray-blue, intelligent, and not at all prepared for me.

“It’s alright,” he said, blinking once. “Just… a bit unexpected.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out tissues, stepping closer with just enough urgency to seem sincere. “Let me….God, this is silk, isn’t it? Of course it is. I feel terrible.”

He didn’t stop me. I dabbed gently at his chest, fingers grazing the fabric, my touch deliberate and featherlight. His breath hitched. I could feel it more than hear it.

“That’s okay,” he said again, but his voice was hoarser now. “Really, I…”

His hand caught mine mid-motion. His touch was warm, steady. Our eyes met and everything around us dimmed. The low jazz, the laughter, the clinking of glasses. His gaze locked with mine, sharp but searching, as though he was trying to place something he couldn’t quite name.

“Are you always this apologetic?” he asked softly, his lips curling ever so slightly.

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Only when I spill twenty-dollar wine on an expensive looking shirt. Should I not be?”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Depends. Was it really an accident?”

I smiled slow, smooth, just enough to intrigue. “If it wasn’t, would I tell you?”

He let out the faintest laugh. “I guess not.”

We stood like that for a second too long, and then he cleared his throat and stepped back slightly, finally releasing my hand. “Well… you owe me a drink now. That’s the rule.”

I nodded, already signaling the bartender. “Fair enough. Something strong?”

“Bourbon. Neat.”

I turned to the bartender. “Bourbon, neat and another glass of red for me.” Then I glanced back at Bryan. “Unless you want to be safe from another spill.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll take my chances.”

He sat beside me, the scent of his cologne was warm, expensive, and faintly spiced it lingering in the air between us.

“So…” he said, swirling his drink lightly. “Should I assume this is how you usually meet men? Accidental wine attacks followed by free drinks?”

I let out a soft laugh. “Not exactly,” I replied, tilting my glass toward his. “You’re lucky it’s not a Thursday. Thursdays are far less charming.”

He smiled at that, and I watched the way the corners of his eyes crinkled just slightly when he was genuinely amused. He took a sip, then glanced sideways at me again.

“You don’t seem like someone who does anything accidentally.”

I raised a brow. “And what do I seem like?”

He hesitated, eyes searching mine. “The kind of woman people remember. Even if they only meet her once.”

I felt that line ripple through me, a low vibration that struck just the right chord. But I didn’t show it. I just held his gaze, let the silence stretch a beat longer than comfort allowed, then broke it with a slow smile.

“Well,” I murmured, “I guess we’ll find out if that’s true.”

We talked about nothing important, restaurants, weather, travel but every word was layered with something unspoken. Every brush of his shoulder against mine was a spark. Every glance that lingered a second too long, a confession neither of us had the courage to speak aloud.

By the time our third drinks were nearly empty, there was a pause. I glanced down at my glass. So did he.

Then he looked up at me.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I don’t do this. I don’t… meet strangers in bars and feel like I’ve known them longer than five minutes.”

My eyes stayed on his for a moment. “Neither do I.”

His breath caught slightly, almost imperceptibly, but I felt the shift.

Then he leaned in like he was giving me time to pull away. Time to say no.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, I didn’t believe I charmed him that much but…

His lips brushed against mine, tentative, careful, like a question he was too afraid to ask aloud. My breath hitched, and I let my mouth meet his gently, just enough to seal the trap.

His hand came up, brushing the hair from my face, fingertips grazing the side of my jaw as though he wanted to memorize the shape of it. His thumb rested near my ear, and in that moment, I felt the way his breathing stuttered. The way his composure faltered.

It was the kind of kiss that wasn’t hungry, but full. And then he pulled back.

Reality returned like a slap.

His eyes widened as if waking up mid-dream. Guilt flashed across his face like lightning. His hand dropped away from my skin, and he sat back in his stool abruptly, blinking as though trying to reorient himself.

“I… I shouldn’t have done that,” he said quickly as if speaking any louder would make the moment more real. “I don’t even know your name. I’m sorry. That was…”

I shook my head gently, brushing it off with a small, mysterious smile. “It’s okay.”

He stared at me, caught between confusion, attraction, and conscience.

He couldn’t look me in the eye anymore, he just paid for the drinks, and muttered again, “I’m sorry’ 

Then he walked out with his shoulders tense and his pace faster than when he came in.

I watched him go, lips still tingling.

Hook, line…