Enemies To Soulmates

TWENTY TWO YEARS LATER

DANNY

I glanced at the clock on my office wall. 7:48 p.m.

Crap.

If I didn’t leave now, I was going to miss her.

I shoved my laptop into my bag, grabbed my car keys, and bolted for the door. Forget locking the file drawers...those could wait. Sexy Red? She couldn’t.

See, some people have religion. Some people have gym memberships. I have Sexy Red.

She only performs twice a week, and every single time she steps on stage, she does something different. Last week it was a floor split that had the entire club gasping. The week before, she came out in a glittery bodysuit that made me consider proposing right there in the middle of E-Hub.

If I wasn’t front row tonight, I’d never forgive myself.

The elevator took too long. The lobby security guard tried to wave me over for a chat, but I was already halfway across the parking lot. Traffic was heavy, so I did what any reasonable man with priorities would do... ran the next three red lights. Yeah, I’d probably get tickets in the mail, but the thought of missing the opening of her set? Absolutely unacceptable.

When I finally pulled up to E-Hub, I parked in my reserved VIP spot, tossed the valet my keys without a word, and strode straight to the private entrance.

“Evening, Mr. Knight,” the bouncer greeted.

I flashed him a nod. “I’m not here to make friends tonight, Nate. Just let me through.”

Inside, the bass from the speakers was a heartbeat under my feet. The lights pulsed low and red. I made a beeline for the section reserved for her performances and slipped the host a thick envelope.

“Front,” I said.

She smiled like she’d just gotten her tuition paid and led me right to the center seat. Perfect view. Perfect distance.

When the lights dimmed, my pulse kicked up. The crowd hushed.

And there she was.

Sexy Red.

This time she wore a deep crimson jumpsuit that clung to her like it had been sewn directly onto her skin. Her hair... that wild, vibrant red, cascaded down her back, catching the light like fire. Her makeup was flawless: bold red lips, smoky eyes that could burn a man to ash from thirty feet away.

The music started slow...sultry bass, a tease, and she moved with it like the beat was in her blood. Every roll of her hips, every flick of her wrist, every glance over her shoulder made the crowd lean forward.

And me? I didn’t blink.

I’d been coming here for seven months, and not once had she given me more than a passing glance. Not once had she agreed to meet after a show. I’d offered champagne. I’d offered my penthouse. I’d offered enough money to buy the club outright.

Still nothing.

She was the only woman in this city who didn’t want me, and I hated how much that made me want her.

Thirty minutes later, her set ended... too soon, always too soon, and she took her bow. I stood immediately, ready to intercept her backstage like I’d tried before. This time I went bigger.

I cornered her assistant in the hallway. “One billion,” I said flatly.

The woman’s eyes went wide. “Mr. Knight...”

“One billion,” I repeated. “For one private dinner. That’s it. No cameras, no press.”

She hesitated, and I thought I had her. But then she gave me that same apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t meet with anyone.”

Frustration surged hot in my chest. “Every other dancer here...”

“She’s not every other dancer.”

Yeah. No kidding.

I walked out of the club annoyed, which is why I wasn’t watching where I was going.

That’s when it happened.

A blur of movement. A bell ding. And a freaking bicycle slammed into my foot.

I stumbled back, half from the impact and half from shock. The rider went down, all tangled in her bike, and groaned like I’d just kicked her puppy.

Before I could even speak, she scrambled up and ran straight to me. And then...I swear on my life, she started dusting me off. My shirt, my pants, my chest.

“What the...? Get off me.” I shoved her hands away, but she came right back, all flustered and mumbling something about dirt.

Oh, I knew this type. I’d seen it a hundred times. Women “accidentally” bumping into me, “accidentally” spilling drinks, “accidentally” dropping their numbers in my lap.

This was just a new low.

“You seriously ran me over to get my attention?” I snapped. “What is wrong with you women? Do you have any self-respect at all?”

She froze mid-dust and stared at me. Her helmet was crooked, her ugly oversized glasses sliding down her nose, hair sticking out in frizzy clumps. And there, above her eyes, a mole the size of a raisin.

I almost laughed.

“I am not into plain and ugly,” I said coldly.

Her jaw dropped. “Wow. And here I was worried I’d injured you. My mistake.”

“You think I believe this was an accident?” I shot back. “You probably saw me coming and thought...”

“Oh yes,” she cut in, dripping sarcasm. “That’s exactly what happened. I pedal my little bicycle around town every night, hoping to run over random men in designer suits. Congratulations, you’re tonight’s lucky winner.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Watch your tone.”

“Watch your ego,” she retorted. “It’s blocking traffic.”

The nerve of this woman. “Do you even know who I am?”

She gave me a quick once-over, unimpressed. “Some guy who thinks the sun rises and sets because he breathes?”

I blinked. No one talked to me like that. Ever.

“I could have you banned from this entire block,” I warned.

“Please do,” she said sweetly. “Then I won’t have to risk my life swerving around your inflated head.”

I scoffed and turned to leave, but the woman swerved her bicycle in front of me like she was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Pedal Edition.

“Get over yourself, you pig,” she snapped.

I blinked. “Wow. So fawning didn’t work, and now insults are the new strategy? Creative. Desperate, but creative.”

“Why do you think every woman wants your attention?” she fired back. “Do you own a mirror?”

“Yes,” I said. “And every morning my mirror calls me ‘Your Majesty.’”

She squinted at me through those hideous oversized glasses. “Of course it does. Delusion recognizes delusion.”

I gave her a once-over, scoffing at her mole that looked like a punctuation mark. “Listen, I am the last person who needs your validation. Especially since you’re only mad because I rejected you.”

She let out a short, lethal laugh. “Rejected me? Men like you fall at my feet and cry when I don’t step on them.”

“Men like me?” I scoffed. “You mean men with functioning eyesight? Wake up, dreamer. You’re… not my type.” I flicked a hand at the whole situation that was her. “You’re the ugliest woman alive. Why am I even having this conversation? What ill luck.”

I moved to step around her. Bad idea.

She ripped off her helmet and threw it at me. It thunked my shoulder, not enough to hurt, just enough to offend. She stood there, hair gross, mouth set like a challenge.

“Keep walking, Your Majesty,” she said, sugar-sweet. “The kingdom of your ego awaits.”

I stared at her for a beat, then nodded slowly. “You should’ve kept the helmet on. Now I have the full picture, and trust me, no one asked for HD.”

She stepped around me, retrieved her helmet, and hopped back on.

As she pedaled away, she tossed over her shoulder, “And for the record? You’re not my type either.”

I stood there, stunned.

Not her type?

I’d been called a lot of things. “Too handsome to trust.” “Dangerously charming.” “A ten with a bank account to match.” But not once in twenty seven years had a woman told me I wasn’t her type.

God, imagine if this was my future wife...I’d fake my own death.

What a joke!

And why the hell was I still watching her ride away?